by Don Donovan
As I was about to cry out, he came at me from the side. I dodged him just in time — his knife was high, aiming for my neck, too. I had no time for anything, just defense those first few seconds. All I saw was a big man trying to kill me. I sidestepped his lunging figure, and the swinging knife missed my neck, but sliced my left shoulder. I cried out, but the pain was buried in the landslide of adrenaline. I landed a hard punch to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. That caused him to stall for a second, but one second was all I needed. A solid shot to the balls by my work boots followed by another hard kick to the knee and he went down. He dropped the knife. I picked it up and pushed him back down with my left forearm as he attempted to rise to his feet. My blood spilled into his face and mouth and he hacked it back up. He couldn't get his balance. Our faces were practically touching each other when I plunged the knife into his heart. Twice. I whispered, "Goodbye, motherfucker," while his blood flowed down the front of his shirt. He groaned and gurgled, then he collapsed lifeless onto the floor.
I rolled him over onto his back to get a real look at him for the first time. Fuzzy! What the —
Did that fucking bitch send him here to kill me? I thought. Or did he decide to do this on his own? To protect her.
I dropped to the floor, looking at the carnage. I crawled over to Dorothy's body and cradled her head in my arms as best I could around that cocksucker's knife that stuck out of both sides of her neck. Tears streamed from my eyes as I called out her name, and for the first time in eleven years, she didn't answer. I called it again. And again, shouting it. She still didn't answer. She would never answer.
More minutes went by with more tears. They turned into uncontrolled wailing sobs. She would never answer. Never be there. Never be next to me late at night. Never again.
Still sitting on the floor many minutes later, with tears staining my face, it dawned on me Fuzzy had brought two knives with him, one for each of us. I wondered what the significance of that was for him. Did he anoint each one in advance? You know, as in, this knife is for Logan, this one for his girlfriend? Or maybe he just felt he needed a backup for some reason. Or he wanted to make it look like there were two assailants, maybe in some kind of home invasion, taking the heat off him and Laura Lee. That was my guess.
One thing was for sure. I'd have to call the cops. I really didn't want to, because there would be a shitload of questions and suspicions, but I had no alternative. I couldn't get rid of both bodies. Even if I waited until dark, it would be extremely risky carrying a body down those steps and loading it into my SUV without being seen. Each body was big, too, and I would have to struggle to get them down the stairs, making two trips and lots of unnecessary noise and maybe attracting attention from other apartments. Plus, I would eventually have to explain Dorothy's absence. People from the City Hall annex, where she worked, would almost certainly call me after a couple of days and what bullshit excuse could I give them?
On the other hand, if I called the cops and gave it to them straight —I got home, saw Dorothy dead on the floor, was attacked out of nowhere by some guy in my own home and killed him while he was trying to kill me — and damn near succeeded. Blood from my torn arm was all over the place, so I figured that would be my best shot. I mean, if there was ever a more obvious case of self-defense, I've never seen it.
I pulled out my cell phone and tapped out 911.
63
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Saturday, September 15, 2012
2:55 PM
JIMMY'S WINDOW AIR UNIT WENT OUT during the night. Fortunately, it rained most of the night, so things didn't get unbearably hot. Nights can get that way in Hialeah this time of year, so sticky that when you pull your shirt back from your body, your skin almost peels off. Last night's rain, though, staved that off.
Today was a different deal entirely. The sun rose with a vengeance, bringing all the heat it could find. The humidity was so high, Jimmy had trouble catching a breath. He had to do something, anything to bring relief.
Sitting there on his couch in East Hialeah, he recalled his childhood in that little apartment over on the west side, on West 27th Street. His family had a questionable window unit, too, and whenever it went on the blink, they all just went out and sat on the landing in plastic chairs. His parents bitched on and on about the heat. As a kid, though, Jimmy didn't really know from humidity and didn't get the discomfort angle, only that he was outside and could run around and play, and when he got hot, he could come back in and his Mom would give him some lemonade from the big box of powdered mix they bought at K-Mart.
