by Don Donovan
He popped a couple of Presidente longnecks. We touched the bottles, neck to neck, and sipped. After just ten minutes in the heat, it tasted good and cold going down.
"Like I told you on the phone," he said, "your alibi's all set. You were here all through the evening of the twenty-first, shooting pool, watching the Marlins game. I checked and it was extra innings, running till around one AM — they won 6-5, by the way. Then we sat around after closing and shot the shit for a couple of hours. Four other guys will say they were here the whole time."
"Thanks, man. That's a real load off."
"Think nothing of it. Now, like I told you on the phone, you can return the favor here today."
I said, "If I can do it, I'll do it. What have you got?"
"I need you to take a trip to Miami today. Up and back. You'll be home tonight. Tell Dorothy to keep dinner warm for you."
"Miami? What do you need done up there?"
"Not much," he said. "I just need you to drive a van up there and unload the cargo."
The word "cargo" didn't hit me quite right. Although I never knew Mambo to be into drug dealing. "What cargo would that be?" I said, taking another swig of Presidente.
"Weapons."
I had done weapons before. It was still illegal, but a little easier than moving dope.
"What do I do?" I said.
He grinned. "Ahhh. Now you're talking." He leaned back and I just then realized he'd been worried I might not do it. He said, "There's a van parked out back. Very ordinary kind of van, nothing to make it stand out. Drive it up to a warehouse in Miami. I'll text you the exact address and directions. Some guys will be there to meet you — Russians — and give you a briefcase for me and an envelope for you. The envelope will have twenty-five hundred bucks in it."
Twenty-five hundred. Not bad for just taking a little drive.
He continued. "It's Labor Day, so there'll be a lot of traffic leaving the Keys. You'll be able to blend in with a lot less chance of getting stopped. No speeding, of course."
"Of course," I said.
"Any questions?"
"Any chance of catching any shit from these Russians? I've heard they're not a very friendly bunch."
"Just get there and everything'll be fine." He reached in his drawer and handed me a cheap cell phone and a scrap of paper with a number on it. "Here's a burner. Call this number when you get close to the warehouse and they'll send their welcoming committee. It'll be led by a guy named Pavlo Marchuk. He's the guy you want to talk to."
"Let's have a look at the van," I said.
He got up from his desk and we went out the back door. A white GMC cargo van was parked there, looked to be between five and ten years old. No windows other than the front seat and the windshield. Mambo keyed open the rear doors and lifted a large gray acoustic blanket that covered the entire floor of the van's cargo space.
Beneath the blanket was a dazzling array of weapons: automatic rifles, sniper rifles, semi-automatic pistols, a few revolvers, even a box of grenades. Around sixty guns in all. Most of them I didn't recognize, but I could spot a few familiar pieces. A few Grach semi-autos, along with a bunch of PSS silent pistols. I was surprised to see those, since as far as I knew, they was only available to special forces units in certain countries. There was a group of machine guns that looked like Kalashnikovs, but then again, weren't. Also, a couple of AK-74s and several Russian buttless shotguns I'd heard about but never seen. Also a few boxes of the appropriate ammunition.
"Where'd you get those PSS pistols, Mambo?" I said.
"Very hard to come by," he said. That was his only response.
"I don't recognize a lot of these."
"These are all Russian weapons. The Russians in Miami are familiar with them already, so they can use them right away without any practice time. They want them right away so they're paying a premium for them. That's why I'm able to spring for twenty-five hundred for you to make the trip."
"And speaking of the Russians," I said, "what are you doing lying in bed with them anyway? I didn't know you were connected to them."
He replaced the acoustic blanket, covering the weapons. "A recent connection. Temporary. I heard they were trying to move in on Maxie Méndez, so I got in touch with them to offer my assistance. We had a few little chats and … here we are."
Mambo was still smarting from Maxie Méndez's ham-fisted attempt to muscle in on him last year. It escalated to the point where he sent me to clip Méndez and Méndez sent his two top enforcers to clip Mambo. Everybody missed their targets. I took a bullet to the thigh, Méndez's enforcers took bullets to the head here in Key West, compliments of a couple of hardass Miami cops.
