STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  The girls obediently rose from the couch and filed toward the door. As they opened it, a blast of loud music spilled into the room, but mostly disappeared when the door closed behind them.

  Maxie took one last hit on his joint and washed it down with a final sip of whatever whiskey was in his glass. Everyone turned their attention toward him.

  He said, "I got word over the weekend that Medellín has approved the deal we made with the Russians a couple of weeks ago up in Hollywood."

  Smiles broke out. Sierra said, "That's great, Maxie. Now we don't have to worry about any war with those motherfuckers."

  "Not so fast," Maxie said. "Don Rafael tells me even though Medellín has approved it, they haven't gotten any approval from Brighton Beach."

  All smiles vanished. "¿Por qué no?" Dunbar asked. "Is anything wrong?"

  "There's plenty wrong," Maxie said. "And they're probably not going to approve the deal." He shifted his great weight on the sofa, looking for that comfortable spot. "You all know about Vitali Kovalenko getting it over in Miami Beach, and you know we had nothing to do with it. Then another one of their big enforcers, Damien Kushnir, takes a bullet in Las Vegas the other night. We had nothing to do with that one, either." His eyes darted toward Jimmy, who didn't move, didn't give anything away. "And now …" Maxie said, "… now this guy Gregor Babich takes two in the head in Allapattah the night before last. Here they are, trying to move in on us, three of their top guys go down, we have nothing to do with any of it, but we expect them to believe that and agree to a little 'peace' deal. Ha! Let me tell you guys, eses rusos vendrán a nosotros con todo lo que tienen."

  Dunbar said, "You think so? We can't convince them we didn't clip their guys?"

  "How are we gonna do that?" Maxie said. "All three of them go down in two weeks' time and we say, 'Oh, we didn't do it, señores. Please believe us. Por favor.' I've asked Don Rafael to contact them. Maybe at that level, something can be worked out, but don't count on it."

  Jimmy spoke. "Who could've smoked Gregor the other night?"

  "I have no idea," Maxie said. The others shrugged in agreement. "But you can be sure those fucking Russians will have ideas. And all of them will lead to Hialeah!"

  "So what do we do?" Dunbar said.

  "We wait to hear from Don Rafael. If he can't bring the Russians around, we will probably have a war on our hands." He paused. Then: "And a lot of people are going to die."

  45

  Jimmy

  Hialeah, Florida

  Wednesday, September 5, 2012

  12:35 AM

  JIMMY EMERGED FROM A PRIVATE ROOM, one of three reserved for Maxie and his inner circle. The redhead trailed behind him, straightening her clothes and going for one last primp in her compact mirror. She had coaxed Jimmy in there for a "celebration" of all Maxie's good fortune lately. Of course, she knew nothing of the tense situation with the Russians. She did, however, know many different ways to celebrate and she gladly showed them all to him.

  He went immediately to the floor of the club, looked around for Flaco and Renato, whom he knew would be close at hand. He spotted them at the far end of the bar, chatting it up with a couple of scantily-clad waitresses. Moving into the middle of them, he said, "Guys, outside. Right now."

  They walked out the front door and around the side of the windowless building. Out here, the high-volume music more or less died away. Flaco lit a cigarette.

  Jimmy had their attention. He said, "We've got a real problem on our hands. Three Russian enforcers have been clipped in the last two weeks. We don't know who did any of them. Might be three different people, for all we know." He considered telling them about his role in Damien Kushnir's unfortunate death, but he didn't want to let it out. Flaco, he knew, could be trusted. He would never talk to a cop. Renato? He was only maybe 75% sure. Besides, Maxie didn't say anything about it to Sierra and Dunbar a little while ago, so Jimmy kept it to himself. He went on. "But I know we didn't put any of them down. They were sent here to move in on Maxie's drug business and maybe even take over from the Colombians."

  "Ha! I'd like to see 'em try that," Renato said.

  "Don't laugh," Jimmy told him. "If you underestimate those motherfuckers, you are making a big, big mistake."

