STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  SEVERAL OF THE VERSAILLES EMPLOYEES were anxious to know what Silvana and Vargas and Acevedo thought about the slaughter of Cuban gangsters in Overtown. The city buzzed with opinions. The Miami Herald had no trouble labeling it the Overtown Massacre. The reaction at the Versailles was decidedly mixed.

  "They had it comin', right, Lieutenant? Being gangsters?"

  "I knew Jimmy Quintana. We went to high school together in Hialeah. Always a good kid."

  "Guys like that give all Cubans a bad name."

  "You gonna nail those niggers for this, Lieutenant? You can't let them get away with this."

  The three cops assured the Versailles crew everything would be done to bring the perpetrators to justice. The people of Miami were demanding it.

  Finally, they were alone and their food had arrived. Vargas dug into his piccadillo like he hadn't eaten in a week. Silvana and Acevedo were a little more nuanced, taking sips of beer in between properly-sized bites of food.

  Acevedo said, "What are we gonna do, Lieutenant? About the Overtown Massacre, I mean."

  Silvana washed down a mouthful of ropa vieja with a swig of beer. "First thing we're gonna do is this." She reached into her purse for two envelopes and placed one in front of each man. "Wilfredo Zayas had to be persuaded to come up with his payment. He said the Russians had taken over his territory at Dolphin Mall and the airport. If that's the case, we're out of that picture. He tells them we're pressuring him, they'll come after us. We can't fight the Russians over that."

  "Means we need to dig up some new producers," Acevedo said.

  "Yeah," Vargas said. "But that's easier said than done. There's fewer and fewer independents on the streets these days."

  Silence fell over their table. They went back to eating. A few minutes later, Acevedo said, "So what about the Overtown Massacre?"

  "The thing we have to remember," Silvana said, "is not to get caught up in the hysteria. We're not gonna call this the Overtown Massacre. It was a few niggers that suckered a few Cubans into their neighborhood and wasted them. Why, we'll probably never know. We'll have to wait and see what shakes out."

  Vargas said, "But with Jimmy Quintana gone, that weakens Maxie Méndez's organization, right?"

  "Right," she said. "It does. But Maxie's a resilient motherfucker. He's not gonna go quietly into the woods after this. We'll just have to wait."

  "His war with the Russians will probably be called off," Acevedo said.

  Silvana looked at him with a smirk. "Did you ever stop to think this might have been the last battle of that war? That the Russians may have somehow gotten the jigs to do their dirty work for them?"

  The other two nodded slowly, as this possibility dawned on them.

  Silvana said, "On the other hand, maybe the Rhythm Kings wanted some of Maxie's territory for themselves. He's got a few dope dealers scattered here and there on Niggertown streets. Up in Liberty City, for example. Maybe the Kings got jealous of Maxie's invasion of their turf."

  "Maybe so," Acevedo said. "Either way, those Russians bear watching. They're nothing but trouble."

  "Right you are, Ray," Silvana said. "Now, do we have anything new on the Anton Kovalenko/Laura Lee Sánchez/Logan triangle?"

  The cops shook their heads in unison, as though they'd rehearsed it. Vargas said, "Not a goddamned thing, Silvi. We looked every-fucking-where and got nothing. Dug into their pasts, canvassed the Tenth Avenue neighborhood to see if anyone ever saw Logan going in or out of her house. Nada."

  Acevedo added, "We couldn't establish any kind of link between Logan and either Laura Lee Sánchez or Anton Kovalenko. Or for that matter, Vitali Kovalenko. All the wells were dry."

  Silvana sighed. "This is what I've been afraid of. It looks like we may have to let this one go, much as I hate to."

  "I don't know where we could go from here," Vargas said. "Unless we beat it out of them."

  "And then what do we have?" Silvana said. "A confession to murdering a faggot ballet dancer who he had no connection to, obtained under duress, and with no possible motive for Logan to have done the murder."

  "No motive for him to have killed Vitali, either," Acevedo said.

