by Tim Dorsey
TWO LOBSTER-COLORED MEN with white nose cream stood in the shallow end of a pool in Coral Gables.
“We have to make this quick,” said Chi-Chi. “I’m seriously burned from last time.”
“Everything’s changed,” said Renfroe, rotating in place for a visual sweep of his blind spots. “The Cubans assassinated Mr. Palermo.”
“No they didn’t.”
“Right, good idea,” said Renfroe, revolving. “The Cubans didn’t do it. Otherwise, panic in the streets, the Havana-Red Menace in our midst.”
“They really didn’t do it.”
Wink.
“Whatever. I have a message from Serge—”
“Were you followed? I think we were followed. But it couldn’t have been me. I kept driving in boxes of four consecutive right turns to shake any tails.”
“So that’s why you were late.”
“Something’s out of place. Who are those people over there?”
“Children,” said Chi-Chi. “You’re paranoid.”
“This is my edge. Shit’s on boil now. Tell Serge he can have whatever he wants. I’ve got middlemen standing by in dummy businesses all over Miami.”
“He wants three hundred men.”
“We don’t have that many.”
Chi-Chi shook his head. “He wants Cubans.”
“You know the exile community better than I do.”
“These are all in prison.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember the Mariel boatlift in 1980?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“And how after all the nice, law-abiding refugees started arriving, Castro began emptying his jails and asylums of the worst of the worst?”
Renfroe recalled with bitterness. “The bastard!”
“This invasion is going to get rough, hand to hand. We’ll need the meanest, baddest sons of bitches we can find. A bunch of the undesirable Mariels are still serving long prison sentences for terrible crimes they committed here after the boatlift. Many are still only in their forties.”
“But we put them in prison. Why would they agree to work for us?”
“We offer them freedom. Besides, our jails are four-star hotels compared with what they went through under Castro. They all have a serious ax to grind. We’re planning two landing sites, Marianao and Guanabacoa. Then our men execute a pincer movement on the capital and catch Castro’s forces in the middle like a nutcracker. His army’s underpaid, out of practice and shape. You give us these guys, we can do it in our sleep.” Chi-Chi handed Renfroe a watertight capsule. “The embarkation point’s in there.”
“Okay, I’m not promising anything, but I’ll make some calls.”
“I’m burned again.”
“Using prisoners,” said Renfroe. “Reminds me of The Dirty Dozen.”
“Serge saw it last night. That’s where he got the idea.”
“It was Telly Savalas’s best work.”
“That’s what Serge said.”
“I like this Serge more and more.”
“Is that guy taking pictures of us?”
“What guy?”
Chi-Chi pointed through the fence at a car across the street. “Over there.”
A Crown Vic with blackwalls sat at the curb. Bixby turned to Miller in the front seat. “Webb told us to back off.”
Miller snapped more pictures. “He just said not to apprehend. He didn’t say no surveillance.”
“Twist it any way you want. It’s disobeying a direct order.”
“Then why don’t you take your little rule book and get out of the car?”
Bixby got out.
43
1964
I T’S HARD TO categorize a place like Jimbo’s. It’s a bar, but there is no bar. There’s a boccie court. Beer is self-serve from garbage cans full of ice inside an old shrimp-packing house. Other cans hold plastic bags of smoked fish. Patrons lounge outside on mismatched furniture watching a TV sitting on the ground, starting to fritz from the salt air, surrounded by piles of rusting junk, disabled vehicles, nonrunning appliances, and a M*A*S*H-style signpost with wooden planks pointing which way.
It’s hard to find Jimbo’s. It opened in 1954 on Virginia Key, across the street from the Miami Seaquarium. Way across the street. Down a long gravel road, past a water plant and state preserve, back, back, until you come to a cluster of shanties around a lagoon that opens onto Biscayne Bay.
It’s hard not to like Jimbo’s.
“I hate this place,” said Chi-Chi, turning off the highway.
“Shut up and drive,” said Lou.
