by Don Donovan
"All right, baby," he said. "It's showtime."
She walked with great confidence in those dangerous high heels and he was certain she would hold up her end. She was also the hottest thing he'd seen since he'd been in Las Vegas. He'd had a good look down her blouse a time or two while they were at the bar — she made sure of that — and he felt major stirrings south of his belt buckle.
They took a different elevator, one with a few other passengers. Robyn primped last-minute in her compact mirror. The lift stopped at four different floors and by the time they got to twenty-six, Jimmy estimated Damien had been in his room for at least a couple of minutes. He would have to gamble that Gregor went to his own room and didn't accompany Damien to twenty-six fifty-two. As they walked together down the hall, Jimmy passed her another five hundred dollars. She put it into her purse to join hands with the five bills already in there. He thought about what fucking her would be like, imagined the smooth glide deep into her sweet, well-used pussy. Imagined her practiced moves. He wished he had the time.
She tapped on the door of twenty-six fifty-two. Jimmy stood off to one side, out of sight for anyone looking through the peephole. He heard a muffled voice from inside the room. "Who is it?"
"Mr Marchuk sent me up," Robyn said in her most practiced come-on voice. "He said you could use a little relaxation before dinner."
A few seconds delay while Damien peeped the girl. A couple of clicks and the door started to open. Robyn stood aside and Jimmy shoved the door into Damien's face. He rushed in the room and Robyn reached for the knob and quickly closed the door behind him.
Damien lunged for him, but Jimmy sidestepped it. He pulled his silencer-rigged gun from under his sport jacket, pointed it at Damien, who lunged again, and fired twice. Two whispered pops in the chest. Down he went, blood streaming across the Aria's insanely expensive carpeting. One more in the prone figure's head to make sure. A fast look around to make sure no one else was in the room. Jimmy dropped the gun, peeled off the latex gloves, and hit the door. A quick look both ways down the hall. Robyn was long gone, according to script, probably back at the Lobby Bar hustling another tourist. He paused and allowed himself one more thought of her.
Down to the ninth floor for his bag, and thirty minutes later, he exited a taxi at McCarran Airport. The red-eye to Miami would leave in a few hours.
37
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, August 31, 2012
10:45 AM
THE MIAMI AIRPORT HILTON SITS on a pathetic spit of land sticking eastward straight into a small body of water euphemistically called the Blue Lagoon. The lagoon separates the airport from the west side of Miami proper. Silvana saw it on a map one time and likened the whole thing to a tongue sloshing around inside a big, wet pussy. That thought came to her again, making her grin, as she and Vargas and Acevedo turned off Northwest 57th Avenue onto Blue Lagoon Drive, the only thoroughfare on the little tongue. Destination: Hilton.
They had learned the "blond foreigner" was Gregor Babich, a badass mobster sent down from Brighton Beach with two others from the same cloth: Vitali Kovalenko and Damien Kushnir. Their apparent objective was to muscle in on some of the drug trade in the Miami area. They may have had logistical support from the Russian mob's Fort Lauderdale outpost, but these three were sent down directly from up north. That told Silvana the mob was ready to launch a major initiative in Miami, maybe even challenging the Colombians head-on for total control of importation. They were a fearless bunch, these Russians, so it was certainly within the realm of possibility.
Since Kovalenko was dreaming with the angels, she figured it had to be Gregor and Damien who moved on DC the other night in Allapattah. She also figured it would be easier to approach them individually rather than midnight in Allapattah when they would both be armed and on high alert delivering drugs for money. So rather than attend that chancy meeting, she triangulated Gregor's cell phone number he had given to DC and found it spending a lot of time on the property of the Miami Airport Hilton.
They pulled up under the glassed-over porte-cochère and got out, badging their way past an objecting valet, who didn't like them taking up prime space in front of the door.
Sunlight flooded the large, atrium-style lobby as they went to the front desk. The clerk looked at the unlikely trio and their lack of luggage. Silvana showed tin and said, "Police officers, ma'am. We're looking for a man who may be a guest in this hotel. His name is Gregor Babich."