These days, he had a cousin in the air conditioning business. One phone call and he'd be over in two seconds getting this thing working, or for that matter, installing a brand new one. But he couldn't take the chance. He didn't know how long the arms of the Russians were, whether they extended all the way to knowing who his cousins were. Probably not, he figured, but he couldn't endanger family members, no matter how small the risk, just because of a little humidity.
He thought about calling another AC company, but again, he didn't know who the Russians knew and who they didn't. He even thought about calling someone from Homestead or even Key West to come up and take care of it. But such an unusual call would certainly be talked about around the office — "Guy wanted us to go all the way to Hialeah to fix his AC!" — and there was no telling who might overhear such a conversation in some tavern or pool hall.
No, the fact was, safe houses were safe precisely because no one — no one — knew about them. And Jimmy intended to keep it that way, heat or no heat.
One thing he could do, though, to get relief, was take a ride in his car. Despite its advancing age, the Nissan was still in top running form, and that included its air conditioning.
As soon as he sparked the engine, he took out his phone and called Flaco.
"Yo, boss."
"I'm coming your way. We're going for a ride. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I'll honk twice. You know my car."
≈ ≈ ≈
Twenty minutes later, Jimmy pulled up in front of Flaco's "safe" house, a shabby 12-unit apartment complex on Port Said Road in Opa-Locka. Surrounded by warehouses, a used machine parts business, and an auto junkyard, it was what Jimmy had always pictured when he thought of Opa-Locka. That, and their curious practice of naming their streets after people and places in the Arab world. Flaco's pad was on the first floor, down at the end of the row.
Jimmy honked twice and Flaco dashed out and into the car. They sped out of the parking and headed east out of Opa-Locka.
"Where we headed, boss?" Flaco asked.
"Sunny Isles Beach."
"Where them Russians hang out?"
Jimmy turned his head toward Flaco. "How do you know about that?"
"I hear things is all, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Where'd you hear about this?"
"A dude I know in Lauderdale. He tell me 'bout 'em."
Jimmy's antennae went out. "Why would you be interested in Russians?"
"Man, you know they been tryin' to move in on us all over town. I axed around tryin' to find out about 'em, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"What did you find out?"
"There's some dude Ivan and another one, Nazeer or some fucked-up name like that, and they hang around in Sunny Isles Beach at some restaurant with a bunch of other Russians. Thass it."
Jimmy said, "You do know, don't you, that Nazar fell off the roof of a forty-story condo in Sunny Isles Beach the other night?"
"No, man. No, I didn't know."
"Fell, pushed … who knows?"
"Shit, it's one less Russian," Flaco said.
"Yes, but one more reason for them to think we did it."
"We didn't do it, did we, boss? Did we?"
"No. No, we didn't. But the Russians are positive we did, you can believe that. Anyway, we're just going over here to check out this restaurant where they hang out."
In a few minutes, they entered Su
nny Isles Beach, and a few minutes later, they swung onto Northeast 163rd Street. The Chayhana Oasis settled comfortably in one of a string of stylish buildings housing boutiques, an upscale gym, and other such businesses.
The buildings were all set back a good distance from the curb with steps leading up to a veranda outside each business. No street parking. Chayhana customers were steered to a valet operation in a parking garage two doors down. Jimmy sized it up. Way too much exposure inside, according to the couple he sent up here to scout the place. The restaurant floor was cavernous, lots of seating, no way of telling Russians from regular people. Marchuk's comrades, all of them heeled, might well be at nearby tables. For all anyone knew, they could be saturating the place at any given moment. Bottom line: we can't take him inside.
Jimmy thought about this. Send someone in to eat every night. When they spot Marchuk, they call us. We're ready to go at a moment's notice. Us and Reaper's Overtown boys. We get up to 163rd Street while he's eating, park somewhere nearby, on a side street or whatever. They notify us when he comes out and we get him and whoever's with him as the valet delivers his car. They'll be confined and isolated on the curb. Even if he's surrounded by a half a dozen guys, between us and Reaper's boys, we can take them.
