“Exactly my question. I told her I pulled you over a few weeks ago when I was on uniform probation.”
“Which you did.”
“I told her I wrote you a ticket for a busted taillight.”
“Which you did.”
“I didn’t tell her anything else about that night.”
“Well, good. Thank you. Because you and I are the only two people who know what went down that night.”
She turned to sneer at me with squinted eyes.
“That better be fucking true,” she said.
She shifted lanes again, cutting off a semi-trailer who leaned on his horn. She flashed the lights and the siren to tell him to shut up. We sped up, zipping past Parrot Jungle in a flash.
“Why is my boss asking about you?” she said.
“Fantastic question,” I said as we hit eighty. “How the fuck would I know?”
“Because, asshole, you’re up to something.”
We pulled off at the Biscayne ramp, immediately hitting traffic. She went full lights and siren, the sea of cars meekly parting for us.
“Did you ask her?” I said.
“You don’t ask the lieutenant why she wants to know something,” she said.
“Sounds like my old captain.”
“Fuck you. Stop trying to be my friend. Look, I don’t need this. I’m working a huge case and I don’t need aggravation from some cabron from North Bumfuck to get in my way.”
“Cabron from North Bumfuck? Classy.”
“I was up for promotion before I got probation.”
“You were on probation when I got here. That had nothing to do with me.”
She shot me a dirty look and turned us north onto Bayshore. She left the lights and sirens on. My hands clenched as we sped up again, blasting through red lights. We didn’t say anything all the way to 36th Street, where she banked hard right with screeching tires. I caught the horrified stare of a woman whose bumper we cleared by about an inch.
“I need you off my lieutenant’s radar,” said Sofia.
“I don’t even know how I’m on her radar,” I said.
“The fuck you do. You’ve taken this missing girl bullshit to a level that is getting you noticed. Trust me, you do not want to get noticed by my lieutenant. If she finds out—”
“If she finds out what? That I’m a legal citizen working at a bar? I haven’t broken any laws.”
“The fuck you have.”
We were up on the I-195 ramp, heading back to the beach on the Julia Tuttle Causeway.
“You are acting as a private investigator without a license,” she said.
“I’m looking for a missing girl,” I said. “I’m showing some pictures around. I’m hanging around lowlifes, just looking. That’s all. No laws broken.”
“Well, you need to stop.”
“Why? Because your boss is pissed off and it could ruin your promotion?”
“Fuck you!”
“If you were so hell-bent on my not doing this, why did you send me to The Rock?”
“Send you where?”
“To the big bald black priest who looks like he should be on WWE SmackDown.”
“Luther knows shit,” she said. “I thought he’d talk you out of it.”
“So you don’t care that a young girl is missing?” I said. “Maybe she’s being tied up and raped right now. Maybe she’s being sold into human slavery. Oh, but wait. None of that fucking matters. Because Sofia’s lieutenant is mad at her.”
She pushed the SUV past ninety.
I looked over at her and saw it. The same thing I saw in Tommy Nero’s eyes. The same thing I see in my own eyes in the mirror every morning. Impulsive, even a little unhinged. Then, another thought hit me and I smiled.
“No,” I said with a laugh. “I just figured it out. That’s not why you sent me to Luther. There’s another reason. You know that Luther can handle himself. You know that Luther can give me a hand in places where I might need a hand.”
“You need to stop,” she said as we hit lightspeed and started to go back in time. “That’s all. This is way over your head. You just need to fucking stop.”
I laughed.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m right, aren’t I? You give a shit.”
She launched into a stream of Spanish. I think I heard mama pinga again, but maybe not.
“People really need to stop doing that,” I said. “You know what? From now on, whenever I get pissed off, I’m just going to launch into a fiery diatribe in a language the other person doesn’t understand. I’ve got to learn a really harsh sounding language, really mean. Maybe Klingon.”
She swerved into the right hand lane, cutting three people off and slammed on the brakes, screeching us to a stop in the breakdown lane. The smell of burnt rubber filled the SUV.
“Get out!” she said. We were at the beginning of the strip of land right before the Alton Road exit.
“But we’re—”
“Get out!”
“Sofia, I—”
“Get the fuck out!”
I got out, making a point to not close the door as I backed away from the SUV onto the hammock, my hands up in a surrender gesture.
“Drop this case!” she said.
She gunned it, the door still open. The sudden acceleration forced it shut as the SUV sped away, leaving me to walk along the shoulder back home.
Well, that went well.
My head pounding and my vision skewed, I realized I left my iced coffee with her.
Fuck.
I started walking. Looks like I’m going to be late for work.
Somehow, I didn’t mind. Sofia gives a shit.
Hot damn.
SEVENTEEN
“YOU’RE REALLY PISSING ME OFF!” SAID JENNY AS SHE slammed down a tray of clean highball glasses.
“Take a number,” I said, filling the cocktail mixes with a sense of déjà vu. “I’m first in line.”
I think I’ve already had this conversation today.
Jenny finished loading the glasses and tore out the tray, nearly hitting me with it.
“You’re going to owe me so so much, asshole,” she said.
