AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (11 page)

Desi Senior

Hialeah, Florida

Sunday, December 17, 1989

4:00 PM

W
ITH HIS
EYES GLUED TO THE TV,
Desi let loose a string of loud curses in
Spanish
while waving his arms
frantically. Marianela rushed into the living room from the kitchen

"Desi, what is the matter? Are you all
right?"

"Did you see that?" he cried.

"See what?" She looked around the room
and saw only the room, everything in place.

"The goddamned Colts just scored a
touchdown!"

"That's it? Some team scores in football and
you get all that upset?" Desi did like his football, but never to the
point of hysteria and this kind of hostile outburst.

"Look!" He pointed to the screen.
"The Dolphins were leading and now they're blowing it!"

"I don't understand. What's wrong with
that?"

"We need to win this game to make the
playoffs! If we lose, the season is all over." He huffed and puffed while
Marianela sat him back down on the couch and tried to soothe him. In a few
minutes, he calmed down and took the measure of his surroundings. Fortunately,
the kids were out playing and didn't witness his tantrum. He never liked to set
a bad example for them. Didn't think it was right for a parent to do that.

Kids have to
grow up in a home where violence is not part of your everyday life,
he
thought.
Look what happens in the homes
where you've got violence. You've got out-of-control kids, looking down a long,
dark road toward prison and early death.

Just as his blood pressure returned to normal, the
doorbell rang. Marianela answered it. Desi couldn't see who was at the door,
but he saw her and heard her say, "Yes?"

"Are you
Señora
Ramos
?" Desi recognized Delgado's scratchy voice. He leaped up from
the couch.

"Julio! Please come in." He eased
Marianela aside to allow Delgado to enter and he introduced them to each other.
Delgado carried an armload of wrapped presents.

He said, "Desi, I just stopped by for a
moment to deliver these to you and your family. I hope I got everything right.
You did tell me you had a young son and daughter, no?"

"Oh, Julio. You shouldn't have done this.
This is too kind. We didn't —"

Delgado shushed him. "Do not worry, my
friend. Please let me do this for you and your family. Put the presents under
the tree." He gestured toward the undersized Christmas tree, modestly
decorated.

Marianela gushed her thanks and arranged the
presents just so. Desi said, "Thank you so much. But I feel very badly. We
didn't get you anything."

"I said not to worry. There is always next
year. But … before I go, may I see you outside for a moment?"

"Of course." He turned his head back.
"Honey, Julio and I are going to speak outside for a minute."

They stepped out the door and down the stairs to
the first floor and outside. There in front of the mattress store, Delgado
said, "Would you like to do another little job for me,
mi amigo
?"

"Another job?"

"Yes." Delgado's eyes lost all warmth.
So did his voice. "Tonight."

"
Tonight
?"
Desi's tone was not accommodating.

Delgado said, "Tonight. It will take you
about an hour and a half, two hours maximum. This one pays three thousand
dollars. Will you do it for me?"

"Three thous — tonight?"

"Yes, tonight."

"Wh-what do I have to do?" Desi said.

"You remember from last time, that house in
Little Havana? You just go there and pick up another package. Take it to the
address they give you. That's it."

"Will they give me another briefcase to give
to you? Like last time?"

Delgado said, "Yes. And just like last time,
you bring it here. I'll be waiting. They will pay you, too. The whole thing
won't take any time at all, and you get home in time to watch
Trapper John
."

"Well … okay," Desi said, managing a
smile. He felt pretty good about being asked to perform another task for his
friend Julio Cesar Delgado. And for three thousand dollars!

"Good, good. Now, somewhere around
seven-thirty, seven forty-five, you get in your car and drive to that house,
you remember it? On Northwest 25th Court?" Desi nodded. Delgado said,
"Be there at eight o'clock tonight to pick up the package."

"Where will I be taking it?"

"Hialeah. They'll give you the address."

≈ ≈ ≈

Desi wended his way
through the dark streets of Little Havana. The sun had been down for a couple
of hours, but the heat stayed behind. The mercury hovered around eighty degrees
with high humidity. The AC in Desi's car, not great to begin with, worked
overtime, huffing and puffing, but the car had been out in the sun all day and
the heat had built up inside to the point where it refused to cool down.
Covered with perspiration, Desi finally pulled up to the drab house on 25th
Court.

 
Nothing much had changed since his last
visit. Empty street, void of all activity, street lights not doing much in the
way of lighting anything. Same beat-to-shit white Honda in the driveway,
everything pretty much the same. Only this time a man answered the door.