The woman, a very cute Latina whose name tag read "Brenda", said, "Could you say that name again please?"
"Babich." And she spelled it out.
"Yes," Brenda said, "he is a guest here. But we're not supposed to give out —"
"Listen, Brenda," Silvana said in a low voice. "This is police business. Give us his room number."
She consulted her computer screen. In her softest voice — just in case anyone was listening — she said, "Three-eleven."
"Thanks," Silvana said, winking at her.
At least the elevator was decent. Not one of those annoying kind that takes forever to go even one floor, and then when it gets there, it takes forever to settle in and finally creak the door open. Silvana hated those kinds of elevators. She could never figure out why anyone would buy them.
Must be they cost a whole lot less, she thought. But they piss everybody off a whole lot more.
They stepped off on the third floor. A brief walk and they stood in front of three-eleven. Acevedo gave the cop thud and the door opened. Gregor Babich stood there in a T-shirt and cargo shorts, looking for all the world like a tourist from Minnesota. Geez, what are you folks lookin' for, huh?
Silvana held her badge out and said, "Gregor Babich?" He nodded. "Police officers. I'm Lieutenant Machado, this is Sergeant Vargas and Detective Acevedo. We'd like to talk to you. May we come in?"
"No," he said. "I don't do nothing wrong."
They shoved him out of the doorway and entered the room. Acevedo closed the door.
"Hey!" Gregor said. "You can't come in here, push me around!"
"Hey yourself, motherfucker," Silvana said. "We'll push you around anytime we want. Now get over there and sit down." She pointed to a chair by the window.
"Fuck you, cop! I don't —"
She unloaded a right to his jaw, one he never saw coming. It dropped him to the floor. He got up into attack posture, but a hard kick to the balls sent him down again. He didn't get up this time.
Vargas and Acevedo hauled him up off the floor and threw him into the chair. He rubbed his groin protectively and was considerably more docile.
"Cuff him to the chair," Silvana said. The two cops obeyed.
The three of them stood over him, all wearing menacing looks. Gregor showed he was ready to take what was coming to him.
Silvana said, "Now I understand you and your playmates came down here from Brighton Beach to take over the drug business, is that right?"
"I am not in drug business! I am —"
She head-signaled Acevedo. He shot a heavy right hand to Gregor's midsection. Acevedo was a big boy. Silvana knew that one hurt.
"One more time. You came down to Miami to take over the drug business, is that right?"
Gregor wheezed for breath. "Go f-fuck y-yours-self."
Acevedo landed a left to his temple, nearly knocking him out of his chair. When he sat upright, he shook his head wildly from side to side to clear the stars and the fog.
"Last chance," Silvana said, grabbing a handful of his blond hair. "Tell us you are here to move in on the drug business."
He needed a minute to catch his breath and to bring himself back to full consciousness. Finally, he said, "Y-yes. That is why we come here."
"It was you and Vitali and Damien, right?" Silvana said.
He coughed and gasped a few times before saying, "Yes. That is right."
"And how about the shooting at the Dobbs Hotel? Was that you, too?"
"I don't know nothing about shooting or
Dobbs Hotel."
Silvana landed another straight right hand to his jaw, loosening teeth. "Wrong answer. Which one of you did it?"
Gregor looked down at the floor, catching his breath. Blood streamed from his mouth forming a widening stain on the carpet. He looked back up at Silvana. "Vitali. It was Vitali."
She wasn't sure she believed him. Nevertheless, she said, "Well let me tell you something you may not know, asshole. You got the wrong guy. Wilfredo Zayas is walking around like nothing ever happened while you fucking idiots are congratulating yourselves for killing him." She grabbed a shock of his hair again. "And here's something else you probably don't know. You cocksuckers are never going to lay a glove on the drug business in Miami. Oh, I know you guys are all over Fort Lauderdale. You're real big up there. But who gives a shit about Fort Lauderdale. It's a fucking cowtown. This is Miami, pal. The big fucking leagues. And that means it doesn't … include … you." She slapped his face as punctuation.