  Flaco took a big drag on his cigarette and said, "So what do we do, boss?"

  "Well, the Russians know that we know about their plans to move in on us. So when their top three enforcers turn up dead, they're gonna like us for all of them. What I'm getting at is, we may have a war on our hands. And soon." He turned to Flaco. "I want you to keep your ear to the ground. You too, Renato. I want to know if any new Russian muscle has come down here from New York or Fort Lauderdale or any fucking where. I want to know anything at all about any Russian activity in the area. Find out where they live, if you can."

  Renato said, "Only the Russians? Not the Italians? Or Haitians? Nobody else?"

  "Only the Russians," Jimmy said. "Let me ask the both of you, do you know anything about them right now? At this very minute?"

  Renato shook his head and said, "Only what that dude Mako say a coupla weeks ago. That some Russian be movin' in on him."

  "Who do we have working that territory now?"

  "My boy Yoso. He just doin' it temporarily now. Till we find a regular street guy wants to work it."

  "Flaco?" Jimmy said. "You know anything?"

  "Nothin' right now, boss," Flaco said. "But I got a good friend who got an in with the Russians up in Fort Lauderdale. He maybe can gimme something."

  "Let me know when you get anything," Jimmy said. He quickly left the club and headed home.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When he got home, he rushed upstairs and woke Nora from a sound sleep.

  "Honey, honey," he said, flipping the light on. "Wake up. Come on."

  Nora mumbled and groaned, finally coming awake. "What time is it? Wha …"

  "It's almost one-thirty. You've got to get up."

  "What is … what is it, Jimmy? What's going on?"

  "Come on," he said, pulling the covers back. "You've got to get up and get dressed. Right away."

  She eventually came around and Jimmy helped her dress as quickly as possible.

  He said, "Pack a few things. Enough for a week."

  "A week? Where are we going?"

  "Not 'we'. You. You're going to a hotel. Right now. Come on. Start packing."

  "Hotel," she said, still not one hundred percent awake. "What the hell is this?"

  "I'll tell you in the car."

  He reached into the closet for a suitcase and started opening her dresser drawers. Seeing that he was about to start packing for her, she said, "Okay, okay! I'll do it. Now."

  Five minutes later, they were out the door. As promised, he explained the situation to her once they pulled out of their driveway. He told it all, the potential for war, the danger the Russians posed to her safety.

  "These cocksuckers are animals. They have no regard for human life. Not even their own. They wouldn't hesitate to kill you if it meant getting one up against us."

  "But what about you?" she said, pleading.

  "I can take care of myself. I'll be in a safe house. Floyd and Marco, too. Maxie is moving his family to Tampa. They've always been pretty low profile, so no one should recognize them there. He'll remain here."

  "Jimmy," she said, "please get out of this business. Please. For my sake. For our sake."

  He looked at her with great surprise as they turned onto the Dolphin Expressway toward the airport. She'd always sided with him in everything he'd done, never complained, never said anything like this.

  "Get out? Baby, you know I can't do that."

  "Yes, you can! Think of us, I'm begging you. I don't want to live like this. This kind of danger."

  "Nora, where's this coming from? You've been okay with our life for years. Now, all of a sudden, you want me to quit? You know I can't quit."

  "Why not? Tell me why you can't walk away with what we have and the t
wo of us live a decent life somewhere else."

  "Baby, you know why. You know nobody quits the life. Especially a guy like me. I'm not really the top dog, but I'm close enough to him where I know too much. Maxie knows that and he'd for sure want to silence me if I started in about retiring."

  They arrived at the Airport Hilton. Jimmy had chosen this because, his thinking went, there would be no possible way any Russian would ever go there. If they came to town, they would be met by a limo, driven to far fancier digs. If they were leaving, they would be limoed straight to the airport. No stops at the Hilton at any time.

  Tears welled up in Nora's eyes, choking her voice. "It's just that … that when I get out of this car, I may never see you again. I don't … I … I don't know what I'd do without you. Oh, please, Jimmy."