  Silvana chuckled. "That alone will get him a pass on this one. Smoking that cocksucker — and making the Russians think Maxie Méndez did it — was probably the greatest favor he could've done for us." She swigged again from her beer. "No. It's over. Logan gets our hero medal, Laura Lee Sánchez lives out her life in the wheelchair — no danger to anyone — and we move on to real criminals. Tomorrow we go to work on Kathy Kruger."

  They all touched the long necks of their bottles and drank.

  66

  Logan

  Key West, Florida

  Friday, November 30, 2012

  6:55 PM

  THE COPS BOUGHT MY STORY. Since it was me, and since they knew me well, they were positive I was lying and they just knew there had to be some sinister plot behind it all. But all the evidence fit perfectly with my version of things, and my version was one hundred percent true. In the end, they had no choice but to believe me.

  Or maybe that was what they wanted me to think.

  The Key West cops had no knowledge of my connection to Fuzzy, so they wrote it off as a random home invasion by a homicidal maniac, but I think they could be sandbagging me. I think they may have something on me and they're just waiting to use it. Maybe those Miami cops gave them some kind of evidence on me, I don't know. I do know I can't get too complacent. I'm sure they'll eventually find out Fuzzy was an ex-cop, and when they do, that might well kickstart this investigation all over again. With me right smack in the fucking middle of it.

  It's been over two months now, and I still miss Dorothy something terrible. Just knowing I'll never be able to tell her I love her ever again. The sight of her lying on the kitchen floor that night, so brutally murdered … I-I can't get it out of my mind. I suppose I never will. All I know is I loved her with everything that was in me, and I don't think I have anything left for anyone else. Hell, I don't think I'd ever want anyone else.

  My arm is healing, but it's still in a heavy sling. Fuzzy caught a couple of tendons and the doctor said it'll take longer to heal. I have to take it easy and that means no work. Roger had to lay me off and hire someone else. I can't blame him. The work's got to get done, you know? And I'm forced to get by on what Dorothy and I had managed to save up.

  Meanwhile, the doctor gave me a couple of scrips. One was for the pain. Percocet. And let me tell you, it wipes away the pain, all right. When I first got bandaged up, the night of the incident, I was in unbelievable pain. It came out of my arm like high-wattage electricity, shooting through my entire body. I didn't think it was possible, you know? To have that much pain in your whole body coming from just your arm?

  Okay, so I jumped on the Percocet. No cutting corners, either. I wanted that pain gone, so it was all three hundred twenty-five milligrams per tablet, two tablets every four hours. And I guess you know what happened next.

  Right. The pain eventually lessened as my arm started healing, but the desire for that high only got stronger. I kept taking the damn pills until I realized I was sliding into addiction. Being a junkie has never held much appeal for me, so I tried cutting back to one pill every four hours. That worked a little at first. But only a little. I still have the craving and I'm not really sure how to get rid of it.

  During this time, I couldn't get past my grieving over Dorothy. Night after lonely, heart-wrenching fucking night, I lay there in our bed, all alone. Wanting to feel her familiar form next to me. Wanting to hear her bitch and moan about her being overweight. Wanting to hear her whisper words of love in my waiting ear. Wanting … wanting …

  It got so I never left the apartment. Bathed only occasionally, shaved even less. I had no appetite. I watched daytime TV. I gazed out the window at the parking lot. I took my Percocet. Eventually, I went back to the doctor and he prescribed Lexapro for my depression.

  I have to admit, that shi
t took the edge off. I was able to cut back on the Percocet even more, but kept taking the Lex. It opened my mind up. It allowed me to see the real possibilities, the way things really were or really could be, you know? My senses became heightened. I saw things I'd never seen before, heard things I'd never heard. Birds singing, kids playing, that kind of thing.

  But now, thanks to the Percocet and the Lexi, I could also hear people talking out in the parking lot. Oh, I don't mean I could make out every word they were saying, just that they were talking. You know, murmuring among themselves. I never used to could hear that before. Even though I couldn't really hear what they said, I'm sure some of them were talking about me. Me, and about how I might've killed Dorothy. They might've even tipped the cops to me.

  Shit, the cops are probably onto me right now. The walls of my apartment creaked and groaned as if they were closing in on me. I took a good, long look around. What did I have here that I couldn't live without? Not much.