"Take a good look, Flaco," Jimmy said. "We'll be coming back here soon." He slowed in front of Chayhana and pointed it out. "That's where they like to eat."
"When we comin' back, boss?"
"Any night now. You and Renato be ready to roll every night around seven or eight o'clock. Starting tonight."
64
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Saturday, September 15, 2012
7:15 PM
JIMMY CALLED NORA. All was clear at the Airport Hilton. No incidents of any kind, no reason for suspicion. But she was going stir crazy. It had been eleven days.
"My God, I miss you," she said.
"I miss you more," he told her.
"Do you realize this is the longest we've been apart since we've known each other? In all these years."
"It seems like we've been apart forever."
She said with a chuckle in her voice, "It's also the longest period of time I've spent without going outside."
"I know, baby. But remember what I told you. We take no chances. This'll all be over in a few days at the most. Probably sooner." He figured it couldn't take any more than that, unless Marchuk suddenly decided he didn't like the food at Chayhana Oasis. He was an old guy, like sixty, probably set in his ways, so the Chayhana was part of his routine, Jimmy thought, a routine he wouldn't like to disturb.
He and Nora billed and cooed at each other a little more, pledged their love, and hung up. Almost immediately, Jimmy's phone rang again. Caller ID: Reaper.
"I just got the call," Reaper said. "Our friends are there. The place is crowded, so they should be good for about an hour and a half. They were just seated."
"You ready?" Jimmy said.
"Ready. Why don't you come down here and we'll all leave together. How many you bringing?"
"Just myself and three others. One car. We can get it done out in front of the place when the valet brings their car around."
"Good," Reaper said. "There'll be five of us. We'll be in an SUV. Too many vehicles gets real messy for this kind of street action. Guys lose their perspective, you feel me? They start shooting in all directions and a lot of innocent bystanders start going down. When can you be here?"
Jimmy thought. "It's out of our way. Coming down there, then back up to Sunny Isles Beach? Out of our way."
"No, man. It's better than us going up into Hialeah. We're right near 95. You pick us up and we shoot up there in no time. Now how long till you're here?"
Fifteen minutes for Flaco and Renato to get here. Yoso will be coming from nearby, so he'll be here in a flash. "Thirty minutes, max."
"Yellow apartment building, corner Northwest Fourth Avenue and Eighth Street. Head east on Eighth and into the building's side parking lot. We'll be waiting in my black SUV. See you then."
He called Flaco and told him to bring Renato immediately. Then a fast call to Yoso, who was there in five minutes.
Into the bedroom closet. Way back behind a few boxes was a false wall. He slid it open and pulled out assault rifles for everyone. AR-15s for the boys and, Jimmy's favorite, the TAR-21 from Israel. Three mags each. A lot of fucking rounds, Jimmy thought. Here's hoping we don't use nearly that many.
Flaco and Renato arrived inside of fifteen minutes. He handed them each an AR, and one for Yoso, and they were off.
≈ ≈ ≈
All the way over there, Yoso showed nerves. He cradled the AR like it was a jar of nitro glycerin about to go off.
"These Russians, boss. How many of 'em there gonna be?"
Jimmy turned his head toward the back seat. "At least two plus two bodyguards. There's a slight chance there might be more, but I wouldn't worry about it."
Yoso said, "How many, how many guns they got? What kinda guns they gonna have?"
"Even if all those guys are there," Jimmy said, "they're only going to be holding pistols. We've got fucking assault rifles, for Chrissakes."
The Nissan turned onto I-195, the Airport Expressway, and finally off of Northwest 27th Avenue, 27th drilled straight through the heart of Brownsville. Jimmy hated Brownsville, hated driving through it, hated the very thought of it. Fucking dirty, unsafe. Jigtown all the way. He only had a few corners in Brownsville, but what few he had moved a shitload of black tar.