The pink Cadillac rumbled across the undeveloped island, hot limestone rocks crunching under the tires, rounding bend after bend of coconut palms and Australian pines.
Mort ducked as a palm frond whacked the right side of the windshield. “Where is this place?”
“Still a ways,” said Lou. “One of the few places it’ll be safe for Sergio to meet us after handing off the diamonds to the cops.”
Chi-Chi kept driving farther back into the mangrove jungle. He followed the road around until a bleached wooden building appeared next to an old dock. The gang got out. Clay balls clacked and scattered on the boccie court. Beer tabs popped. Mullet cooked in the smokehouse. Chi-Chi stopped by the front door. “So now what?”
Lou plopped down on a ratty love seat. “Wait and watch TV until it’s dark.”
They began drinking Busch. Someone shouted. Everyone jumped.
Chi-Chi grabbed his heart. “Shit, what was that?”
Another shout.
They saw a TV crew down by the dock. A director yelling.
“Let’s go watch,” said Coltrane.
They strolled to the edge of the lagoon, standing on their toes behind the technicians. A man in a park-ranger uniform ran down the dock with two young boys in shorts. A camera rolled beside them on little rails. The trio climbed in a ranger boat. Suddenly, a dolphin popped out of the water, chattering and clicking.
One of the boys leaned over the side. “What is it, Flipper?”
A bunch of clicking, then a tail splash.
“You say Mr. Burns had a heart attack on his boat and is now drifting toward some unexploded harbor mines left over from military exercises?”
More clicks.
“And a big storm’s approaching?”
The dolphin nodded.
The ranger hit the throttle, and the boat took off through a mangrove pass.
“Wow, we actually got to see them film,” said Tommy.
“Big deal. It’s just the same show over and over,” said Chi-Chi. “Every week some people get in an impossible jam in a boat but leave a rope dangling in the water with a loop on the end the exact size of a dolphin snout. How fucking convenient.”
They went back to the couch. More waiting. The sun set. Nerves wearing thin. Deeper into the night.
“I’m getting worried,” said Moondog. “We haven’t heard from Sergio yet.”
“What if the cops find us in the meantime?” asked Mort.
“They’re not looking for us,” said Lou. “Just Sergio.”
“Why’s that?”
Lou didn’t answer.
“What is it? What did you do?”
“Well, I sort of tipped them.”
“Lou! How could you?!”
“Hey! I panicked, okay? They came by the apartment and grilled me. Searched the place without a warrant, the assholes.”
“Why’d they come by your place?”
“They had Desmond under surveillance and saw me with him, so I had to say I was just having an affair with him, and it was really my boyfriend, Sergio, who was moving ice with Desmond.”
The gang glared at her.
“What was I supposed to do? Besides, Sergio was already safely in hiding. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Mort. “Why didn’t whoever killed Desmond just take the diamonds themselves? You had no trouble finding them.”
“Because they didn’t know about them,” said Lou. “That wasn’t about the jewels. That was Carmine Palermo’s jealousy again. I didn’t even think he knew about Desmond.”
“What a mess,” said Chi-Chi, covering his eyes with his hand. “It’s just a good thing Carmine doesn’t know about Sergio.”
Lou stared off toward the lagoon.
“Lou?” said Chi-Chi.
Lou looked down at her nails. “He sort of does. Some guys came around.”
“Oh, Lou!”
“We told him you were bad news!” said Mort.
Chi-Chi squinted at her.
“What?” said Lou. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You know,” said Chi-Chi. “There’s something else.”
“What do you mean?” Lou’s hand was shaking as she lit a Lucky.
“I can tell by your voice. Give it.”
She blew out a thick stream of smoke. “Okay, okay. The Fongs.”
“The Fongs?” said Chi-Chi. “Who the hell are the Fongs? Jesus! How many people are in this plot?”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Tommy. “That insanely violent Asian gang. Even the Palermos stay clear of them.”
Chi-Chi pointed at Lou with a toothpick. “What do the Fongs have to do with this?”
