Tod Goldberg

by Burn Notice 03 - The Giveaway (v5)

  So when I went to the apartment of Nick Balsalmo’s girlfriend in Little Havana, I tried to look as innocuous as possible, since I wasn’t sure if I was going to stumble onto a dead body, or a booby trap or a bunch of bikers waiting to kill whoever showed up at his house. I opted for jeans, a T-shirt, a straw hat and ugly shoes with no socks. Looking obviously lost is a good way to avoid trouble, even in a war zone.

  I also had two guns on me, because there’s never been a single person who thought being overly armed was a bad thing. When you’re not sure how many bullets you might need, bring as many as you can hold.

  Little Havana is just that: little. Densely packed with businesses, shops, bars, the streets of Little Havana feel like they’ve been cut and pasted into Miami from any of a dozen towns in Cuba. Salsa and merengue bleat through cars and the open windows of small apartments above storefronts and there seems to be an open-air restaurant on every corner.

  For the most part, Little Havana is safe. There are plenty of families, which means people tend to look out for their own, but then there’s also plenty of Families, too, so the crime in Little Havana can be organized and brutal. That Nick Balsalmo, who wasn’t Cuban, was living in Little Havana with his girlfriend didn’t necessarily mean that he was being protected, but a guy like him living in the same neighborhood as Cuban crime families meant something.

  The address Bruce gave me was a three-story stucco apartment building not far from the domino park off of Calle Ocho where, even though it was getting late in the afternoon, old-timers in guayaberas were still throwing bones and whooping at one another. On one side of the building was a liquor store and on the other was a cigar shop and then two doors down there was a McDonald’s and a Domino’s. That was the weird thing about Little Havana—it looked like Cuba apart from how much it looked like any neighborhood in Any-town, U.S.A.

  Nick and his girlfriend—whom Bruce only knew as Maria—lived on the second floor of the building. The front door of the building was locked and required the person living in the apartment to buzz you up, so I found Maria’s name and hit the button. The system rang their number and a mechanical voice announced that their voice mail was full.

  Not a good sign.

  The door had an electric strike lock activated by discontinuing the electrical circuit by hitting a number (or a series of numbers) on the phone’s keypad. These locks usually confound people intent on breaking in because they don’t understand how easy they are to break. Most electric strike locks in older buildings are fail-safe, which means they need electricity to stay locked, which gives you two easy options:

  Find the electrical path to the door in the wall and yank out the cords.

  Go to the side of the building, find the power box, and turn off the power. You might need to pick the padlock on the box, but as long as you have two paper clips, this should take only about five seconds.

  Or you can do what I did: Wait three minutes for a young woman to walk out the door, smile at her, say “thanks” and she will hold the door open for you while you gather your materials and walk inside. The nice thing about people is that they are usually very polite and helpful, even when letting perfect strangers into their home.

  I climbed a flight of stairs to the second- floor landing and made my way down the hall. There were six apartments on the floor and all of them, except for the one at the end of the hall, had their front doors wide open. As I passed each one, I could hear the drone of televisions, the cacophony of too many people in a small space having arguments and the wail of more than one child. I peered into each apartment and was struck by how similar they looked—a galley kitchen opening into a large living room, which opened onto an outdoor balcony. I could smell cooking meat and deep- fried vegetables, human sweat and something that smelled vaguely like vinegar, but more pungent.

  The closer I got to the last apartment, however, the more I began to notice a different smell.

  A smell that reminded me of Kosovo. Of Iraq. Of Afghanistan.

  You never get used to the smell of decomposing people. Smell it once and no amount of deodorizer or lye or bleach will hide the smell from your nose for too long. Dead bodies smell like rotten lamb, and fecal matter, and rotten fruit, and spoiled milk, wrapped in burning garbage, but worse. Dead people smell like no other dead animal for simple evolutionary purposes. It gets the living moving . . . and fast.

  In this case, however, someone had gone a long way to hide the smell, because as I stood outside the door, I could decipher it only as an undertone. My guess was that whoever was dead inside the apartment—and my guess was that it was probably both Nick and Maria, because biker gangs aren’t known for leaving witnesses—was being absorbed by an acid, probably in the bathtub.

  “You know the guy who lives there?”

  I turned and saw a balding man of about fifty. He had about fifty keys on a belt chain and wore a short-sleeved work shirt that was pocked with sweat across the chest. It said RAY in cursive over the breast pocket. I had the sense that he wore this shirt every day but didn’t bother to wash it.

  “Know him? No,” I said. “Just know that he owes me money.”

  Ray nodded but didn’t say anything. He looked me up and down once but didn’t convey any emotion.

  “Have you seen him?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t normally answer questions from people dressed like you carrying two guns but who have to sneak into my building.”

  Interesting.

  “Jackie Roach,” I said, extending my hand. The man shook it but didn’t put much effort behind it. He wanted to hear my story. I had one. I always have one. “I work for the banks, tracking down people who’ve skipped on their foreclosures. Mr. Balsalmo, he owes Seminole Savings and Loan a considerable amount of money.” I pulled up my shirt and showed him the locations of my two guns, which he really shouldn’t have been able to see, but I had the sense that this guy had been around a gun or two in his time. “You gotta protect yourself when you have my job. You understand?”