I know I'm retired from the criminal life, and I know I'm working a straight job. I told Dorothy I was through with crime and I meant it. But I was only returning the big favor Mambo had done for me by establishing my alibi for the night Anton Kovalenko was wasted. It was just a one-time thing. Besides, we'd had a lot of rain days lately, this being summer, and Roger doesn't pay me when it rains. Twenty-five hundred dollars would plug that hole very nicely.
"When do you want me to leave?" I asked.
He dangled the keys in front of me.
40
Logan
Miami, Florida
Monday, September 3, 2012
5:10 PM
THE DRIVE TO MIAMI TOOK FOR-FUCKING-EVER. Traffic thickened almost the minute I left Key West. Stock Island, Rockland Key, Boca Chica … all the way through Marathon and Key Largo. Lines and lines of cars beating a path out of the Keys back to wherever they came from, readying themselves to report for work tomorrow morning and tell their tales of drinking and debauchery in "Key Weird".
And it wasn't just US 1 out of the Keys, either. The Turnpike, normally a sensible alternative to I-95 once you hit the mainland, was crammed with end-of-holiday tourists. Even after exiting the Turnpike onto the Dolphin Expressway, the traffic never let up. A three-hour drive extended into four plus.
Not only that, it rained most of the way. I point that out because whenever I make the run up the Keys in the rain, I always — and I mean always — get stuck behind some guy pulling a fucking boat at thirty miles an hour, with the trailer wheels splashing the shit out of my windshield and making driving even more difficult. And today was no exception.
≈ ≈ ≈
The warehouse was in Wynwood, an area of Miami that looked like it wanted to be cutesy-artsy, but was hopelessly infected by ghetto sprawl from neighboring Overtown. I'll let it go at that.
Up around there, you've got Northwest 27th Street running off Third Avenue into a glut of warehouses, which also unwillingly serve as canvases for the neighborhood's delusional graffiti "artists". The one I wanted stood behind a locked chain link gate topped with layers of barbed wire. By the time I got there, the rain had stopped, blanketing the area with a thick layer of steam.
Just as Mambo said, they were there to greet me, two of them pulling open the gate. When it swung shut behind me, the thought briefly flashed on me: I might never leave here alive. Two more husky black guys hoisted open the large metal door to the warehouse and directed me to drive inside. Once I did, the door slid downward with a forbidding clang.
I drove to the center of the warehouse, an area surrounded by large, movie-set type lights standing high on tripods which washed the entire floor in blazing light. Five or six more guys stood around wearing either dark T-shirts or black hoodies. For a fleeting second, I wondered if anybody in their part of Miami ever wore anything with color in it. When I got out of the van, they all gathered around the rear doors, waiting for the big reveal. No one spoke.
The key went into the lock, the rear door opened, and I threw back the blanket. Murmurs of pleasure broke the silence. An older guy around forty, the only one wearing a real shirt — and a nice one at that — eyeballed the load carefully, counting the weapons and ammunition against a checklist he had on his cell phone. He nodded and the others grabbed for the guns. The big automatics went first.
Mambo was right. They were familiar with the Kalashnikovs. No looking them over to see where everything was. They knew right off.
This went on for a couple of minutes as they took all the weapons and ammo out of the van. Then, the older guy motioned me aside.
"I'm Reaper," he said. We shook hands. A big guy with very dark skin, he looked like a someone you might see walking his dog somewhere or maybe sitting next to you at the lunch counter, but when I heard his voice, I heard someone not accustomed to mercy — neither giving nor asking.
"Everything look okay?" I said.
"Yeah. Perfect. I got something for you." He reached behind a nearby tool cabinet and retrieved a briefcase, combination-locked. He placed it in my hand. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced an envelope. "This is for you, too," he said.