  One solid hour looking out the window, thinking, taking my options for a spin around the block. When all the smoke cleared, I knew I had only one selection left. I had a rainy day stash of about twenty grand left over from my criminal days hidden inside the toilet tank. I yanked it out, threw it into a gym bag along with a few clothes and all my pills and went out and got into my SUV. I fired it up and headed for US 1 north.

  67

  Logan

  Little Havana, Miami, Florida

  Friday, November 30, 2012

  10:20 PM

  SHE SAID SHE LIVED IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR to the one that used to be Chicho's. The one on Northwest Tenth Avenue where I had to shoot those three people. I'm assuming, because she said she could see my license plate from her window, she must live in the house to the right.

  No rental this time. Tonight I'm in my own SUV. I glided down Tenth Avenue. I was surprised at how familiar it all was, even though that night was almost a year and a half ago and I only spent about fifteen minutes here altogether. Chicho's house, a coral stucco number, stood ahead on the right. The one just before it, also stucco but pale blue, was dark. That figured, because what else was she going to do? Shit, with all the wine she drinks and the meds she's taking, she's lucky if she's awake eight or nine hours a day.

  I parked in front of her house and turned off my engine and lights. Was I really doing the right thing? I popped a Lex, the full twenty milligrams, and downed it with a hit from my bottled water to wipe Dorothy from my mind, to put me in some kind of shape to do this. Right thing? Who the fuck knows? I'm here now, though, aren't I? I'm not just going to turn around and drive back to Key West. Not at this hour. I'm way too tired.

  I've been tired a lot lately. Been sleeping more than I used to, but I think my body needs it. You know, as part of the healing process for my knife wound. That was one nasty wound, let me tell you, and the healing hasn't come quickly. My body needs a lot of rest.

  Come on, now. Was this really the right thing? Coming all the way up here? Do I really know what I'm doing? Only one way to find out.

  I got out of the car. The night was gorgeous. The temperature rested comfortably somewhere around seventy degrees and a light breeze floated over the neighborhood. It reminded me why November was my favorite month of the year. The heat and humidity had finally broken, the daily rains were gone, and the tourists — along with the traffic they brought with them — had yet to arrive in large numbers. I inhaled the cool air and glanced around me. One-story homes and little fourplexes lined the quiet street. A few of the houses and apartments were lit up inside and a mile or two away, lights twinkled in the canyons of downtown Miami.

  I stood at the door and gently tapped on it. Nothing. Well, she's probably asleep and I need to knock a little harder. I did and I heard a startled yelp from deep within the house.

  A few seconds later, I heard her frantic voice. "Who's there? Who is it? I have a gun!"

  "Laura Lee, you don't need a gun. It's me. Logan."

  "Logan? Logan?"

  "Yeah. From Key West. Remember?"

  "Get out of here! I don't know you! Don't let them see you at my door."

  I took a careful look around me. No movement anywhere. Nothing from the houses on either side. Nobody across the street. A couple of other cars were parked up the street a half a block or so, but from where I stood, they looked empty, although you never can tell.

  I said, "There's no one out here. I promise. Let me in. Please."

  "You killed Fuzzy! You want to kill me, too!"

  "No, no, no! You've got to believe me. I don't want to harm you."

  "You can't come in! They'll see you."

  "They won't see me. Trust me, they're not here."

  "Well … well … what are you doing here?"

  "Please," I said. "Please let me in and I'll tell you. I think you'll want to know."

  She said, "But you killed Fuzzy! I think you want to kill me."

  I continued talking at the closed door without raising my voice, although the conversation certainly warranted it. I said, "Fuzzy killed my girlfriend and he came to kill me. It was self-defense, no two ways about it. I don't want to kill you. I mean that."

  A few seconds passed where I heard only her nervous breathing through the door. Then she said, "Did they get to you? Are you here to lead them to me? Remember, I have a gun!"

  "Nobody got to me. Please let me in, Laura Lee."