  “I understand,” he said, and lifted up his left pant leg, revealing a Saturday night special in an ankle holster. “You do property management for long? Packing is just like brushing your teeth in the morning.”

  “Been there, done that, bought the bootleg off eBay!” I said and gave the man a full belly laugh. “One thing Jackie Roach knows is property management. Doing God’s work, buddy, God’s work.”

  Ray still wasn’t smiling, still wasn’t exactly happy to see me and still didn’t know quite what to make of me. Being a property manager is a lot like being a prison guard: You see all kinds of miscreants on a day-to-day basis and everyone lies to you.

  “You got a letter or something you want to leave?”

  “Letters don’t work anymore,” I said. “You know that. It’s all about face-to-face with these people. That personal connection. Gotta be close enough to strangle someone to get your point across, right?”

  Still nothing from Ray. He was listening to me, but it was as if he was trying to hear another conversation at the same time. Like he was looking for the subtext.

  “Unless you got something,” he said eventually, “maybe you should just head on out. People in this building work for a living, someone like you in the building scares them, you understand? People got kids in here. We don’t need any more drama. Get it?”

  I did. And “it” was not good. And accounted for the smell, too, I’d guess. I took a step toward Ray and leaned in a bit. “Look, this Balsalmo guy was bad news, right? Did a little time. Dealt some crank. I understand. I saw his record. I get that. I got kids, too, right? But, Machito, I’m just doing my job. Maybe you open the door and just see if he’s hiding in there? If he is, I have a conversation with him and then I go.”

  Ray shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he were literally weighing his options, but didn’t say anything. Having a conversation with Ray required one to fill in a lot of blanks.

  “His girl been aroun
d at all? Maria? Because maybe I could talk to her. She was always the reasonable one.”

  The mention of Maria’s name got Ray animated. “She moved out last week. Let him keep the place. Put him on the lease and everything. Stupid, eh? Italian guy living in Little Havana. You knew he didn’t have a clue.”

  A little boy came running down the hall, screaming at full throat. Not like he was hurt. Like he was a little boy. But when he saw Ray, he came to a full and silent stop.

  “Sorry, Mr. Ray,” the boy said, before hustling inside one of the open doors.

  Ray started walking toward the door and shuffling keys. “Nick, he’s a nice guy. Respectful to me. ‘Sir’ this and ‘sir’ that, but he’s not the kind of element I want in my building. So maybe we just have a talk with him together. You up for that?”

  “Ray, I’m one hundred percent up for that,” I said. “Nice people got bad debts and got bad jobs. But I got kids, like I said, so I know what you’re saying.”

  Ray put his key in the door and started knocking at the same time, saying, “It’s Ray,” as loud as he could. “It’s Ray. I got Jackie Roach with me. It’s Ray,” he said one more time and then opened the door. He turned to me before he stepped in. “You smell that?”

  “Maybe a dead rat?” I said, which was probably true, just not in the same context.

  “That ain’t a rat,” he said.

  Nick Balsalmo’s apartment looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Spatter patterns on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Pools of blood in the living room. From the angles and velocity, it appeared he’d been bludgeoned as the final coda, but the pools indicated he’d also just bled a lot, like, say, if his fingers had been cut off. Ray walked through the apartment briskly, opening doors while I stood in the entry hall surveying the scene. I hadn’t touched anything yet and wasn’t about to. I just needed to hear Ray say what I already knew: Somewhere, Nick Balsalmo’s body was rotting away under some chemical.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Ray shrieked. “Oh, Jesus,” he said again. “He’s in here!” It sounded like Ray was in the bathroom, though it was hard to tell as I was already back down the hall and heading for the exit. Nick Balsalmo was dead. What I didn’t need was to be standing there when the police came, trying to explain who I was.

  After I got to my car and zipped back into late-afternoon Miami gridlock, I called Barry. I had to try five different numbers, but I finally found him.

  “Where are you?” I said when he answered.

  “In a comfortable spiritual place,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “You’re in danger. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’m in a church, Mike,” he said.

  “What are you doing in a church?”

  “I’m meeting a business associate.”

  “In a church?”

  “Do you know how hard it is to get a legal bug into a church? It’s sanctuary space. Plus, my business associate works here.”

  “You’re washing money for a church?”

  “Tough times, Mike. Even the Lord has to eat.”

  Negotiating cramped Miami traffic and the cramped logic of Barry at the same time wasn’t something I was prepared for. “Do you know Nick Balsalmo?”

  “I know his work.”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “He’s in a better place, then,” Barry said. “Praise the Lord.”

  “Your friend Bruce gave him the drugs he got from the Ghouls’ stash house.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He had to pay him off for a prison favor and the Ghouls’ drugs worked out well for that,” I said. “I have a feeling the Ghouls found that upsetting.”

  “There were plenty of people who’d like to kill Nick Balsalmo. He sold drugs for a living. It’s a very unstable work environment. Praise the Lord.”