I opened it and slowly riffled the bills, counting them. Twenty-five. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I'll be leaving now." I started for the now-empty van.
He put a hand on my arm and gently pulled me back.
"Just a minute," he said. My antennae went up. I felt the press of my .45 semi-auto in its rig against the small of my back.
"Yes?"
"I understand you tried to kill Maxie Méndez a year ago."
What the fuck —"W-well …"
"It is okay for you to say it. We're not the cops."
I said, "Why are you asking me such a question?"
"I heard you tried to smoke him. Is that right?"
"I, uh … uh … yes, I did."
"Tell me," he said, still in as soft a tone as he could muster, "why did you fail?"
I looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Because he used a stripper as a shield and I was hit almost immediately by one of his bodyguards. A bullet to the thigh."
"Ah, a bullet in the thigh," Reaper said. "That'll do it."
"Yes," I said. "Very fucking painful. Took me three months to recover."
"And tell me, where'd this go down?"
"Outside Honey Buns Lounge. In the parking lot."
"Honey Buns? You mean that joint up in Hialeah?"
I said, "The very same. Méndez owns it."
"Was it day or night?"
"The middle of the afternoon," I said.
Reaper took all this in, like Eisenhower absorbing intel on Hitler's troop positions, planning his next move. He gave it great consideration, then said, "So you didn't use a sniper rifle?"
"No. There was no position I could take. And even if there was, I didn't have a sniper rifle. I had a semi-automatic pistol and my partner had a shotgun."
"Two of you? And you still missed?"
"Méndez had two bodyguards and he was with two strippers. A lot of people to shoot through, especially when two of them are firing back. I was out in the open with no cover. Like I said, it was broad daylight."
Reaper thought some more. "What else can you give me?"
"Not much," I said. "We scoped out his house in Hialeah Gardens, but it's surrounded by a wall and heavy security. You can't take him there."
He patted my arm then motioned for two of the men to raise the entry door. As it huffed and puffed upward, he said, "I appreciate it, man. Go home now. Drive carefully. You don't want to get a speeding ticket."
41
Alicia
Miami, Florida
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
9:00 AM
WHEN ALICIA ARRIVED AT TROPICAL BANK of Florida, she spotted Jimmy in the lobby, waiting for her. She was alone. Much to her dismay, she had to say goodbye to Amy on Tuesday. The girl had been here for ten days and ten hot, sweaty nights, but business in Taiwan required her immediate attention. Alicia had paid her a visit in Taiwan back in June — Nick thinking she had gone there on computer business — and now she was mentally lining up her calendar to make another trip. She couldn't get enough of that firm little body.
Jimmy got up from his chair. He appeared exhausted.
"You okay?" she said.
"I'm whipped," he replied. "I had a really stressful night last night. Got to bed very late."
"But you'll be okay for this?"
"Yeah. I'll be fine. Tell me what I have to do."
"For now," she said, "just watch and absorb."
They both went to Tom Thurlow's office. She had phoned Thurlow and let him know they would be there when the bank opened at nine o'clock sharp. He was ready and waiting.
"Welcome back, Alicia. Mr Quintana," he said, standing to welcome them. Handshakes all around. "Is everything in order?"
"Everything's fine. We'll be opening a new account. Commercial, of course."
"Of course."
He had the paperwork on his desk and ready to go. "Name on the account?" he asked.
"Caribbean-American Automotive LLC," Alicia said.
"Amount of deposit?"
"One million eighty thousand dollars." She handed him the five checks from the five banks, signed by the five Perry Mazinskys.
Again, he never looked up, never registered the slightest surprise. He continued with the form, noting the data on the checks, then instructed Alicia on where to fill out the CAA account information and where to sign. Jimmy realized this Thurlow was a veteran of this whole process.
Alicia turned to Jimmy and explained Caribbean-American Automotive LLC was registered in Delaware, where the identities of the company's true owners remain private. Now that it had an account in a Miami bank to the tune of one million plus, it was ready to do some serious business. Jimmy tried to follow along.