The thought drifted through his mind that maybe retirement could be an option after all. Maybe — just maybe — he and Nora could pack it up and head out, the Dominican Republic maybe. He'd heard that was pretty nice. Panamá. He'd heard lots of good things about Panamá. How the place just oozes money.
Flaco chimed in, holding his weapon up like a trophy, "Man, with these streetsweepers, we'll put them Russians down and we'll be gone before they know what hit 'em, you know what I'm sayin'?"
But then the thought went through his head, the one he didn't want to think. Maxie would never stand for it. As the number two man in the operation, Jimmy knew waaaaaaay too much. Of course, he himself knew he could be trusted, but Maxie might not be so sure. With so much riding on it, anything could happen and Maxie might not want to take the chance.
On the other hand, what was to stop Nora and him from just disappearing. Without telling anyone. A couple of fake passports, which were easily obtained, and they could be on some midnight plane to anywhere.
Ah, but there was the problem of money. You can't just carry a couple of million dollars onto a plane these days. How would he get that much cash into a foreign country? Maybe they wouldn't have to go to a foreign country. Maybe they could lose themselves in the US. Maybe …
Overtown. Northwest Eighth Street loomed ahead, Seventh Street behind. The Dobbs Hotel passed by on their left. Memories of Raúl washed over him. The pleasant recollections came first, the two of them in their youth hanging out, clowning around, standing up for each other. Then came the other memory, busting its way into his thoughts like a nightmare during sleep. Raúl lying there, bleeding out with two in the chest, probably dead before he knew what hit him. He was now fairly sure Damien Kushnir had pulled the trigger that night, and Damien had paid for it in his Las Vegas hotel room. Even if he hadn't, his two playmates, Vitali Kovalenko and Gregor Babich, are currently dead. And it was a one hundred percent certainty that one of those three pulled the trigger on Raúl.
Turning onto Eighth, low-grade apartment buildings lined the street. A large fenced-in parking lot promised "Safe Cruise Parking." Jimmy had to laugh. Who the fuck would park their car in this neighborhood? Then he took a closer look at the lot and saw there were about twenty takers scattered amid spaces for hundreds of cars. One born every minute, he thought.
They passed Fourth Avenue. The yellow apartment building rose on their right. Another apartment building, this one gray and two stories high, sat next door. Th
e "side parking lot" Reaper referred to was little more than a wide alley running between the two structures. Jimmy pulled in. He saw Reaper's black SUV ahead. He stopped the Nissan and got out.
The first shot struck him in the shoulder, followed by another in the gut. He fell to the pavement against the left front tire, trying to pull his pistol. Instantaneously, both sides of the alley lit up with flaming barrels of assault rifles and sounds of their rapid fire. Shooters were crouched in doorways and leaned out of second story windows of the two buildings. The Nissan was surrounded, bullets raining upon it and through it from all directions. Its windows were obliterated. Renato, in the back seat, took two shots in his face, blowing it entirely off. Yoso died next to him, still cradling his AR-15. In the chaos, Flaco leaped from the car and was slain immediately, cut down by a dozen rounds.
It only took a few seconds, then all fell silent. Jimmy lay with his head propped up on the tire, trying for a breath, for any air at all, but very little came. Three armed men stepped out of a nearby doorway, their weapons still smoking. One of them was Reaper.
They approached Jimmy's helpless figure. One of them went to kick his head away from the tire, but Reaper stopped him.
With most of his remaining strength, Jimmy said, "Wh-why?"
Reaper handed his assault rifle to the man on his right. He said, "You only wanted to give us one fucking block in Liberty City. They gave us Dolphin Mall and the airport."
Jimmy coughed up blood. He managed to say, "But we … we were the good guys … we could … we could have …" He could talk no more.
Reaper drew his nine from his rear waistband holster. "Hell, Jimmy," he said. "Everybody thinks they're the good guys."
He put two more in Jimmy's chest and one in his head.
65
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Sunday, September 16, 2012
9:20 PM