He was big, black, bald, and menacing. He wore a
tank top with a picture of what looked like a lethal automatic rifle on it, and
the words "Ghetto Blaster" underneath it. The garment stretched
itself around very large, very hard biceps. Tattoos covered most of his arms
and one slunk up around his neck. A permanent frown had etched itself between
his eyebrows, and his cold eyes shined like little dark ball bearings, almost
disappearing in his deep-set, squinty gaze.

Desi said, "I'm here to pick up a
package."

"Who the fuck are
you
?" he asked in a growly, heavily-accented voice.

"I'm Desi. Julio sent me. I'm here to pick up
a package." He immediately regretted giving his name. Something told him
that wasn't a good idea. Guys on TV, when they do these kinds of drug deals or
whatever, they don't go around telling everyone their real names.

They all
have those street names, don't they, like Iceman or Pookie or … or …

"Wait here," Ghetto Blaster said. In
about thirty seconds he returned with a black suitcase, like last time, only
this suitcase was larger than the last one, also with a lock connecting the two
zippers. "Take it to de corner of East Fourt' Avenue and East 40th Street
in Hialeah. There's a pawn shop there. Ace Pawn. Bring it in. See José behind de
window, Cuban guy. Tell him you got some'ting from Delgado. You got dat, mahn?"

Desi repeated the bullet points. "I got
it."

With very little effort, Ghetto Blaster hoisted up
the suitcase and shoved it into Desi's chest, staggering him backward.
"You better. Don't fuck it up." The door slammed in Desi's face.

The suitcase was considerably heavier than the
little one he'd brought to the Kendall Holiday Inn. He lugged it to his car and
managed to get it in the trunk. Off he went to Hialeah.

Before long, he arrived at the corner of Fourth
Avenue and 40th Street in Hialeah, what looked like a small commercial center
for the surrounding neighborhood. He saw the pawn shop right away, precisely on
the corner, standing alone. A few yards away, a Cuban restaurant hummed with activity.
Beyond that, a small gym. The lot was filled with the cars of restaurant
customers and late-shift gym rats, forcing Desi to park some distance away.

He stood at the trunk of his car, wiping his
forehead with his handkerchief. His hand shook slightly and he looked at it,
like it was not even his own but some recent transplant, or maybe even someone
else's trembling hand. He knew he was in too deep to back out. He couldn't just
go back home and give Delgado the suitcase, telling him it was over, that he
didn't want any more of this life-of-crime stuff. He'd seen what happens to
those guys on
Miami Vice
. They had it
all for a while, and then they wound up choking on their own blood.

But that was TV. And he was Desi Ramos Senior. He
got hold of himself and opened the trunk.

Grumbling, he jerked the suitcase out, carried it
across the lot through the alluring aroma of yellow rice and black beans, and
brought it inside Ace Pawn.

The place had that kind of depressing pawn shop
feel to it, sad and homely, filled with other people's broken dreams, items
that once meant something to them — maybe even their most treasured of
all possessions — until they needed ready cash for God knows what. Now
these once-valued items sat on dreary walls and in smudged glass cases, musty
and forgotten … guitars, TV sets, cassette players, all kinds of jewelry …

Desi approached the man behind the bulletproof
window. Somewhere in his forties, he stood tall, about six-four, and painfully
thin. Hair parted in the middle drooped down the sides of his head and his eyes
were too big for his drawn face. A hawk nose provided all the angles his face
needed, but he still had high, jutting cheekbones and a pointed jaw. He
appeared to be Cuban. He was jotting something down with a very sharp pencil.

"José?" Desi said, setting the suitcase
on the floor. His arm suddenly ached from carrying it around so he flapped it
around a couple of times to shake off the tightness.

The man put down his pencil and nodded. "
Sí. ¿Qué desea?
"

"I've got something from Delgado." He
pointed to the suitcase standing next to him on the floor.

José leaned toward the glass for a better look. He
saw the case and said, "Come with me."

He brought Desi through a locked door marked
"Privada" into the back room. Three younger men and a young woman
lounged around on couches drinking beer and watching music videos on
television. Speaking in Spanish, he told the woman and two of the men to go to
the front and keep an eye on things. The other one, the larger of the three,
stayed behind. José turned off the TV.

Desi looked around. Apart from the couches and the
TV, there was an old metal desk cluttered with paperwork and a wooden swivel
chair that must have been thirty or forty years old. A refrigerator, also from
ancient times, occupied a slot next to some file cabinets. An enormous safe sat
in one corner, and in the other was a fire exit.