"You don't know wh-who you are up against, cop," Gregor said, regaining some of his attitude.
Another signal to Acevedo, another right to his nose. She heard the crack. Blood squirted out in all directions.
She said, "Listen to me, you fucking punk. We're giving you a pass this time. Go home. Go back up there to Brighton Beach and tell your Russian friends to forget about Miami. Drink your fucking vodka and thank your lucky stars you're still alive. Do you hear me?" Another slap.
Acevedo flung the chair over, sending Gregor's head into the window sill. He groaned on the floor, lying in his own blood, as the cops uncuffed him and walked out, leaving the door open.
38
Silvana
Allapattah, Miami, Florida
Saturday, September 1, 2012
11:35 PM
THE RAIN STARTED THE MINUTE THE THREE COPS approached the drawbridge at Northwest 27th Avenue out of Little Havana. The bridge was up and Silvana became aggravated.
"Will you look at this?" she said. "Nearly midnight and they raise this bridge so some motherfucker can drift through on his sailboat."
Vargas said from behind the wheel, "They got a real bad one in Tavernier, too, down in the Keys. Fuckin' thing is up, like, half the time, it seems like."
They sat there, grumbling and swearing, unable to see what craft was the cause of it all, which made it even worse, because now they couldn't point to anything specific to blame it on. The rain came down harder, almost a roar against the roof of their car.
Ten minutes later, the bridge started to go down, oh so sloooooowly. Silvana said, "Watch. When it gets all the way down, they still won't raise the barrier and let traffic through. They make us wait that extra ten seconds or so just to shove it up our asses."
In fact, it was another ten seconds after it appeared the bridge was down and in place before the barrier lifted and traffic once again began to flow. They crossed into Allapattah.
Silvana didn't like anything about that Russian's attitude yesterday at the Hilton. Even though he took a good trimming, and despite her dire warnings, she still made him for sticking his nose back in. She hoped she was wrong, because DC was a good producer, good for his five hundred every single week. Every now and then, she'd considered raising him up to seven-fifty or even a thousand, but it might impact his business in a more negative way. He might not be able to make that nut every week and she didn't want the hassle of beating it out of him and maybe running him off this corner. She didn't want to price herself out of the market, so to speak. It would be much easier to develop new producers elsewhere. They were plentiful, after all, to be found on nearly every Niggertown street corner.
Allapattah was a low-grade section of Miami, fitting for DC, Silvana thought, and his junkie trade. As they drove up 27th Avenue, she noticed empty buildings mixed in with struggling businesses. Turning onto 23rd Street, it only got worse. Here you had used car note lots, body shops, low-rise concrete buildings of indeterminate function, and trash-covered vacant lots. A few single family homes that looked like they wished they were somewhere else, and a couple of shitty two-story apartment complexes made up the residential portion of the neighborhood.
They got to 18th Street to find the intersection nearly flooded. Their car, a ten-year old Honda, was selected from the motor pool for its ability to blend in unnoticed in a bad neighborhood. Vargas maneuvered around the edge of the deeper water to the opposite corner where DC stood under a tree, still getting soaked. No umbrella. Vargas pulled up to him.
Silvana slid her window down a couple of inches. "Yo, DC!"
He saw her. "Yo, Lieutenant. Whatchu doin' here in this weather?"
"Get your ass over to the car."
He did, and got even wetter. "What up?"
"I want you here by the car so it looks like we're doing a deal. Did those Russians give you any more shit?"
DC shook his head. "I ain' seen 'em. But it must be now gettin' close to midnight."
"We'll pull over and wait," she said, signaling Vargas to park a half-block down 18th Avenue facing DC's corner. He turned the lights off, left the engine running. The rain continued to fall, hard, sweeping the street in great sheets, slamming the roof of their car. They checked their watches. Five after twelve.