Everybody just loves me today.
It was four o’clock. I was an hour late for my shift at Cap’n Jack’s Seafood & Bar due to the long hot walk home from the middle of the Julia Tuttle Causeway. My head felt like a bloated pufferfish and I could hear every damned beat of my pulse.
Jenny turned to me and said a long string of words, but I couldn’t hear any of them. I was momentarily lost in her big beautiful blue eyes—which became Bri’s eyes—which became Sash’s eyes—which became Sofia’s eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut, put my hands to my temples and pressed, and opened my eyes again.
“Hello,” Jenny said. “Hello. Earth to Titus. Did you even hear me?”
Jenny’s hand was on her hip, tapping it like she’s my boss. But her eyes gave her away, twinkling with the hint of a smile.
“No, sorry,” I said. “I was thinking.”
“Well, don’t do that,” she said. “You’re so not sexy when you do that.”
“Note to self, think more often.” I put on my apron and took out some lemons to slice.
“Hardy har har. Okay, I’m leaving. Matt’s going to kill me.”
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” I said.
She sidled up to me, her hip pressing against my leg. “The answer is yes. When?”
“Shut up. Are you close with your parents?”
“They’ll never know,” she said, putting her hand in my back pocket. The devil in me pushed for a hat trick, but I resisted. I took her hand out and slapped it away.
“Hey,” I said, “that’s sexual harassment.”
“Oh, don’t bullshit me. You love it.”
“Listen to me, seriously.”
She took a step back, folded her arms, and leaned on one hip like she was bored.
“You get along with your parents, right?” I said.
�
�Yeah,” she said.
“And you’re an only child, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you get along better with your mom or your dad?”
“Oh God, that’s easy. My dad. I’m a total Daddy’s girl.”
“He’d help you out if you where in trouble, maybe hide it from your mom, right?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“What if you moved in with Matt?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Matt and I broke up,” she said.
“I thought you just said he’s going to be mad because you’re late,” I said.
“Oh, we broke up—but we still hook up.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “I don’t get your generation at all. Let’s just say you move in with another guy.”
“Like you.”
“No, not me. Some dirtbag.”
“Like you.” She moved closer.
“Fine,” I said, “let’s say for example you moved in with me.”
“Oooh,” she said, “I like where this is going. Go on.”
“Wait, I didn’t finish. You move in with me, but obviously I’m bad for you.”
“Obviously.” Her smile glowed.
“Would your dad let that go on,” I said, “even buy us a house because he wouldn’t want it to get out?”
“Hell, no,” she said, “he’d fucking kill you.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“Exactly what you thought what?”
“Nothing. Something I’m working on. Never mind.”
“If I can help,” she said as her hand reached across my stomach and pressed downward, “just let me know.”
I slapped her hand away again.
Jenny went home and another average night ensued. More artery-clogging fried seafood, more beer, nobody too rowdy. Paulie and Trina were visiting relatives in Fort Lauderdale, so after the dinner surge I handwrote a note:
Paulie,
Gotta give my two weeks. Time for me to go. Bruno is good. He can handle it. My last day will be Sat July 22.
Thanks for everything.
Titus
It’s time. It really is time.
After cleaning up, I said good night to Marty from Jersey and locked the door behind him. I went back to the office and stuffed the note inside the top of Paulie’s locked desk. I took out a cigarette and balanced it on my lip without lighting it. I shut the lights, typed in the security code on the ancient alarm system, grabbed the big bag of trash, walked out, and locked the door.
It raining, steady but not heavy. Just a constant steamy dribble, simmering on low. I lit my cigarette.
I walked down the three steps to the tiny dumpster area on the side of the bar and opened the gate. I flipped up the big plastic lid and tossed the trash bag in. A bundle of nerves fluttered in my neck. Sometimes it’s a twitch in my toes. Sometimes it’s a tightening in my shoulders. Tonight it’s nerves in the neck.
They say there’s no such thing as extra-sensory perception. But any experienced cop or criminal knows we develop a sixth sense that warns us of danger. It can grow stale. Mine failed me the other day with Tommy Nero’s boys, but it was on tonight. Still sluggish, but on.
I dove to my left as a crowbar slammed into the metal rim of the dumpster with a loud clang. The lid crashed down onto it as I aimed my left elbow at the spot where my instinct told me a head would be and threw all my weight backward into it.
I heard the sickly cracking noise of bone against bone. I spun, my hand reaching for my gun.
My sixth sense didn’t help me with the next one. Before I could get my gun out, a fist fell from the sky and smashed into the right side of my face, knocking my left shoulder hard into the dumpster. Another fist pounded my kidney from the side and then something struck the back of my neck and I was down on the ground. The blows came from multiple sources.
My head on the wet pavement, I saw three sets of boot silhouettes in the dim streetlights walking toward me. One grew big and slammed into my nose. I heard the bone crack and felt a stream of hot wetness trickling down my face. Everything went dark.
As I lay there wheezing, head spinning, stars popping, it occurred to me this is not what I came to Miami for.