“It was their diamonds. Desmond was the courier.”
“Oh, my God!”
Lou was smoking rapidly. “They know the Palermos killed Desmond, but they don’t know it was jealousy—they think it was the jewels. And since word’s out Sergio has the stones, they think he’s the one who whacked Desmond for the Palermos. It could be a war.”
Five jaws hung open. Chi-Chi finally fell back on the couch and slapped his forehead. “Great. The Palermos want Sergio dead, the Fongs want him dead, the cops want him in jail for life, and you’ve put him in the middle of an impending gang bloodbath. Anything else?”
“I gave him the clap.”
“Lou, you’re a keeper.”
“Hey! I love the guy!”
“Remind me to stay off your shit list.”
After that, the gang began going through cans of Busch at an impressive clip. More TV. The news came on.
“Turn it up,” said Tommy.
One of the boccie players twisted the volume knob. Footage earlier in the day from Miami International. The black-and-white set showed a large plane on the runway, props slowing. A mob of reporters waited outside the terminal with cameras and notepads. A staircase went up to the plane. Two detectives appeared in the doorway, holding a handcuffed man by the arms. The reporters surged forward yelling questions, but local cops held them back.
“Reminds me of when the Beatles landed a few months ago,” whispered Tommy.
The TV announcer said police were mum, but “reliable sources” indicated that the surfers were cooperating for reduced sentences. New York detectives had flown in with one of the suspects to arrange secret meetings to get the missing jewels back.
The report switched to other scenes that had developed later in the day: Shaky footage taken from cars during the press chase all over town. Shots outside the surfers’ pads, a young woman opening the door a crack, then slamming it. More driving around in cars, the detectives stopping and running up to ringing pay phones.
“What a farce,” said Chi-Chi. “The police can’t even lose the reporters.”
There were more snippets as night fell: The entourage running in and out of bars. The lens blocked by cops’ hands. The police and the surfers switching cars and taking off again.
“Look!” yelled Mort, pointing at the set.
Cars squealed up to yet another phone booth and blinding camera lights came on again, catching the man inside wide-eyed like a deer.
“Sergio!”
Chi-Chi’s toothpick fell out of his mouth. “For the love of…”
The man on TV dropped the phone and ran off into the dark.
44
Present
T WO DOZEN MEN in military uniforms sat around a conference table. Conversation buzzed, the air charged with urgency. The director of Cuban Intelligence entered the room. Everyone shut up.
A man in an admiral’s uniform stood and saluted. “Sir, the gunboats are in place as you requested. We should have no problem scuttling them at sea and turning back the rest with minimal loss of life, just as planned.”
“Plans have changed,” said the director. “We’re not going to interfere. We’re going to let them land.”
Heated conversations broke out.
“Sir, they get a foothold on land, there’s all kinds of cover they can take,” said the admiral. “It’s a very bad idea.”
“This comes from the very top.”
“It’s a brilliant idea,” said the admiral.
“These exiles have been pests for too long,” said the director. “It’s time to teach them a lesson. What’s a Miami exile’s worst nightmare?”
A general raised his hand. “Anglos take back the city council?”
“You idiot!” said the director. He began pacing. “Just look what they risked getting to America. Many left with only the clothes on their backs, sailing the Gulf Stream in foolhardy contraptions. No, their worst nightmare is to be captured and jailed in Communist Cuba, never allowed to leave. That’ll put the fear of God in them once and for all!”
Heads nodded in agreement.
“But what if something goes wrong and they make it off the beach? A small, determined force could get the upper hand if they reach the hills.”
“We’re covered,” said the director. “The invasion party has been totally infiltrated by our agents in Florida. They’ll be more than enough to take care of any eventualities.”
The room bubbled with confidence. They stood and saluted. The meeting broke up, and jeeps roared off into the Havana night. A major went home to his waterfront apartment and retrieved a miniature radio transmitter from a hollowed-out ceiling beam.
