by Nick Stone
Whenever they’d met, it had always been in places with poor light or no light at all. For all Sam knew, Solomon might not even have been there in person on every occasion; he could have been meeting one of the doubles Carmine said he regularly used. Not that it really mattered one way or another, because, apart from his voice, Sam didn’t have the slightest idea what his employer looked like. Solomon could have come into the shop and Sam wouldn’t have known it was him.
Things ran very smoothly, or had done until the murders of Preval Lacour and Mr and Mrs Cuesta over the Lemon City project. Sam hadn’t approved, but he hadn’t disapproved of their being out of the picture either. He was, above all, a businessman, and business was about taking advantage of whatever opportunity came your way.
On Wednesday afternoons, the slowest time, his assistant Lulu gave him a manicure. Sam was fastidious about his appearance. Hands and teeth were exceptionally important in his kind of business, he had found, along with his brains and book of contacts, the key tools of the trade. A good smile with healthy teeth drew someone in and gained their trust, and a firm handshake bound them to you.
He was inspecting Lulu’s fine work when the bell above the door rang and Carmine walked in, looking sweaty and pissed off.
‘Salaam, Carmine!’ Sam called out happily. He walked over and kissed his friend on each cheek and then stood back to look at him. Carmine was lightly bruised about the face. ‘What happened?’
‘Not here,’ he said, looking at Lulu, who was packing away her manicure set.
‘Why don’t you go downstairs and clean up?’ Sam said in English, which Lulu was still trying to master.
By downstairs Sam meant the lower basement, two floors beneath. The floor directly below where he kept his animals. Until very recently he’d had a chimpanzee there. It was a runaway from Primate Park he’d found sitting outside his shop, seemingly half dead with exhaustion. He’d taken it in and let it stay in the empty goat cage, before selling it to a Congolese witchdoctor.
The lower basement had white tiled floors and walls, and a whitewashed ceiling with a long rail across it hung with stainless-steel hooks. It was spotless and reeked heavily of industrial disinfectant. There was a marble mortuary slab in the middle with a sluice drain next to it. There were four white rectangular freezers around the slab, humming a quiet but deep note.
This was where Sam stored the carcasses of the gators he and Carmine went out and hunted in the Everglades once a month. Sam drove the airboat and Carmine shot them through the eye with a hunting rifle. He was a great shot, hitting the beasts dead on target every time.
When they were done they’d bring the gators back to the shop, hang them up, gut them, clean them and pack them in ice. Later Sam would ship them out to his parents’ factory in Haiti where they got turned into shoes, belts, luggage and souvenirs–the heads and feet being big sellers to tourists and religious freaks.
Carmine washed his face and then scooped out some ice into two trash bags and put them against his bruises.
When Sam came down a few minutes later, Carmine told him what had happened. Sam remembered Risquée well; trouble from the moment she’d stepped into their lives. She was a Diamond, albeit one still clinging to the coal. When Sam had put the $2,000 on the table, she’d asked him for more, saying she wasn’t going to suck on his Ayrabb dick for less than $3,000. Sam had paid up. Then she’d asked for another Quaalude so she could imagine that he was hung like John Holmes and fucked like Mandingo. Sam had liked her, but she’d scared him limp. She was a ready-made hustler who didn’t give a shit.
‘What are you going to do, Carmine?’
‘I can’t give in to no blackmail, man,’ Carmine said. ‘I do that, she’ll take it all.’
‘And who knows what else she’ll do,’ Sam said.
‘What do you mean “what else”? She already said she’ll tell my mother. She finds out, we’re both fuckin’ dead. Don’t matter what you do for Solomon, how useful you are an’ shit. You cross him, you’re gator food. The guy is straight up ruthless. Shit don’t mean shit to him.’
‘Then there’s only one thing to do.’
Carmine nodded but didn’t meet Sam’s eye.
‘You want me to take care of it?’ Sam offered.
‘No, man,’ Carmine said, ‘I gots to handle my own shit.’