  “Barry,” I said, “there was more of him on the outside than on the inside. I’m going to guess that whatever someone wanted to get from Nick, they got. Maybe that included your name, maybe it didn’t, but I’m going to guess known associates of Bruce Grossman might be wise to keep a low profile.”

  “Praise the Lord.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m just trying to fit in over here,” Barry said, his voice low again. “I sit in a pew talking on a cell phone in here, people might find that disrespectful.”

  “But laundering their money is right with God?”

  “No sin in getting ahead.”

  I thought that was actually wrong, canonically, but opted not to press Barry on the issue. “I’m picking Bruce and his mom up and taking them somewhere safe. I’m happy to extend you the same courtesy. Consider it a returned favor for this great job you found for me.”

  “Fortress inside of a moon crater?”

  “My mother’s house,” I said.

  “That’s sweet,” Barry said, “but I’ve got a safe house. It’s called a boat. On the Atlantic. Do you know how hard it is to drive a motorcycle over water?”

  “What’s also nice is that no one can hear you screaming on the Atlantic, either.”

  Barry didn’t respond for a while, so I just sat there and listened to him breathe. It was sounding a bit more labored than usual. He’s not a skinny guy, but he’s also not one of those wheezing fat guys, either. I definitely noticed a quickening of his intake, however.

  “I’ve got a sick friend in Montana I could visit,” he said.

  “Try one of the Dakotas,” I said.

  “I hear South Dakota is nice this time of year.”

  “Don’t limit yourself,” I said. “Try them both.”

  “Mike, you’re scaring me here.”

  “Praise the Lord,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  Barry was silent again. In the background I could hear an organ being played. Maybe he was already in heaven.

  “When you say there was more of Balsalmo on the outside than the inside,” Barry said, “you meant that literally, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  More organ music.

  “I don’t vacation enough,” Barry said.

  “No time like the present.”

  “You’ll call me if, you know, there’s something I need to know?”

  “I will.”

  “And maybe now would be a good time to use an alias?”

  “Now would be that time, yes.”

  Silence again. I’ve never thought of Barry as a particularly pensive guy.

  “You need money or something?” he asked. He sounded hopeful again. If there’s one thing Barry knows, it’s money.

  “I’m fine, Barry. Down the line, I’m sure we’ll tip the scales again.”

  “I appreciate that, Mike,” Barry said.

  “Future reference,” I said, “I’d like to avoid going to war with a biker gang.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Barry said.

  “Praise the Lord,” I said and hung up.

  7

  There is no such thing as a safe house. Any fixed location is, by definition, a waiting target. Hide long enough and no matter how safe you feel, you will eventually begin to create a traceable root system. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a log cabin in Lincoln, Montana, or a spider hole outside of Tikrit, stay in one place long enough and the people looking for you will find you.

  If you really want to ensure that no one can find you, you have to keep moving. Adhere to three simple rules and maybe you’ll live long enough to outlast whoever is chasing you: 1. Never spend more than twenty-four hours in the same place.

  2. Pay cash for everything.

  3. Sleep during the day, travel during the night.

  Even still, this plan requires financial resources and unwavering determination. There is nothing more exhausting or emotionally isolating than constantly running for your life. So if you choose to embark on this kind of life, expect that your interpersonal relationships will suffer.

 
Despite all that, if you have to stay safe for just one or two days and you have ample protection—say, if a burned spy is watching over you—it’s important to fortify your position and not merely assume that by being out of sight you are somehow safer than if you were parading down A1-A with a target painted on your chest.

  Which is why I was outside my mother’s house laying tactical wire across the backyard, Sam was placing protective wire through my mother’s rosebushes and Fiona was working on the roof. Inside, my mother had just served Bruce and Zadie her patented “light dinner”—pot roast, garlic mashed potatoes and a pasta salad whose main secondary ingredient was mayonnaise—though she kept coming outside to smoke and complain.

  “Michael, you know I don’t like meeting strangers,” my mother said. She’d just stepped out onto the back porch and was watching me with unique disinterest. Having me fortify her home had become a frequent activity of late.

  “They’re nice people, Ma,” I said.

  “Zadie told me confidentially that her son was just in prison, Michael!”

  “Everyone lives somewhere,” I said.

  “He is very cute, though,” she said. I decided to try to unhear that by simply not reacting to it. “And, Michael, not being able to smoke inside my own home is making me very nervous.”

  “Ma,” I said, “Zadie is dying of cancer. You recognize that smoking causes cancer, right?”

  “Allegedly,” she said.

  It was the early evening, which meant the sidewalks around my mother’s house had already been rolled up for the night. The only signs of life on the street apart from the three of us fortifying our positions were the odd appearances and sounds of Reagan-era Lincoln Continentals and Chryslers slipping into garages throughout the neighborhood.

  Early-bird specials live on in Miami.

  I was trying to maintain a level of calm and appreciation for my mother, seeing as she was doing me a tactical favor, and in light of the houseguests, so I opted not to counter the “alleged” claim.

  “I’m just feeling very jumpy, Michael. I don’t like worrying about the guests and worrying about who might attack the house and, on top of it all, worrying about when I can have another cigarette.”