“Huh?” she said, fully absorbed by the TV.
“Never mind.”
“This movie is shocking,” said Trina. “It’s all about human trafficking and how these rich guys breed girls to be personal slave whores and then ship them all over the world.”
“Hm,” I said, a flash of Allie Hayes in multi-colored tight dresses appearing in my head. I had been so busy I hadn’t thought about Pam Hayes at that outdoor table since I ran in from the rain. I pushed it out of my head.
Paulie added numbers on a noisy yellow adding machine that may have once been white and said, “Not a bad three nights. You made a few, huh?”
“Did okay,” I said.
“This is for you.” He counted out my regular pay. I stuffed it in my right front pocket with my tip money. “I guess that’s it. Good week. Go home.”
“Thanks,” I said and stood up. The chair made a loud cracking noise.
“You’re off the next two nights, right?”
“Yeah.”
I walked to the door, turning to catch the face of a crying girl on the TV. She was explaining the things rich men forced her to do when she was a prisoner in their lavish homes.
“This is your first night off in weeks,” he said, “since you started here.”
“Huh?” I said. “Oh, right, yeah. But I think Bruno will do fine on his own.”
Paulie just hired a new guy who looked like a beast from hell, covered in tattoos. I spent a couple of nights training him.
The girl on the TV walked the movie’s narrator through a dungeon with strange objects covering the walls. She burst into tears and hugged a woman. The camera panned around to show what looked like sexual torture devices on the wall.
“What you got going on for your two big days off?” Paulie said, oblivious to the TV. “Any plans?”
“Huh?” I said. “Oh, hadn’t thought about it.”
He squinted at me again and puffed on his cigar. “Any closer to completing your task? The one you came all the way down here from up north for?”
I flashed back to the night I arrived in Miami, staring up at the gate of the house on West Lido Drive—the house that belongs to the man I came here to kill. I heard the police officer’s voice talking me out of it.
I forced myself back to the present by focusing on a fake knot in the imitation wood paneling that lined the office.
“Working on it,” I said.
“Wish you’d tell me what it was,” said Paulie. “I know a lot of people. I could help.”
“Appreciate that, Paulie. Appreciate the job, too.”
“Just remember, time waits for no man.”
“Chaucer.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I’ll see you.”
I opened the door.
“Bye, Titus,” said Trina with a wave.
“Bye, Trina.” I was halfway out the door when I turned back, the girl on the TV describing more horrors. “Actually, Paulie, maybe you can help me. You got any contacts in the club scene?”
Paulie took the cigar from his mouth and let out a plume of smoke.
“What club scene?” he said.
“The kids, you know,” I said. “Loud music. Dancing.”
He shrugged. “I know Tony V. Not well, but I know him. He actually owes me a favor, come to think of it.”
“Who’s Tony V?”
“Owns that place over on Ocean. You know, the hot spot. They shot that movie there, the one with Colin what’s-his-face. I forget what it’s called. Trina, what’s that club called over on Ocean Drive with the line out and around the block?”
“Which one?” said Trina.
“Tony V’s place.”
“Sinz,” said Trina, not taking her eyes off the TV. Still fondling her curls.
“Yeah,” said Paulie, “that’s it. Sinz. Sinz with a z at the end.” He laughed. “Why? You want to go dancing, Titus? Shake a leg? Bust a move?”
Trina giggled, snapping her fingers over her head and swaying side-to-side. “Get-down—boogie-oogie-oogie.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, “ ‘cause look at me. I’m all about the rhythm.”
Both of them laughed hysterically. I forced myself to chuckle along.
“Seriously, what’s the score?” said Paulie.
“No score,” I said. “Just thought maybe I’d check out the nightlife in town, seeing as I’m here anyway.”
Paulie squinted. He knew I was lying, but he also knew when was a good time to press and when wasn’t.
“You want me to call Tony V?” he said. ”He can get you in, set you up with one of those VIP tables. But I got to warn you, you’re going to be a senior citizen in there. I wouldn’t go anywhere near. Fuck, Trina and I would feel dead and buried.”