Right then, a black SUV drove up from 23rd Avenue, right through the deep water, splashing everything for ten feet on either side. It came to a hard stop in front of DC and he went to the passenger side window.
They watched carefully. The customary words were exchanged, but DC didn't pull any dope from his pocket, nor did he reach into the vehicle for any money. Instead, more words. They couldn't make out the driver through the rain and the tinted windows.
"I don't like this," Acevedo said. "Not one fucking bit."
In a sudden movement, DC backed up from the window and the driver got out. The blond hair was all Silvana needed to see, but the Band-Aids and bruises tattooing his face were hard to miss. Vargas gunned the engine to the corner, where all three of them leaped out of the car into the heavy rain.
Gregor jerked his head around, startled. Before he could draw his piece, the cops were on him. Vargas and Acevedo each took an arm, totally restraining him. Silvana looked around. No traffic, no pedestrians. A peek inside Gregor's SUV. No one there. She hoped none of DC's customers would wander by.
She looked at DC. "Was he trying to shake you down?"
"Y-yeah. He say I got to buy two grand worth of black tar from him, and two grand of coke."
She turned back to Gregor. "Is that right? Is that what you were doing?"
He snarled at her. "Is none of your fucking business, cop."
She unloaded a right hook to his ribs, getting everything into it, from her planted feet up through her thick thighs, and into her rock-hard shoulders. She felt cracking under the blow while he screamed and collapsed. The other two cops didn't let go or he would've hit the ground.
"DC, you better get the fuck out of here. Right away," she said. DC mumbled something, then ran as fast as he could, vanishing into the rain-soaked darkness of 23rd Street. Back to Gregor: "You just don't know when to quit, do you? You could've been up in Brighton Beach right now, sitting in one of your slimy strip joints, getting a blow job from some Ukrainian slut. Instead …" She pulled a throwdown .38 from her ankle rig.
"Lieutenant," said Acevedo.
She looked at him. "What?"
"Let me do it."
Acevedo's eyes were death-bright in the glare of their car's headlights. She'd never seen that look in him before — a forbidding, other-worldly expression — and she instantly realized this was one of those few moments in her life where time stood still, a chiseled moment she would remember till she drew her final breath.
She handed him the weapon, butt first. Without ceremony, he put the barrel against Gregor's forehead and squeezed the trigger. The .38's report barely registered above the pounding of the hard rain on the streets and surrounding buildings. After Acevedo put a second round into his temple, Gregor crumpled to the
pavement, face down in a big puddle, blood flowing dark in the current of the watery street.
39
Logan
Key West, Florida
Monday, September 3, 2012
12:55 PM
I HAD JUST FINISHED LUNCH when my cell phone rang. Mambo calling.
"Logan," he said with an upbeat tone to his voice. "That thing you asked about last week? It's all set. Carved in stone."
I hoped he didn't hear me exhale. "Thanks, Mambo. I owe you one."
"Well, that's kind of why I'm calling. Can you come over to the restaurant? Like, right now?"
"I-I guess so. What's up?"
He said, "It's Labor Day. You're off today, aren't you? I just need a little bit of your time is all. No biggie."
≈ ≈ ≈
I got there in about ten minutes worth of brisk walking. The heat was high, and it kept the humidity right alongside it. A tough day to be outside.
As always, the air conditioning did its number on me the instant I stepped inside. Mambo had recently installed one of those air curtains above the door that blasts you from overhead when you step under it. One of the greatest feelings ever. It also does a great job of keeping the AC inside and not letting it go out the door every time someone enters or leaves. A terrific invention.
Eduardo spotted me coming in and directed me back to Mambo's office. I went through the kitchen, past all the simmering food, almost unable to resist eating some of it right there on the spot. His office, in the very rear of the building, was open. I saw him at his desk.
"Come on in," he said with a grand arm gesture. "Close the door behind you."
I did as he asked and took a seat opposite his desk.
We shook hands and he gave me a sincere smile, as he always had since we were kids. "Beer?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?"