With unexpected strength and grace, José hefted
the suitcase onto the desk, on top of the messy paperwork. He took a key from
his pocket and unlocked it. After unzipping it, Desi saw white bricks wrapped
in plastic. José threw a nod to the younger man who approached it, switchblade
knife in hand.

He cut a small slit in the plastic enveloping one
of the bricks and extracted a little of the white powder inside onto the tip of
his blade. With his other hand, he pulled a little vial of liquid from the
pocket of his jeans. He dropped the powder into the liquid and shook it up. It
turned the proper color, and he nodded at José.

Within seconds, José produced a briefcase, just
like Julio said. It was a nice one, Desi thought, made from black leather, like
the last one, and like the last one, it had a four-digit combination lock. For
a moment Desi wondered if they bought these briefcases in bulk, maybe getting a
good price on them.

He took the case from José, who also handed him an
envelope, just like last time. He stuffed it into his pocket and reached to
shake José's hand. José looked at it like it carried plague. Desi wasn't sure
what to do, then he heard the shots.

Loud shots, and plenty of them, all coming from
the front. Screams, and more shots. José and the young man both drew weapons
from waistband holsters under their shirts. Shoving past Desi, they ran to the
door leading to the front, and yanked it open. As they began firing, Desi ran
to the rear exit. He pushed it open, looking back in time to see José and the
younger man fall backward, blood and brains exploding from the backs of their
heads. Still holding the briefcase, Desi dashed outside into the alley, behind
the restaurant and around the corner to the street, where he leaped aboard a
bus as it was pulling away from the stop.

Desi Senior

Hialeah, Florida

Sunday, December 17, 1989

9:45 PM

T
HE BLUE
MERCEDES WAS PARKED
directly in front of the tired building that
held the mattress store when Desi jumped off a city bus. Delgado exited the
Mercedes as Desi frantically rushed toward him.

Delgado grabbed his shoulders. "Desi. Hey,
hey.
Calmate, mi amigo.
What's going
on?"

"Man, those guys … I don't know where they
came from … they … the shots … the shots …"

"Shots? What shots?" He threw a quick
glance to the sidewalk and street. "No, wait. Come here." He guided
Desi back to the Mercedes. They sat in the front seat. "Now take a deep
breath and tell me what happened."

Desi settled down fairly quickly and recounted the
events to a shocked Delgado.

"Did you see who they were?" Delgado
asked.

"No. I was in the back with José and another
guy. They tested the coke and then the shooting started in the front. That
young girl … she was killed, I'm sure. I heard her scream!"

"Do you know how many of them there
were?"

"No."

Delgado's voice lowered. "May I have the
briefcase?"

"Of course."

Desi handed him the sleek case and Delgado swiftly
spun the combination numbers. He clicked open the case and exhaled. Desi got a
peek at the packets of hundred-dollar bills.

"Did you get paid?" Delgado asked.

"Yes," Desi said. "But I'm telling
you, man, I got out of there by the skin of my balls, you know? I saw José and
the other guy go down just as I was running out the back door. I even had to
leave my car there. I'm sure they came into the back looking for the
money."

"I'm sure they did. And the coke, too,"
Delgado said. "But you got away. And that's all that counts right
now."

"Who did this, Julio? Who killed those men?
Who was it wanted to kill
me
?"

Delgado looked out onto the street. A little
traffic, not much. A couple of pedestrians on the other side of the street.
Most of the businesses were closed at this hour.

He said, "Desi, have you ever heard of
Griselda Blanco?"

"Griselda … uh, no, I don't think so. Who is
she?"

"She is a
Colombiana
.
She controls all the cocaine coming into Miami. She is in prison right now, but
she is still in control of the business through her associates. Every gram of
cocaine that comes into Miami. And eighty percent of all the cocaine that goes
through here to the rest of the United States. Do you have any idea how much
money that translates to?"

Such figures were way beyond Desi's grasp. He
shook his head.

Delgado said, "It is in the billions. You
understand? Billions. With a 'B'."

"Was she behind this today?" Desi asked.

"No. The animals who did this today were
rivals of Griselda. She is
La Madrina
,
the Godmother of all Miami, and these people want to take what she has worked
hard to build for herself and for her organization. Somehow, they heard about
this transaction and they went there to steal her cocaine and her money."

"Her cocaine and …" Desi's jaw slowly
dropped as the light bulb clicked on. "So you are … you …"

"I work for her. That's right, Desi. And now,
now that you have escaped with your life tonight,
gracias a Diós
, you work for her, too." He reached into the
briefcase and pulled out a banded wad of cash. "Take this."

"Wha — what … "

"Take it. For risking your life. You have
earned it. Call it — how do the Americans say? — hazardous duty
pay." Delgado's small mouth formed a sincere smile.