  A long, long silent pause. The Lex was starting to kick in. It seemed as though the world was opening up all around me and I was able to hear things like never before. I turned my head in all directions. Still no sound. I was positive no one was out there. Well, there might've been one little sound somewhere in the blackness to my left, by I looked and it was nothing.

  A minute — or maybe two — went by. Finally, she unlatched the door. I heard four different clicks, one presumably for each lock she had on the door. After the elaborate unlatching process, the door opened slowly. I found myself looking down the barrel of her gun. She wasn't kidding.

  It looked like a Saturday night special, a .25 caliber or something similar. Hard to kill anything with one of those, but I still didn't want to get in the way of one of its bullets. Beyond the gun, she shook in her wheelchair, her irregular breathing audible in the darkness. I stepped inside.

  "What do you want?" she said.

  "First of all, can I turn on a light so I can see? So I can see you?"

  "Well … all right. Go ahead. Right there on the wall by the door."

  I flipped the switch. An overhead light cast a subtle, low-wattage glow over the room. It was actually just right for this bizarre occasion. I closed the door behind me and locked a couple of the locks.

  "Now, tell me exactly why you're here," she said. "And make it quick." The gun was still leveled at my gut. I knew better than to make a sudden move.

  "Can I sit down on the couch? This is going to take a few minutes."

  She gestured toward the couch with her gun hand. "Go ahead."

  "And will you please put that thing away? I'm not going to hurt you. You have my word."

  "Ha! Your word!"

  "Yes," I said. "My word. It's about all I have left."

  She thought that over, then put the gun under the shawl on her lap. For the first time, I noticed her instead of the gun. No makeup, her hair was disheveled and she wore a cotton nightgown, not at all fancy. I eyed the living room. Neat, tasteful, modest. Looked like high quality stereo speakers rising several feet off the floor with a full CD tower between them. I sat and she waited for me to talk. Her expression was grim.

  "Honestly, Laura Lee, I am here because my life has just about disintegrated. I have nowhere left to turn. You're the only person I know who might understand."

  She listened carefully as I ran down the events of my life starting with the night Fuzzy killed Dorothy and tried to kill me. I told it all — the drugs for the pain and the depression, the depths to which I'd sunk, the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that had since cov
ered me like rain on a windshield when your wipers don't work. When I finished, some fifteen minutes later, I was in tears. I sobbed loudly and threw my head into my hands. I wanted to disappear and die.

  She wheeled over next to me and put her hand in mine. Her face now softened, she purred a few words of consolation, of understanding. At that moment, at that very second, I felt that same warmth I felt when she took my hand at Lorelei's that day back in the summer.

  "You know," she said, "I've felt the exact same way ever since I lost Fuzzy. I'm so lost, so … so … adrift."

  Adrift. That was the word I wished I had used. Because that's exactly how I felt. Like I was out on a black sea in a rowboat with no oars, being tossed around at will by high wind and rain squalls and a violent ocean. Adrift.

  I noticed a box of Kleenex on the coffee table. I pulled one out and wiped my tears with it. It didn't do the job. I took another one and blew my nose. She smiled at my discomfort. I welcomed it.

  I squeezed her hand and she did the same with mine.

  "Can I please stay here tonight?" I asked through my sniffles.

  Her dark eyes felt like they encompassed mine in a warm embrace. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes. I want you to stay here."

  I pulled her chair to me and reached over and hugged her. Tight. We stayed like that, motionless, for I don't know how long, but she soon looked up at me and said, "Take me to bed."

  I wheeled her into the bedroom and lifted her onto the bed. She was a lot lighter than I imagined. The bed was messed up — she'd obviously been sleeping when I knocked. I lay next to her, still fully clothed. We hugged some more, and then kissed. Her kisses were perfect for me, urgent and necessary, and filled with heat.

  I said, "You know, I wanted to —"

  She shushed me with her index finger. "Take off this gown and then take off your clothes," she said.

  I did as she asked and we made wild, animal love. I was shocked at how she moved, how this tiny woman who couldn't move her legs forced me to want her more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life. When I slid into her in the darkness of her bedroom, she made me forget her paralysis and brought me up to the top of a mountain, one higher than I'd ever climbed with Dorothy.