‘You’re not a killer, Carmine.’
‘Yet.’
‘You’re not a killer,’ Sam repeated firmly. ‘And you don’t want to walk down that road. Let me sort it out. Put someone on it.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone. There’s so many killers in Miami they’ll have a union soon.’ ‘No man. It’s my thang, you know. This bidniss is mines, so this problem is mines. How you expect me to survive out in the desert if I can’t deal with one greedy bitch? I’ll handle this.’
Carmine looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. ‘My face, man. Look at me. I gots to be collecting the rent off these hos about now. That Lulu? She got some–er–make-up or somethin’? All girls always got make-up on ’em, right? See if she got some foundation I can put on my face.’
‘Foundation? OK.’ Sam turned around and started heading for the stairs, clenching his jaws so he wouldn’t laugh.
‘Hey, don’t tell her it’s for me, right?’ Carmine called after him.
What Sam hadn’t told Carmine was that Solomon and Eva knew all about his sideline. Sam had kept them informed from the very beginning. He’d had to. They would have found out easily, and he and Carmine would’ve wound up as human sacrifices.
They hadn’t taken it badly. In fact Eva had been amused that her useless, stupid son had even thought of making it on his own.
23
They busted Octavio Grossfeld at 4.30 a.m. on Thursday. Recon had told them that he was alone in the house. One way in. No way out.
Max, Joe, Mark Brennan and Jimmy Valentín went through the door.
They found Grossfeld in the bedroom, naked, face down on his bed, passed out from hitting a large blue springing-dolphin-shaped glass bong; so deep under the stone he didn’t hear them.
Brennan and Valentín tossed the house, while Max and Joe tried to wake Grossfeld. They stood him up, slapped him around, shone a light in his face.
‘Buenos dias, motherfucker!’
Grossfeld’s eyes peeked out from under heavy lids and went back in, as he smiled a sloppy grin, mouth half open, drool dribbling out the sides.
They took him into the bathroom, dumped him in the shower and turned the cold water on full. Grossfeld came to screaming.
They frog-marched him into the living room and stood him up against the wall, dripping wet.
The room was a tip and smelled like God’s own outhouse. The floor was carpeted with used pizza boxes, flattened and taped together.
Valentín came back from the kitchen holding a plastic bowl filled with coke balloons.
‘Hey, they ain’t mine!’ Grossfeld yelled.
‘No? What they doin’ here then?’ Joe asked.
‘He planted them there!’
‘Right,’ Max said sarcastically.
Brennan meanwhile, had found a surgeon’s bag in a cupboard. He took out three scalpels, duct tape and a saw, all covered in dry blood.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Max said to Grossfeld. ‘He planted them there too right? And the prints we’re gonna lift off ’em ain’t gonna be yours either?’
Grossfeld didn’t say anything, just looked at his feet, dripping water, covering his balls. He was short, pale and skinny with a tattoo of the Virgin Mary covering his chest.
‘What you like doin’ better, Octavio? Dealin’ dope or cuttin’ girls open?’ Max asked.
‘Fuck you, puta!’ He spat at Max’s face and missed hitting Joe’s jacket. Joe wiped it off with his handkerchief.
‘I look estupido, man? That dope ain’t mine. I ain’t gonna keep my shit in here!’
‘Where you stash it?’ Joe asked.
‘Eh?’ Oc
tavio grimaced. ‘You plant this fake shit here, and now you ask me where I keep my real shit. You’re dumb in three dimensions, chardo.’
‘You know a man called Carlos Lehder?’ Joe asked.
‘Si. He fucked your mamma in the jungle and made you, mono negro.’
‘You tryna get a rise outta me, Octavio?’ Joe said, looking down at him, bringing all his build to bear, dwarfing him. ‘Let’s get some panties on this bitch before we read him his rights.’
Max went back to the bedroom and found a pair of jeans and a dirty pink T-shirt lying next to a half-eaten pizza.
‘Put these on, fuckhead!’ He tossed them at Grossfeld.
