“Billy, mi amigo, what’s new?” asked a Cuban man, his graying temples showing the only signs of middle age.
“Nothing. I was going to tell you about my surveillance last night, but it looks like you already heard about it.”
“Oh, that little thing. I seem to recall hearing ’bout a shooting or something.” He smiled. His Cuban accent made everything he said sound like a joke. “Rick Bema called me. He’s my wife’s sister-in-law’s cousin.”
“So you guys are family?”
“Zactly. Anyways, he call me last night and tell me you did a good job and he likes you.” Thirty-five years in Florida hadn’t affected his accent from fifteen years in Cuba.
“It’s a tough detail to make friends on.”
“Bema say the FBI guy is a fucking asshole.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“You got that right.” The older man let out a hoarse, loud laugh and slapped Tasker on the back, showing that Latin flair for melodrama at every opportunity. “Bema say he don’t like the black guy on the detail neither. The Miami cop.”
“Sutter? He’s okay. Rick thinks he’s too slick. You Cubans don’t trust anyone smarter than you.”
“Billy, mi amigo, there is no one smarter than a Cuban.” He smiled.
Tasker knew the older man believed it.
AFTER being grilled by the regional director of the Miami office, the chief of investigations and his own supervisor on everything from the clerk’s comments in the Herald to why outside surveillance let the second robber get away, Tasker settled into his squad bay to sort out the nightmare of paperwork on the incident. He wished it really was Miami Vice and all he had to do was walk away from the corpse. Miami reality was another story. How many hours a year were wasted writing about dead guys who couldn’t be arrested or crimes no one would ever solve? He was lucky his bosses were cops and knew how things could get screwed up in the street. They realized agents had to take some risks to make decent cases, and supported them. That was the problem at some agencies—the bosses had forgotten what it meant to be a cop. Tasker heard the agent at the desk next to him slam down the phone.
“Problem?” asked Tasker.
“There’s a protest in Liberty City tonight and I gotta cover it,” the former Broward County sheriff’s detective said. “Why protest at night? The goddamn trial runs from nine to five.” His creased, tanned face was more a result of boating than years of road patrol.
Tasker asked, “Think anything will happen if they acquit him?”
The Cuban agent strutted back over. “Acquit who? Hernandez?”
Tasker said, “Yeah. Mike’s got to cover a protest tonight.”
The Cuban said, “Goddamn blacks. Protesting what? A cop doing his job? If Hernandez had been black, they never would’ve indicted him.”
Mike said, “They would if Janet Reno were still here. She always indicted the cops. If she’d showed half the interest in crooks she showed in cops, the county would be cleaned up.”
Tasker interrupted. “You never answered my question. If Hernandez beats this thing, will there be trouble?”
Mike said, “The Committee for Community Relief, now known on the street as the CCR, says no. The gangbangers seem more interested in trouble. The Black Gangster Disciples have been storing up weapons and recruiting hard off Sixty-second Street.”
“The warranties on the TVs and VCRs they looted three years ago are running out. If they have the chance, they’ll smash some stores,” said the Cuban, stomping away.
Mike leaned in close to Tasker. “You know we didn’t mean nothing by our jokes about CI recruiter or the killing.”
“I know.”
“I mean, there was no hidden reference to your problems in West Palm Beach. We were just laughing about your potential snitch gettin’ capped by the raghead last night.”
“Forget it.” His face flushed red. Now he remembered why he’d kept the beard for so long. “It’s a good gag, really.”
“Hi, boys,” said a young woman in a long skirt and a business jacket, coming through the door.
Thank God, thought Tasker. She’ll get this old fart off the subject. Everyone noticed Tina Wiggins making an entrance.
“Hello, Legs,” said the other agent, smiling, his crow’s-feet filling his leathery face.
“How would you like it if I called you by a part of your anatomy. How ’bout ‘Turkey Neck’ or ‘Belly’?” the twenty-eight-year-old agent said, releasing a vicious smile.