I came to this steaming hellhole full of vengeance to kill a blond man who wears five-thousand dollar suits and lives in a big bayfront house on West Lido Drive. One goal, one objective. Point, shoot, done.
How the hell did I get side-tracked into this mess?
It was my damned curiosity that got me into this trouble, that’s what it was.
In fact, it all started right here on this very spot. Right in front of this dumpster. This was exactly where I stood three days ago, smoking a cigarette when I first saw Pam Hayes standing outside the bar as she pondered walking in.
“Hola, mama pinga!” said a voice I recognize.
It was almost a relief to hear it. Now I knew I was going to get out of this. Bruised maybe, but out.
I looked up at the three faces staring down at me. Eddie Corrado and two kids, neither of whom looked older than twenty. All Latino. The one on the left was bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth while trying to remove the crowbar from the dumpster and making a lot of noise doing so.
“Leave it!” said Eddie. The kid let go and there was a dull thud as the crowbar landed in the soft trash inside.
“Eddie,” I said, spitting out blood. “Nice to see you. How’ve you been? How are the kids?”
I saw one of Eddie’s boots get larger again. As it flew toward me, I lifted myself up and it smashed into the hard metal of the dumpster. At the same time, I reached up with my right hand and grabbed a bunch of the fabric on Eddie’s jeans near his knee and rolled to my right, twisting as hard as I could.
Eddie lost his balance and went down with his arms flailing. I saw a kick coming from the bleeding kid and rolled, catching it in my left ribs. It hurt, but it was better than taking it in the face.
Now in a push-up position, I launched myself off the ground while catching another kick in the solar plexus from Eddie.
I retched, a spurt of bile projecting from my stomach outward with a splash onto the ground. That’s when a switch flipped inside me.
Something else cops and soldiers will tell you—and maybe even doctors—is that the human can become a “survival beast”, able to perform amazing feats when threatened. Some have a stronger inner “survival beast” than others. The only way to know is to be in a situation where there is a real threat of death.
It runs strong in my family. When my grandmother was seventy-five, a thief grabbed per purse. This was a woman who had never had any fight training her entire life, but she refused to let go of the purse. The thief was much bigger and stronger than her, but she beat the guy silly and he ran off. Later, she had no memory of how she did it.
I must have been channeling my grandmother because everything became a blur. Fists and feet slammed into me, but I didn’t even feel them. My own fists and elbows pounded in a frenzy to my right and left, not even sure what I was hitting, running on raw animal instinct and the experience of growing up on the street. I felt like I had the power of ten men, throwing Eddie Corrado and the two kids around like toys.
As I came out of it, I noticed that every sound and shard of light on the street had become enhanced like turning up the picture brightness and sound on a television set. The blood on the ground was bright red even though there was little light. I saw the two kids running away in slow-motion.
Eddie Corrado was on the ground. His face was flat and puffy. One eye was completely closed. His knife was in his hand, but it looks like I never gave him the chance to use it.
My breathing was deep and hard. I tried to get it under control. I heard a loud noise like a waterfall closing in on me and looked around for the source, then realized it was the blood rushing past my ears.
My hands shook, still twitching around for someone to hit, but there were no volunteers. I leaned on the dumps
ter, waiting for the colors and brightness to return to normal. I felt no pain, although I knew that would change soon.
After what felt like five years, although it was probably only two minutes, the world righted itself. I felt the first twinges of pain. It had no location. It was everywhere.
I pushed myself off the dumpster and looked down at Eddie Corrado, all shiny again in the rain. A steady stream of red ran from the dumpster area down to the gutter on the corner. Other than that, there was no sound. Not too many people out in SoFi at this time of night.
I reached down and took Eddie’s knife out of his hand, folded it, and stuffed it in my pocket. I felt his neck for a pulse. It was there.
I noticed my half-smoked cigarette in the pool of thinning blood by the dumpster. I picked it up, opened the dumpster, and tossed it in. I grabbed the crowbar and took it out, closed the lid, and was about to close the gate when I walked back, took out my pack of cigarettes, opened the dumpster, and tossed that in too. Then, I closed the gate and locked the padlock.
“‘Night, Eddie,” I said, tapping his leg gently with the crowbar. “Thanks for the fun time. Stop by again now, y’hear?”
He groaned, and then started to move.
I walked up the street, heading home. A block away, I looked back. Eddie was on his knees, throwing up in the street.
EIGHTEEN
JASON STARK PICKED ME UP IN A BLACK LAMBORGHINI. I carefully climbed in, every part of my body aching even though it had been two days since my night encounter in the rain with Eddie Corrado and amigos.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Jason said.
“You don’t want to know,” I said.
He drove us to Hinraker’s house, making sure to rev the engine in neutral at every stoplight.
“This your car?” I said.
“Of course it is,” he said. I shot him a dubious look. “Okay, no, it isn’t, all right? But I can’t show up to Hinraker’s in my 2002 green Honda Accord with peeling paint now, can I?”
“I thought you made a metric shit-ton of money doing that teach-guys-to-pick-up girls stuff.”
He gave me the finger. I grinned.
Miami Burn Page 12