“Speak for yourself, old man!” said Trina. “I could still make a young horny brute stand up at attention.”
“You can’t make lasagna stand up at attention. Falling all over the plate like the other night.”
Trina looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I followed the recipe, asshole.”
“You couldn’t follow a recipe if it was going five miles an hour.”
“Titus,” Trina said, “why do I stay with this bald freaky loser?”
“You two should get married,” I said.
“Naw,” said Paulie, “takes the fun out of it.”
“Oh.”
“So you want me to talk to Tony V about getting you into Club Sinz with a z?” said Paulie.
“Yeah,” I said.
“When?” said Paulie.
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’ll talk to him and get back to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
I went out the security door in the back and out into the night air, silently cursing myself.
FOUR
MIAMI IN THE SUMMER IS A PUNGENT BREW OF STEAMY haze simmered in sweat with a dash of hot sauce, all masquerading as air. At night, it becomes a noxious and yet aromatic medley of midnight jasmine, blooming gardenias, and toxic mildew—like getting smacked in the face by a hot punch of flowery gasoline, even at two in the morning.
I paused at Jefferson Ave and decided to take the long way home, turning left. I enjoy my middle-of-the-night walks home. It’s the only time South Beach seems real to me.
Rows of square sliding doors and balconies lit by track lighting from within. Meaty leaves on big plants swaying to-and-fro in the sultry breeze, occasionally blocking the view of late-night merrymakers on balconies. Hints of laughter and tinkles of glass. Neat little dark courtyards lit from below by nebulous lights that change colors, surrounded by meticulously trimmed hedgerows.
I fired up a cigarette, adding my own toxic contribution to the acrid murk, and inhaled a small taste of death.
Something bothered me tonight. Maybe it was that TV show Trina was watching. Allie Hayes is definitely hot enough to fall into the world of sex for money—prostitution, porn, or slavery. The only problem with that theory is that Allie Hayes doesn’t need money. Unless there are other reasons. Not that she’s even doing that. She could just be living with a boyfriend she loves and her parents hate.
Three college-age boys in brightly colored polo shirts, plaid shorts, and Top-Siders headed toward me. They took one look at me and crossed the street.
I’m used to it. I wouldn’t want to see me heading toward me at two a.m. either.
So why does Pam Hayes want to find Allie so secretly? Why does she want to keep it from her husband? What is she afraid he’ll do? Hurt Allie? Hurt Jake Preston? Kill Jake Preston?
It’s probably not a good image for voters to have a daughter with a boyfriend who hangs with celebrities and gangstas at SoBe nightspots. Although it’s a worse image to be the guy who kills that boyfriend, so why would he do that?
What if there’s an abusive father-daughter relationship there? I saw enough of those as a cop. Is Allie running away to escape her dad?
I need to stop. I’m
speculating now. I have no evidence. I’m only going by my gut. Although, my gut is right every once in a while.
No, Titus. Stay out of this. Remember why you’re here. Point, shoot, done.
I stubbed out my cigarette and dropped it in a trash can. Then, I heard a noise from behind a thick bush to my left. I stopped and listened. It was a jingle-jangle sound.
I peered around the bush and saw a skinny black kid struggling with a bicycle next to several others on a bike rack in front of a house. He was maybe seventeen, red t-shirt, baggy shorts, Nikes, big Afro with red highlights.
I went on past and ducked behind a banyan tree. The jangling continued and then I heard metal twisting until it snapped, and then a hard clang on the ground. In a flash, the kid had the bike out and was on it, rolling into the street.
I casually stepped from behind the banyan tree and raised my left arm straight out. The kid’s neck collided with my forearm and he went backward onto the pavement.
I grabbed the bike handle with my right hand, preventing it from rolling further.
The kid lay on the ground, dazed, wondering what happened. There was a cut on his temple where his head had grazed the pavement. He put his hand up and felt the blood trickling down.
He looked up at me.