Tasker gazed at her. That smile could cut right through you. She had brains, looks and some awesome legs. He wouldn’t risk telling her right now, but she had them.
“You okay, Bill?” She looked him in the eye.
He couldn’t open his mouth as he stared into those clear, dark eyes. “Huh?”
“Are you all right after last night?” Then she added, “You get that shiner last night?”
“Yeah. Just a witness, not a participant.” How could he make it sound more interesting?
“What about your eye?”
Tasker shrugged. “Accident.”
“What kind?”
The other agent, Mike, cut in, saying, “Masturbation accident.” Then cackled wildly.
Tasker just said, “Softball.”
Mike, still chuckling at his wit, said to Tina, “I’m gonna cover a CCR rally tonight. Wanna come?”
“Creedence Clearwater Revival?”
“Reverend Al Watson’s revival.”
Tina said, “I thought he was in charge of the African-American Alliance.”
“They changed the name to avoid a lawsuit from the American Automobile Association. Once everyone started calling the alliance the AAA, the car club insisted on a name change.”
“It wasn’t an alliance anyway. Watson’s in control alone, isn’t he?”
“He’s the spokesman and chairman of the board. His attorney is the treasurer.” The older man sat on Tasker’s ancient wooden desk. “He’s settin’ himself up as peacemaker if Hernandez is acquitted. Makes it look like he’s an activist, but he doesn’t want trouble. He’ll claim all the credit if there’s no riot. What about it, Legs, you gonna come with me tonight?”
“Sorry, Turkey Neck. I’m shaving these babies tonight.” She placed her foot on the desk, pulling her skirt to her hip, exposing her leg. Then ran her hand over it slowly. She stood up, blew a kiss at the older agent, turned and winked at Tasker, then strutted to her desk.
What a woman, thought Tasker.
THE Reverend Alvin T. Watson stood at the corner of Northwest Fifty-fourth Street and Seventh Avenue with a giant mural of Martin Luther King rising twenty-five feet on the wall of a building behind him. The pulpit before him was carefully constructed to look rickety and thrown together, but actually had been custom-made for the reverend for occasions like this. Two freight pallets under his feet allowed him to tower above the crowd of seven hundred. He knew the city officials were too chickenshit to bother him about a parade permit. The police had even stopped traffic for the rally. It had been years since something had gotten the spotlight like the Hernandez shooting. Reverend Al loved it. The CCR was growing by leaps and bounds, with membership and donations beyond his wildest dreams. At forty-one, he had it all. The good Lord provides for those who provide for themselves.
As he waited for the crowd’s undivided attention, he straightened his tie and ran his hand over his tightly cropped hair. In the eighties he had let it grow long and used straightener, but you had to change with the times. This hair was a hell of a lot easier to manage. He gazed at the crowd. The shepherd and his flock. Sheep ready to be fleeced. The Lord was generous indeed. He noticed the news crew from Channel Eleven give him the thumbs-up.
“Friends.” He paused. “We meet in fellowship here this fine evening to show our interest in justice. A justice that has eluded us for so many, many years. We intend to show our interest by our presence, our cries and our anger, if necessary.” He listened to his own voice resonate so clearl
y. Even though he’d been born in Detroit, his southern accent was perfect. Folks from Alabama claimed him. Georgians said he grew up there. He claimed Florida.
“A jury in our county, at our courthouse, listens to evidence our tax dollars paid for. A costly investigation into an incident we already know was wrong. By a member of the Miami police force we paid to put through the academy. Who is responsible? Who do the police answer to?” He paused to hear the crowd shout out “No one,” and “To themselves.” Then a couple of “Amens.” Thank God for good Baptists.