Slack-jawed, Desi took the money. He looked at it.
A thick wad, all hundreds!

"Now I — I work for …
¿Cómo se llama?
"

"Griselda," said Delgado. "Griselda
Blanco."

"Griselda Blanco," Desi repeated with a
blank stare, as if memorizing it for a test later on.

Delgado added, "Like I said, she is in prison
right now, but she still runs her organization. Through her son and a couple of
others."

"How can I … work for her?" Desi said.
"I am not in the drug business. I don't know anything about drugs. I don't
know her son or anyone else."

Delgado said, "You don't have to know
anything about drugs. And you don't have to know her son. You only have to know
me."

"You?"

"Yes, Desi. Me. You will be working with me.
You've done a couple of little jobs and you've done very well, my friend.
People are impressed with what you've done, and believe me, they will be very
impressed with the way you handled yourself tonight."

"People? Impressed?"

"Yes, people. But don't worry about them.
From now on, you and I will work together."

Desi said, "But if I don't know anything
about drugs, why would you want to work with me? What can I offer you?"

"Wouldn't you like to work with me,
mi amigo
? Have we not become good
friends?"

"Well, yes, I guess so."

"And," Delgado said, "don't you
want to get even with those
pendejos
who almost killed you today? Almost robbed your children of a father? Your wife
of a loving husband? Don't you feel the need to settle the score?"

Desi turned and looked straight into Delgado's
eyes. Through a tightening jaw, he said, "
Sí, Julio
. I feel it."

"Then that will be our first project, Desi.
We will cut off the balls of those who tried to take you from your
family."

"Yes," Desi said, "but
—"

"But nothing. I consider you
un buen amigo
, Desi. And I want to give
you the chance to make a better life. A better life for yourself. And for your
sweet wife and children."

Desi didn't say anything. He rubbed a hand on the
leather console running between the front seats, then felt the leather dash.

Delgado added, "And I mean a much better
life. Getting out of this little apartment one day. Eventually into your own
house."

Three young Cuban men came across the street
toward the car. Desi looked past Delgado at them. Typical street scum. The kind
who give him shit on his bus for no reason at all. Not driving fast enough.
Waiting too long at stoplights. Guys who think they're tough. These three, with
their swaggering confidence, all three with headphones around their tattooed
necks.
Never worked a job in their lives
,
Desi thought.
Probably not more than
twenty-one, twenty-two years old, if that.

Delgado, who was facing Desi, never saw them until
they tapped on his driver's side window. It didn't startle him at all, and Desi
caught it. The window slid downward about two inches.

"You want something?" Delgado's voice
was sandpaper covered with ice.

One of them, the tallest one and obviously the
leader, said, "Yeah, man. Tolls."

"Tolls? What the fuck you talking
about?"

"This is our territory. Anybody come through
here, you got to pay a toll." He looped his thumbs through his belt to
show he meant business. He was, after all, The Toll Collector.

"Fuck off," Delgado said, and rolled the
window back up.

A muffled "hey, motherfucker!" came
through the Mercedes' soundproofing, followed by a thud on the door. The Toll
Collector had kicked it. Delgado cursed and grabbed something out of the door
boot, Desi couldn't see what, and flung the door open into The Toll Collector's
face, rocking him backward. He tumbled to the sidewalk.

The other two pulled knives, flicking the blades
open almost in unison, as if they had rehearsed for this moment. They bent
forward a little, coiling their bodies into attack position, just like they'd
seen guys do on television. Desi jumped out of the passenger door and ran
around to the other side. He saw Delgado held a steel pipe, about two feet
long, and he swung it with deadly accuracy, disarming the two switchblade punks
right away with sharp, painful blows to their knife hands. The Toll Collector
had regained his feet and came at Delgado from behind. Desi shoulder-blocked
him, sending him to the sidewalk. Before The Toll Collector could get up again,
Desi was on him, punching his face, causing his head to snap back against the
pavement. Blood squirted out from the back of his head and his mouth. Desi felt
teeth loosen. He kept it up, while behind him, he heard the other two squealing
in pain, no doubt from the blows Delgado was laying on them with his steel
pipe. The Toll Collector lapsed into unconsciousness and moments later,
everything was silent. A wino in ragged clothing had approached the scene a
half a block away, but saw what he was walking into, then turned and scrammed
in the opposite direction.

Desi got to his feet and smiled at Delgado,
looking at the three would-be big shots lying bloody on the sidewalk, letting
out occasional light groans. A second later, Desi and Delgado's smiles became
laughs.