“Shit, man!” he said. “I’m bleeding! What the fuck?”
“Shouldn’t steal bikes,” I said.
The lights came on in the house.
“Get out of here,” I said.
“You made me bleed, man.”
I let the bike fall, reached down, grabbed him by his t-shirt, and pulled him up onto his feet. I heard the front door of the house open.
“Genius,” I said, “the people in that house probably just called the cops. Get the fuck out of here, go home, and don’t even think about stealing another bike. If I catch you again, you’ll have more than a cut on your forehead, understand?”
The kid’s eyes went wide and he nodded. I pushed him away. He ran off around the corner and was gone.
Three college-age girls came out into the street. One was talking on her iPhone.
I picked up the bike and walked it to them.
“Kid tried stealing your bike,” I said. “I was walking by and stopped him. Here you go.” I placed it in front of the first one and she steadied it with the handlebars.
“Did you get a look at him?” she said.
“No.”
“Where did he go?” said the second girl, backing up at the sight of me.
“That way,” I said and pointed in the opposite direction of where the kid ran.
“How did you not get a look at him?” said the first girl, crossing her arms with narrowed eyes. “Didn’t you say you stopped him?”
“Hey sunshine, just get a better bike lock. One that garden shears won’t cut.”
The third girl held up her iPhone and tried to take my picture, but I stepped back behind the banyan tree and then turned while walking away.
“Hey!” she said. “Wait! I’m calling the police.”
I ducked through a row of bushes, crossed the street, and doubled back over to Washington Ave, where I went north for a couple blocks and then back over to Meridian. A minute later, I was inside my apartment.
I just can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t get involved, but something inside me takes over and I start messing around in other people’s business, barreling into trouble.
FIVE
I HOVERED ABOVE THE OUTDOOR POOL OF A HOUSE facing the Miami skyline, the lights from skyscrapers distant over moonlit water, gun in my hand pointed at the man who lives on West Lido Drive. His blond hair glowed above his usual thousand-dollar suit. He was laughing a stream of laughter that echoed across Biscayne Bay.
Then the dream vanished, my eyes shot open, and I was back on the airbed on the cracked linoleum floor of my studio apartment. A tiny lizard stared at me eye-to-eye for a long moment, and then scampered away.
Breathing hard and covered in sweat, I sat up. The couple that had recently moved in upstairs were at it again. They follow a consistent pattern—Act One: yell at each other for an hour, finishing with a door slam. Act Two: get very quiet for ten minutes. Act Three: have very loud sex with lots of screaming and moaning for another hour. Right now, they sounded about halfway through Act One.
Wait, why am I covered in sweat? I looked over at the ancient air conditioner. It made no sound. Shit, not again.
I reached over and looked at the time on my phone. 3:06. I’ve been home less than an hour. Looks like no sleep for Titus tonight.
I got up and walked over to the air conditioner, the back-and-forth yelling from upstairs reaching a crescendo that ended with a door slam. Cue Act Two. I inspected the unit. A vein of liquid streamed out of it under where it was built into the stucco wall, flowing past several brown stains in parallel lines where it had obviously done so many times before.
I turned it off, waited, and then turned it on again. It hummed for a few seconds, and then wheezed back into silence with a final fizzle. Welcome to my world.
I walked to the slat windows in the corner and pried a couple of them open, hoping for even a hint of a breeze. All I got was a thick whiff of cat urine.
Then, the upstairs couple entered Act Three. Sounded like a wild boar attacking a rabid hyena. For a moment, I considered sleeping on the park bench I slept on my first night here. Either that or maybe find a new place. But no—I’m only here to complete one task. I should just go do it right now, get it over with. I tell myself that every night, and yet I haven’t.
Why? Why haven’t I?
Do it, Titus. Point, shoot, done. One shot and it’s all over.
I ran my hands through my hair and looked out the window at the silhouettes of palm fronds dancing in the glow from the Meridian Ave streetlights. I pictured the blond man in his bayfront mansion on West Lido Drive. My pulse raced. My breathing intensified.