“That’s right. No one. Not one person, until now.” He slowly looked around the crowd, then to the TV camera. “Now they must answer to us. That trial is not about one man, one incident. It is about police tactics against us. About the targeting of African-Americans based on the color of our skin. If Officer Jesus Hernandez had stopped a white man for speeding, he would have apologized and let him go. Instead he stops a black man and automatically suspects him of an armed robbery. Then shoots that man dead for no reason.” They knew the story. “I am here to say—we will not stand for it. Not today, not tomorrow, never again. I hope that jury hears me—we won’t stand by and let that killer walk free.” He slammed his fist to the specially padded top of his pulpit. The sheep roared with approval.
“Now, I’m not advocating violence. But we are only human. Faced with what we have been through, I’m not sure even the great man behind me could object to a demonstration of displeasure, an exercise in our right to free speech, if Jesus Hernandez leaves the courthouse a free man.” Mumbles of approval rumbled through the throngs of people. “The Committee for Community Relief is your voice and your hope. What the city can’t provide, the CCR can. I hope those of you who cared enough to show up here tonight will care enough to support the CCR with real power. The fuel that guides the world. I’m not talkin’ about love, which fuels the spiritual world; I’m talkin’ about cash. In the real world, money gets results. It can get our small businesses running to hire more of our people. It will build centers to get our young people off the streets. It will give us a future. Not one dictated to us by others, but a future we can build and we can claim responsibility for.” He stepped back and raised his arms like he had just scored a touchdown. A couple of his assistants jumped up to lift their hands to his. The street echoed with cheers. Al Watson thought, Good take tonight.
WALKING into the four-room office of the CCR on the fifth floor of one of the most expensive buildings on Brickell Avenue, the Reverend Watson glanced at the stack of cash sitting on the antique oak desk. He looked at his lawyer, Cole Hodges, and said, “That all from tonight?”
“Since Sunday. I like to make only one trip to the bank a week now,” the fifty-year-old black man said. With the sleeves of Hodges’s Brooks Brothers shirt rolled up, Watson could see his massive forearms. There was a hideous scar over the right elbow, with ridges of scar tissue forming tan mountains and valleys over his dark brown skin.
“Cole, my friend, we are truly blessed. The good Lord has provided for us in a heavenly way.”
“Cut the shit, Al, and help me dump these ones and fives into the deposit bag.” The lawyer pushed stacks of five-and one-dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands off the edge of the desk into a bank bag the reverend held open.
“What’s the total?”
“In keeping with your directives, I kept the twenties and fifties and gave the fives and ones. We split the tens down the middle and use the coins for the coffee fund.” He looked at a tally sheet. “This week the CCR has earned sixteen-thousand-four. We pocketed twenty-two and change.”
“And your legal fee?”
“I’m no greedier than any other attorney. At Broward University they taught me to claim thirty-three percent, but take half. We’re partners, Al. We split it down the middle.”
“I don’t have to remind you that they give because of me, not you.” The reverend had had all he could stand of this shyster. A two-year law course at a second-rate school didn’t teach you how to do anything but steal better. He’d work a new deal with the lawyer when the time was right. Maybe a brick in the head.
“Al, we been together a long time. Don’t make me list the things you could go to jail for.”
“Don’t threaten me, you—”
“Fraud, grand theft...”
“Cole, I don’t even like that kind of talk.”
“Arson, sodomy of a minor, child molestation...”
“Cole...”
“They hate child molesters in jail, Al. Especially guys who like little boys.”
“Fifty-fifty,” said the reverend.
Cole said, “That’s fair.”
THREE
COLE Hodges walked through the less than stately front entrance of the Alpha National Bank of Miami, Overtown branch, at precisely ten in the morning. His bank business had become a Thursday morning ritual. He’d hold the cash from the weekend and add the usually hefty Wednesday night take, then deposit it here, no hitches, no problems. He walked past the toughest cats in Miami and all they ever said was, “Morning, Mr. Hodges.” He loved it. The real Mr. Hodges would have loved it, too, if he hadn’t been resting at the bottom of a canal in his beat-up Volkswagen the last fourteen years. Hodges had to laugh at life’s little jokes. From hitchhiking escaped con to law student in one night. All because the law professors at Broward University couldn’t tell one black man from another. He had been through enough court proceedings to understand what the hell was going on in class. It was pure luck that the real Cole Hodges had had no family and had been working so hard to put himself through law school he hadn’t had time for friends. The Missouri State prison still listed the lawyer as their only successful escape. If they’d only known how well he’d used his life since riding out the front gate strapped to the bottom of a garbage truck.