A LIMO WITH magnetic signs wound its way to the Rickenbacker Causeway. Chi-Chi at the wheel. He turned off the highway and headed down an unpaved road past the sewage plant.
Serge was in back, a remote control in each hand.
“This is one of the early Flipper episodes shot right where we’re going. That young actor is none other than Martin Sheen. I like to play it with the sound off, substituting the soundtrack of Apocalypse Now.”
The young man on TV piloted a skiff along the Miami shore, a dolphin swimming beside him.
“…Never get out of the boat, absolutely goddamn right. Kurtz got out of the boat—he split from the whole fucking program….”
Serge eventually got control of his hysterical laughing and dabbed his eyes. “Hoo! That was a good one…. Doug, you okay? You don’t look so hot.”
“Where are we going?” asked Lenny.
“Jimbo’s.”
“Jimbo’s?”
“Chi-Chi knows the place.”
The limo continued deeper into the sticks, coming upon a village of shotgun shacks and the hulk of a former shrimp house on the water. The packing house was faded earth tones; the shacks were done up bright Jamaican. There was a broken-down school bus painted by hippies and a Technicolor VW Beetle with flat tires. A handful of old-timers played boccie, ignoring the fashion photographers shooting swimsuit models on the porches of the Caribbean shacks. Another photo team was down on the dock, someone holding up a large white reflector screen to fill in shadows on the shirtless male model staring across the water with a purposeful gaze and firm jaw that said: I’m doing some coke right after this.
Chi-Chi parked behind two choppers. The gang got out and followed Serge past a collection of people lounging outside on musty furniture, watching basketball on a snowy old Magnavox. They reached the building. “Anyone want a beer?”
Lenny and Mick raised hands. Serge stepped through the open front door. He fished Bud Lights from an ice-filled garbage can and set two dollar bills on a piece of wood.
Serge le
d them over to ringside seats at the boccie court.
“Now we wait.”
THE TUNA BOAT passed the jetty at the bottom of South Beach, pounding across the wake of an outbound Swedish cruise ship. Then through a swarm of jet-skiers and around the tip of Fisher Island. It turned up the inlet with Virginia Key. The throttle cut back as the boat threaded a keyhole passage through the mangroves and into a broad lagoon. It pulled up behind a shrimp house. A Cuban jumped from the bow to the dock, shooing away a male model and tying rope to a mooring cleat. Another Cuban jumped off the rear of the boat with the stern line.
Other vessels began arriving. Bayliners, trawlers, catamarans, slipping single file through the pass and anchoring in the lagoon.
Serge and Chi-Chi went down to the dock, calling out instructions to their colleagues from the exile spy meetings in Little Havana. More boats appeared, then noise back on the land. Six gray Immigration buses rumbled down the bumpy road and up to the dock. Guards walked manacled inmates to the waterfront. Boats took turns pulling alongside the pier and taking prisoners aboard. The guards handed keys to the boat crews with instructions not to use them until they were in sight of Cuba. A convoy of Cadillacs arrived and parked beside the buses. The Palermo Family and a cadre of associates got out with a small arsenal. A Hatteras yacht with a radar dome arrived. The Palermos climbed aboard.
Soon, all the boats were full, a small armada of fishing and pleasure craft. One of the spies at the helm of a Donzi sounded an air horn, and the lagoon filled with gunning marine engines. Anchors were pulled up; the boats began chugging back out the narrow mangrove pass.
Serge sniffled and waved at the departing fleet with a hanky. “Libertad!”
The last boat, a little cuddy, made open water and disappeared toward the straits. The lagoon was still again. Serge flipped open a cell phone and hit some buttons. “Hello? Action Five News?”
A CONSTANT FLOW of tourists posed for snapshots at water’s edge in Key West, next to the giant red-black-and-yellow concrete thimble marking the southernmost point of the continental United States. A few feet away was a metal fence, warning signs, barbed wire. On the other side sat a row of huge parabolic radio dishes all pointed in the same direction, across the Florida Straits toward Havana, ninety miles away.