I pulled on my jeans, threw on a camouflage head wrap, and went over to the makeshift stash spot hidden in the left-hand wall of the closet. First thing after moving in, I had installed a tiny shelf onto the wall and then covered it with a piece of plywood cut to fit the measurements of the closet. Next, I had cut a hole in the plywood for a small flip-open door on a spring hinge. It opens almost exactly onto the shelf, but I screwed up my measurements so there’s a gap underneath the shelf. Okay, so I’m not the most handy guy ever. Whatever. It works. I can put things on the shelf and hide them from the world. Then, I finished it with some paint so you can’t even tell it’s there in the back of the tiny closet. Looks like just a plain wall. Always good to have a stash spot.
I pressed on the spring hinge and it popped open. I put the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver I carry around normally onto the shelf and removed my Sig Sauer P229. Then, I flipped the opening up and the door clicked back into place.
I tucked the Sig into its holster on my gun belt and went outside, heading up Meridian Ave and my final destination.
Do it, Titus. Get it done. Point, shoot, done.
I walked with a mad furious determination. No more wasting time. No more waiting.
I pictured the surprise on the blond man’s face as he looks up at me, sipping a martini by his pool overlooking Biscayne Bay. I felt the joy of pulling the trigger and watching his blood splatter all over his five-thousand-dollar suit.
At the 5th Street intersection, a large Latina woman stood on the divider in the middle of the street. She held a sign that read “HAVE YOU SEEN MY DAUGHTER?” in large block letters. Taped underneath was a picture of a teenage girl in pigtails. I had seen the woman before, yesterday up on Washington Ave at 13th Street in the hot sun in the middle of the afternoon, wearing the same clothes and holding the same sign in the divider over there.
As cars stopped at the light, she walked past the windows of with the sign so people could get a good look at the picture. Some kid in a Ford Mustang shouted, “No, I haven’t seen your daughter but if I do, I’ll ask her to suck my dick!” Th
en, the light turned green and the car sped off as the woman shouted profanities in Spanish at him.
Now there’s a mother who cares about finding her missing daughter, standing at three a.m. in the middle of an intersection holding up a sign and suffering assholes. She can’t afford to hire people to run around looking for her daughter like Pam Hayes. So unfair.
I pictured Allie Hayes’ eyes looking at me from that montage, one in particular where her eyes glowed. Then, I pictured that girl on the TV Trina had been watching. By the time I reached 6th Street, I was again deep into the curiosity of what happened to Allie and lost my motivation to continue on to West Lido Drive.
Fuck.
I turned right at 6th Street and headed over to the 24-hour Walgreens on Collins Ave. I bought a 750ml bottle of Rebel Yell, a spring water, and a plastic-wrapped roast beef sandwich from the big oval bin by the cash registers.
I tried not to look at the woman holding the sign as I passed her again. I wanted to go tell her I’d find her daughter but I don’t have the time nor the money.
I rammed my apartment door open, not even bothering to close it behind me before I poured a thick finger of bourbon into a plastic cup, downed it, and then poured another.
I closed and locked the door. Then, I returned the Sig to its perch on the shelf in the stash spot and took the revolver out again. I placed it on the table, sat, and sipped my drink.
My head began to clear a little.
There was silence from upstairs. Act Three must be over, thank God.
I fired up the “refurbished” Chromebook laptop I bought for twenty bucks from a Cuban electronics mart and unfurled the plastic from my sandwich. I took a bite and looked up Jake Preston online via my neighbor’s unsecured WiFi while nearly retching at the taste of the sandwich. Whatever the meat is, it’s not roast beef. I sipped some bourbon to help it go down.
According to online search engines, there are a million Jake Prestons in the world, quite a few in Miami. I narrowed it down until I found some articles referencing his parents.
Nothing I didn’t already know. Sanford Preston sent to prison for securities fraud. Lorena Preston in a structured program at West Palm Behavioral Research Institute. Jake is only briefly mentioned.
Miami Burn Page 3