The interior of the bank fit the entrance, looking like it had once been a dime store or maybe a liquor store. It had a glass facade and cheap linoleum floors with a giant vault that looked like someone’s afterthought. There was no fine antique wood around the tellers or pretty murals on the walls like in the banks downtown. The loan department was a desk in the corner.
Hodges looked at the lines in front of the two fat, nasty tellers. One with long, gnarled fingernails, the other with a purple tinge to her hair. He didn’t need this shit.
“Mr. Hodges!”
He snapped at the sound of his name. A pudgy little white man in a cheap, polyester three-piece suit hurried from an office. Hodges smiled at the pig-like features of the little pink bank manager. Not just his weight or shape, but his facial features. A stubby nose and sloppy grin. The nasal sounds he was constantly making. Hodges thought of the word “cute” as he approached, then thought of “disgusting” as he got closer. Sweat dripped off the man’s small chin and his hair stuck in wild positions from the sweet-smelling gel he had smeared on his head.
Hodges summoned his best James Earl Jones voice. “Good morning, Mr. Kerpal.”
“How is my best customer today?” asked the little pig man.
Hodges glanced around at the street people waiting in line and the old wino filling out a deposit slip from his windshield-washing business. He wondered, Was that a compliment?
“Can you help me with my deposit this morning?”
“Of course. Which do you want first today, the deposit or the box?” He mopped his head.
“Deposit, please.” He handed the bank manager two envelopes and a deposit slip. “We have sixteen thousand four hundred dollars for the good people of Miami.”
“Excellent. You guys do excellent work. Let me get this taken care of, then I’ll let you into the boxes.”
Hodges waited at the safe-deposit entrance while the bank manager scurried around the two giant tellers, making the deposit. He had about eighteen grand for the box after taking his private fee of four thousand and an extra hundred for a hooker the night before. The box was approaching one and a half mil. In a few weeks, he’d disappear with the
cash and find another man’s life to slip into. He had hated being a lawyer this long. Next he would be an accountant. Put him closer to people’s money. Definitely stay in Florida. With the old folks and new arrivals, this was truly the Promised Land.
The bank manager waddled over. “Sorry, Mr. Hodges, computer’s a little slow today.”
“Think nothing of it.” Hodges smiled.
As usual, the manager stood just outside the door as Hodges took the money from his briefcase. He picked up the eight-inch stack of bundled twenties and slid them into the box with the other cash, then did the same with the smaller pack of fifties. He knew the little fat fucker was peeking, like at a sex show, sneaking a glance every time Hodges came in. He didn’t care. One mean look and that tub of Jell-O wouldn’t say boo to the cops.
Hodges knew the FBI man had been by the bank. What was his name? Dooley. That horse’s ass had cornered him once about the CCR’s collections. He was just like any Fed: insulated from the street and way overconfident. Hodges had shaken him off with talk about civil rights and a lawsuit, reminding him the FBI would not approve of one of its agents harassing a hardworking member of the African-American community. He hadn’t seen him since.
“All set,” Hodges called out, like the manager wasn’t a few feet away.
After an appropriate pause, the manager came to the gate. “Fine, fine. See you next Thursday, then.”
“You can count on it.” Hodges smiled as he strutted out of the bank.
TASKER swerved his Century wide to miss the blue Camaro turning next to him.
Derrick Sutter, sitting in the passenger seat, said, “Goddamn Cubans. Don’t drive any better than they talk.” The thirty-year-old Miami cop kept looking out the window, following the Camaro with his dark eyes as they peered over his Ray-Ban knockoffs.
Walking Money Page 2