  He gathered her in his arms as fully as the front seat would allow. "You'll see me again, baby. Don't worry. Those fucking Russians can't kill me. I'll be safe. I wouldn't leave you alone. I love you too much."

  46

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, September 5, 2012

  10:20 AM

  THE MORNING SUN FILLED THE BREAKFAST NOOK where an egg white omelet and a side of fresh fruit sat in front of Alicia. The Miami Herald was unfurled to the left of the food and she perused it thoroughly as she nibbled at her omelet.

  She allowed her mind to wander from the newspaper for a minute. The trip to Jacksonville with Jimmy Quintana had been tougher than she had expected, what with Stoudt's resistance. But he eventually came around and she had set aside time next week to set up the companies and start the ball rolling with sales of auto parts.

  Nick had prepared this breakfast. Cooking was one of his strong suits — and he had many, but Alicia loved the meals he prepared. Just the right amount of spice and sabor. He sat opposite her, reading a new crime novel. Little Francesca sat next to her mother busily eating her oatmeal.

  "Look at this," Alicia said, returning to the Herald. "They say there's a rash of Russian mobsters being killed. Three of them so far. Two here and one in Las Vegas."

  Nick looked up. "Las Vegas? So what?"

  "That one was killed about a week ago, it says, but they just found out he had connections here in Miami. That he was living here and went out to Las Vegas for a little vacation."

  "And there were others? Other Russians killed?"

  "Right," she said. "There was that one a couple of weeks ago." The one that almost ignited an all-out war if Amy hadn't skillfully defused the situation. "I didn't know the Russians were down here," she said in her most convincing manner.

  "They're pretty strong in Fort Lauderdale," Nick said. "Only makes sense they'd find their way down to Miami with all the drugs and everything."

  "You should put them in your next book, honey," she said. "It's right up your alley."

  And it was. Nick's crime fiction novels had been consistent best-sellers for seven or eight years now. He turned them out one or two a year and each one rode the charts high.

  He said, "I've been thinking about doing one with Russian gangsters in it. I might look into this. Looks like these guys are being picked off one by one. Might make for a good plot basis."

  Francesca said, "Daddy, what's a plot basis?"

  Nick put a loving hand on her shoulder. "It's something your daddy uses to write books, Princess."

  "Are you using plot basis in your new book, Daddy?"

  He chuckled. "Yes, baby. I use one in every book."

  "What's that you're reading?" Alicia gestured at the book on the table.

  "It's called Rough Riders," he said. "Brand new book, by a guy named Charlie Stella."

  Alicia took a sip of orange juice. "Never heard of him."

  "He's a good writer. Does terrific dialogue. Got the gangster lingo down pat. Great storyteller, too." He slid the bookmark between the pages and said, "You going to the store today?"

  She sighed. "I have to. Just for a couple of hours. But I'll be back this afternoon."

  Ten minutes later, she finished up her breakfast and kissed her family goodbye, gathering herself into her car — the Lexus sedan this time — for the supposed trip to Hialeah and Computer Superstore of the Americas.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Computer Superstore of the Americas occupied two fronts of a small strip center in East Hialeah. Inside were a collection of computers, printers, tablets, and other related equipment, most of it destined for shipment to Latin America. Certain of those shipments contained more than computers.

  Like the one set to go out tomorrow morning, bound for Panamá.

  Two large boxes stood ready, packed personally by Alicia, long after closing time last night. The boxes supposedly contained desktop computers, which were supposedly ordered by a Panamanian corporation, one which Alicia had set up on her last trip to Panamá ten days ago. Instead of computers, however, the boxes contained computer shells, each of which were stuffed with cash. This time, about eleven million dollars. It had arrived from all over the East and Midwest, driven down by mules who had no idea what the cars they drove contained. The top layer of computers inside each box, however, were real and functioning, just in case any customs official got a little too curious.

  Tomorrow, the boxes would be placed aboard a flight to Panamá. The day after tomorrow, Alicia was set to go to Panamá and retrieve the boxes' contents, empty the hollowed-out computers of money, and deposit it into the accounts of shell companies held by friendly banks.