When they finished with the procedure, Alicia said, "And we'll want to close the Perry Mazinsky account."
"Of course," Thurlow said, reaching for the account-closing paperwork which lay right under the CAA account-opening paperwork on his desk. A minute or two later, Perry Mazinsky was a poor man once again. As Alicia signed the forms, she quickly slipped an envelope under them and slid them back across the desk to Thurlow. He "accidentally" dropped the forms and the envelope on the floor. When he bent to pick them up, he put the envelope into his open briefcase, which he had placed on the floor, in the very spot where his desk would block the prying eyes of the bank's cameras.
After they exchanged proper goodbyes, Alicia made a few phone calls and instructed some people to go to the other four banks next week, once their checks cleared, to close out the Perry Mazinsky-style accounts she had opened just a few days ago.
They got into her car. She said, "Berto. Al aeropuerto."
"Sí, jefa," Berto replied, and pointed the car toward Miami International Airport.
≈ ≈ ≈
The door at the American Airlines gate was just about to close when the two of them hustled up to it. They flashed their boarding passes and headed down the jetway onto the plane. First class seats, row A. Destination: Jacksonville.
She turned to Jimmy, "We're flying commercial because this is a tax deductible flight for both of us, but especially you. You're going to have to keep close tabs on all your expenses connected with this endeavor. Got it?"
"Got it," he said.
"Okay. We're going to visit a —" The pilot jumped in, welcoming everyone to this marvelous flying experience. He explained how long the flight would take, the fact there would be a little turbulence along the way, and a current update on the weather in Jacksonville. Finally, he shut up.
Alicia rolled her eyes and went on. "We're going to visit a place called Stoudt's Auto Parts. It's a store in Jacksonville, located in a bad part of town. Kind of a big —" Now it was the flight attendant's turn, imparting all the safety information, the no-smoking rule, as well as a demonstration of the life vests. Oh, and the all-important "if you're sitting in an exit row" speech. When she had exhausted her repertoire, Alicia was able to continue, not without a little exasperation.
"This Stoudt's Auto Parts," she said, "it's a big store with lots of inventory, but with little business because of decay in the surrounding neighborhood."
"Why are we going there?" Jimmy
asked.
"An accountant I know asked around and, through a —" The flight attendant broke in with the urgent message that snacks and beverages would be served once the plane reached cruising altitude. Alicia's eyes rolled again and Jimmy saw her gritting her teeth. Just a little.
When this piece of data was imparted, Alicia waited a few seconds to see if there was any more crucial info the passengers needed. After about thirty seconds, during which Jimmy was left hanging, she was at last able to continue.
"Where was I?" she said.
Jimmy said, "Your accountant friend asked around."
"Oh, right. He's a specialist in finding businesses which are, shall we say, in a state of distress. Okay, so he asked around and through an accountant friend of his, learned about this auto parts store. It's gone through some hard times these last ten years or so. The owner doesn't want to close, will do anything to keep the business afloat. That's where you come in."
The windows were clearing in Jimmy's mind. "I move in on him and take over, right? Then run the money through the store?"
"Wrong," she said. "No rough stuff, none of that strongarm bullshit. We invest the money in —" This time it was the pilot again. Seems the plane had reached cruising altitude and everyone was now able to use their laptops and other "approved devices". He made a weak attempt at a joke, which drew a chuckle or two from the herded passengers. Then told everyone to sit back and have a great flight.
Alicia's face had turned red. Her jaw tightened and her clenched fists pounded once on her thighs. Jimmy put a calming hand on her arm.
"It's okay," he said. "Just take it easy. Don't tie yourself up in knots."
Alicia took a deep breath. She took another one. Then she said, "We invest the money in his store. That's what Caribbean-American Automotive is all about. Keeps it nice and legal. He hires you as a sales rep in South Florida. Suddenly, sales pick up, way up. Everything sells for top dollar. You collect a twenty-one percent commission on everything you sell and pay income taxes on every penny. And that money's all nice and clean."