As he was getting dressed Jed Powers walked through the door. He took a look at Grossfeld and called Brennan and Valentín outside. Max heard them murmuring and then Powers and Valentín came back in.
‘What are you doin’ here, Lieutenant?’ Max asked.
‘Been a change of plans. We ain’t takin’ him in.’
‘What? Says who?’
‘You know who,’ Powers said. ‘You two get over here.’ He beckoned.
‘Hey! I want some compensation for that door, puta!’ Grossfeld shouted out and started coming forward.
‘Shut up you! And back up where you were!’ Powers barked, stopping Grossfeld in his tracks. He retreated to the wet patch he’d previously occupied.
As Max and Joe were approaching Powers, Valentín stepped past them and shot Grossfeld twice in the chest. His back blasted out and splashed thick crimson treacle on the wall. Grossfeld fell face down on the floor.
‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’ Max yelled.
Valentín walked over to the body, holstering his piece. He took a silver .38 out of his waistband.
Powers motioned for Max and Joe to step outside.
‘OK, you two saw it. You came in and took fire. Valentín popped him. Simple.’
They heard a single shot go off in the house.
‘When was this decided?’ Max asked. He was shaking with shock and anger. Joe was ashen and silent.
Valentín came out.
‘All clear,’ he said.
Lights were going on in the neighbouring houses, doors were opening, people were starting to come out on the street. The monotonous chirping of crickets was giving way to the wail of sirens.
‘Eldon’ll explain everything once we get through the debrief,’ Powers said, then looked at Joe. ‘You OK, Liston?’
‘What do you think?’ Joe growled low.
Powers gave him a long hard look, then stared at Max.
‘You two best go help control the spectators.’
‘Did you know that before he got busted the first time, Octavio Grossfeld was top of his class at Miami University? His parents were dirt poor farmers. He was a scholarship kid. Got through on his own brains and merit,’ Eldon said to Max.
They were up on the roof. It had gone 2 p.m. The sky was thickening to thunderstorm black, sunlight only breaking through in patches. There was no breeze at all. The heat hugged them close, tight and humid. Below there’d been an accident on Flagler, and traffic was backed up halfway down the road.
Max had just been through his witness report–taped and written. He’d repeated what he’d been told to say: he and Joe had gone in first, with Brennan and Valentín behind them. Grossfeld had come out and shot once in their direction. Valentín had returned fire twice, hitting Grossfeld in the chest at point-blank range. It was self-defence; a good call which had saved their lives; exemplary police work.
Then he’d had to type up two reports because Joe was too messed up to concentrate. It had taken him five attempts before he’d got it right.
‘And that’s why he had to go,’ Eldon continued. ‘’Cause there ain’t nothin’ worse for a cop than an intelligent criminal. He’d’ve caused us all kindsa problems when he came down offa his bong cloud. Happened before with his kind. This way’s better. We can pin what we want on him and make it stick. Dead men tell no tales and all that.
‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about it, but I wanted you goin’ in there with a clear head. Mind on the job,’ Eldon said.
Max didn’t know what was pissing him off more–what he’d just witnessed, or the fact that Eldon was so fucking matter of fact and even jovial about it.
‘How’s Liston?’
‘What do you think, Eldon? He’s never seen this kind of shit first hand before,’ Max said, ‘so he’s kinda confused.’
‘Confused?’ Eldon frowned.
‘Yeah, you know. His right and wrong compass is all fucked up.’
‘He gonna be a problem?’
‘No.’ Max shook his head. ‘Joe’s a hundred per cent solid. With you all the way. I mean, he ain’t got a death wish, right?’
Eldon smirked at that. ‘You’re upset, ain’t you?’ he said.
‘You could say that, yeah,’ Max said, drawing hard on his Marlboro. ‘What went down today was wrong.’
‘Wrong? No, it wasn’t wrong, Max. It was right. Wrong was that guy. He was a piece of shit. Brought young Colombian girls over here and gutted ’em like they was kingfish. Hell, why am I even tellin’ you this? You know. It was you who picked him outta the book.’