  She made this trip every week or two and her commission on this volume business was four points. It added up fast, so their private jet and their spectacular Star Island home were very affordable, Francesca's future was assured, and Alicia had her little forty-third floor playpen downtown.

  Which was where she was headed now.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Two hours later, the Cuban hooker lay in the big, round bed, hoisting herself up on one elbow. Her considerable tits dangled in front of Alicia, who kissed each one. The girl said, "But your time isn't up yet. We've still got, like, over a half an hour left."

  "Que no se puede evitar, preciosa," Alicia said. "I have to go and I have to go now. So get that beautiful body out of my face and out of my bed." She gave the girl a gentle shove.

  They got dressed in silence, only the distant sounds of traffic from far below drifting into the condo through open balcony doors. As they left the bedroom, the girl said, "Are we back to Mondays for next week?"

  Alicia consulted her cell phone calendar. Maybe a trip coming up. "I'll call you," she said, and the girl left the apartment. As soon as she did, Alicia said, "Berto. El carro. Cinco minutos." Berto jumped and went downstairs to bring the car around.

  Alicia fiddled around with her hair and makeup for a few minutes, made sure the balcony doors were shut and locked, and saw that everything else was in order. Then she walked out, down the hall to the elevator.

  As the elevator hummed downward, she reflected on how the hooker had drained her of all stress and muscle tightness. That girl really knew her shit, Alicia thought. I was so fucking stressed when I went in there, but now … now I feel like a million bucks. Or rather, like eleven million. Grinning, she did the easy math in her head. Her end: another four hundred forty thousand.

  Her mind floated back to the hooker. Goddamn girl knew how to use her tongue. And to think, I was going to call that Brazilian over today. I don't know why I changed my mind at the last minute, but I'm damn glad I did. She will be coming back, just like I told her. Back every fucking Monday.

  Forty-three floors later, she stepped off and saw Berto sitting in the Lexus outside the door, under the porte-cochère. She debated whether or not to call the Cuban girl back tomorrow, which was Thursday, or wait till Monday. Maybe tomorrow would be a good —

  "Miss López?" said a voice off to her right. It belonged to a black man in his fifties, not quite dressed right for the building, and there was a younger, white version of him standing next to him.
<
br />   "Yes?"

  "FBI. You're under arrest."

  47

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, September 5, 2012

  12:45 PM

  THEY BADGED HER, OF COURSE, AND CUFFED HER right there in the lobby, then led her out past Berto and her Lexus to their white Chevy sedan parked just beyond the entrance. She tossed a subtle nod at Berto, who immediately picked up his cell phone. The older of the two Feds, the one who was clearly in charge, identified himself as Special Agent Akins.

  They guided her into the back seat, still in cuffs. "What's the charge?" she said with a clear degree of irritation.

  The white boy drove. Akins rode shotgun. He turned toward her and said, "Money laundering, racketeering, conspiracy to avoid paying federal income taxes."

  He briefed her on her rights and she said, "I want a lawyer."

  "Don't worry, you'll get your phone call."

  This being Sunday, downtown traffic was mercifully light, so she wasn't in the car too long. Just a few blocks, across Miami Avenue and on to the big Federal fortress at Northeast Fourth Street.

  During the ride, Akins got talky. "You know, you're quite the operator, Missy. Seems like you're pret-ty important in the scheme of things."

  She remained silent.

  Into the garage and they hauled her out. One flight up the elevator and she was booked.

  "When do I get my phone call?" she demanded.

  "When we give it to you," Akins said. He looked at a female uniform. "Take her away."

  Alicia was led into a holding cell on another part of that floor. She had company, the usual mix of hookers and junkies, all of whom gazed at Alicia and her designer clothing, wondering what the fuck she was doing here.

  One girl leaned lazily against the bars as though a guard or someone was going to unlock the door and let them out any minute. She looked Cuban, and her hair was a mess. Her makeup was smeared and her clothes were cheap and torn, and Alicia wondered in turn what that girl was doing here.