‘It’s still murder.’
‘Huh?’ Eldon stepped closer to him and craned his head down a little, looking Max right in the eye. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearin’ this. From you, of all people. You a little shell shocked, Max? You got amnesia? Macon PD have three unsolved murders on their books–three kiddie rapers with double tap entry wounds in their heads.’
‘That was different.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘They were guilty but you made me let ’em go because their faces didn’t fit whatever political agenda you and the Turd Fairy were workin’ to that month.’
‘But you still popped ’em.’
‘I was doin’ the job you wouldn’t let me do the right way. Those guys? They preyed on defenceless children. I gave the kids and their heartbroken families justice. Justice you denied ’em!’
‘I denied them justice? Bullshit! Those families got fucken’ justice, Max! You see them complainin’ in court? They didn’t give a flying fuck it was the wrong guy.’
‘’Cause they didn’t know!’
‘But you got the real perps, Max. And the creeps we put away? They hurt kids too. So what’s the fucken’ problem? Two for the price of one. And you’re talkin’ to me about justice? I say what we’re doin’ here is justice–justice at its purest. Those fuckers all deserved to go down. Octavio Grossfeld sliced girls up, Max. Young girls, with families too. He was a scumbag. He got what was comin’ and good fucken’ riddance!’
‘We weren’t even gonna arrest him for that,’ Max said bitterly but weakly, feeling the protest drain out of him. Eldon was right: he wasn’t in any kind of position to protest, and there was even a warped truth in what he was saying.
‘Look, Max,’ Eldon put his hand on his shoulder, all fatherly and concerned, ‘you’re upset ’cause I didn’t keep you in the loop. Is that it? It was a last-minute call. You and Liston’ll get the credit, don’t worry. It’s still your baby.’
Fuck that, Max thought, looking away, over to the sea.
‘What about Marisela Cruz?’
‘Who?’
‘The mule who was gonna testify against Grossfeld?’
‘What about her? Things have changed, so the deal’s off. She’ll be charged and go to prison.’
‘But I promised her…’
‘Not in writing you didn’t. Verbal promises ain’t worth shit. Who was with you when you talked to her? Pete?’
Max nodded yes.
‘He’ll deny the whole thing.’
‘What about her baby?’ Max almost whispered. He felt sick and dizzy. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out.
‘Her kid’ll be born here and fostered or adopted. Best thing for it. Would you wanna grow up in Colombia? I wouldn’t.’
‘That
’s fucked up,’ Max said, disgusted. ‘Can’t you at least deport her?’
‘Not my call.’
‘Bullshit! ’
Eldon was taken aback by Max’s fury, but only for a second.
‘We send that girl home, know what’ll happen? She’ll be back on the next plane over, and the one after that too. And then maybe she’ll bring her baby along for the ride. You know they use babies to get coke in here, right?’ Eldon said.
‘Forget it then,’ Max said. ‘I want off this case.’
‘What did you just say?’ Eldon’s face tightened.
‘You heard me.’ Max looked him straight in the eye.
‘Ain’t gonna happen.’ Eldon shook his head.
‘No? Then I’ll quit.’
‘The fuck you will!’ Eldon snarled.
‘Watch me,’ Max said coldly and turned to go.
Eldon grabbed him by both shoulders and spun him around so fast he lost his balance and stumbled, and his cigarettes and Zippo fell out of his breast pocket.
‘Now you listen,’ Eldon seethed, face flushed, eyes small and fierce, wart turquoise going on purple, index finger jabbing at Max’s face. ‘I run this division. You work for me. I decide who stays and who goes. Not you. The only place you go is where I tell you.
‘You wanna walk outta here, Max? Fine, fuck off. But you’ll be taking Liston with you. And I’ll make sure he knows that his arrogant little prick of a partner was willing to wreck his life over some spic mule.
‘That girl? She’s surplus to our requirements. She broke our laws. She goes to our prisons. End of fucken’ story. You got that?’
