AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (20 page)

Alicia

Miami, Florida

Friday, April 13, 2012

9:10 AM

A
LICIA
TEXTED HER MIAMI CONTACT
with the details on her upcoming trip to England, where she
would move the money. This information, she knew, was shuttled to certain
people in Colombia who would keep close tabs on her before, during, and after
her trip, as they always did.

She then settled back to have breakfast. Nick sat
in his study, writing, as he usually did at this hour. Alicia unfolded the
Miami
Herald
that sat before her,
next to his plate.

The headline leaped out at her, over her glass of
orange juice, over her Cuban omelette, slapping her across the face:

DRUG DEALER, 2 OTHERS,

GUNNED DOWN NEAR
JFK CAUSEWAY

She set her fork down and gazed slack-jawed at the
front page. A large photo of the crime scene, complete with milling cops and
covered bodies, accompanied the story, as did smaller photos, headshots all, of
the victims. Alicia read of

The early morning calm of
northeast Miami overlooking Biscayne Bay was shattered on Thursday when two men
and a woman were shot to death at the front door of the Waterfront Towers, a
small apartment building on Northeast Bayshore Court. Killed were Glenroy
"Bebop" Charles, 41, a resident of the Waterfront Towers and a known
drug dealer, Ana Maxina Méndez, 21, of Hialeah, and building doorman Armando
Pérez, 48, of Miami Beach.

Charles' driver, Ansel Taylor,
26, a native Jamaican living in North Miami, had just dropped the couple at the
front door and had taken the car into the garage when the killings occurred,
shortly before 2:00 AM. He returned moments later to find the bodies and called
police immediately.

Robbery has been ruled out since
all the victims had money on them when they were found. Miami police suspect
the killing was over drugs, since Charles had been involved in the importation
and sale of drugs in the area for years. Born in Jamaica, he arrived in the US
in 1987 and since then had amassed a lengthy criminal record. He recently
concluded a ten-year prison sentence following a murder conviction.

His older brother, Conroy, also
a drug dealer, was killed in a notorious triple murder in Hialeah in 1989 where
all the victims were beheaded.

Méndez was employed at the gift
shop at Hialeah Park. She had been arrested in 2007 for marijuana possession,
but the charge was later dropped.

Pérez, a Cuban exile, had worked
at the Waterfront Towers since it was built in 1992. He had no criminal record.
Miami detectives investigating the case believe he was simply in the wrong
place at the wrong time.

Police are asking anyone with
knowledge of the incident to call crimestoppers.

Alicia read the article again. Looked at the
photos again. Sipped her coffee and reached for her cell phone.

Within moments, Desi's voice came through on the
other end.

"Desi," she said. "We need to talk.
Miami Beach. Same place we met before. That hotel, you remember?"

"I remember."

Alicia said, "Right away." After ending
the call, she turned and hollered into the next room, "
¡Berto! ¡El carro!
"

≈ ≈ ≈

Black clouds gathered at
the north end of Collins Avenue, promising rain, and Alicia felt a slight drop
in temperature when she stepped out of her Bentley across the street from the
Hotel Croydon. Reflexively, she looked around for anything troublesome, then
took her usual table. The waitress had brought her Fiji water by the time Desi
showed up a couple of minutes later.

"Alicia," he said with a grin, sitting
opposite. "How's it going?"

"How's it going? How's it
going
? I'll tell you how it's going.
Pretty fucking badly. That's how it's going."

"Wha — what's —"

She said in a voice barely above a whisper,
"I give you information to clip that fucking Bebop and you turn it into a
bloodbath. Like you just walked onto the fucking set of
Scarface
. Bang! Bang! Ba-boom! Kill every motherfucker in
sight!"

"Alicia, I didn't —"

"Kill everything that moves!" She went
into her Al Pacino impersonation. "
I
bury those cock-a-roaches
!"

"Hey, you gotta listen. I —"

"Shut up!" She downticked her voice
another couple of levels. "You know what you did? Do you have any fucking
idea what you did?"

"I — I smoked Bebop. For killing my Dad
all those years ago."

"Yeah," Alicia said. "And you know
who else you smoked?"

"Th-the girl and the doorman. So what?"

"The girl." She sipped her water, more
to keep from blowing an artery than from thirst. "The
girl
was Maxie Méndez's daughter.
La luz de su vida
."

"Maxie Méndez's …"

"Yeah. You stupid fuck. Maxie Méndez's
daughter. You know what that means?"

"Listen,
hermana
,
I had no idea. How was I supposed to know who she was? She just looked like
some slut that was hanging on to Bebop, you know? Man, I had no idea."

"You had no idea. You know what this means,
cabrón
? It means Méndez will stop at
nothing to find whoever did this. He will dedicate the rest of his life to
hunting you down."

"I can keep —"

"Shut up!" she said. "A lot of
people are gonna get clipped over this. You realize that? Maybe even some of my
people. Some of my good people. They might die because you were so fucking
careless. Because you thought you were just wasting some slut!" She picked
up her cell phone and brandished it like a weapon. "I got a mind to call
Méndez right now and give you up. And then tell him where to find you. Save him
a lot of fucking trouble! And save a few lives while I'm at it!"

"Alicia," Desi said, fear spreading over
his face. "Hey, you can't do that. I trailed Bebop from that club in North
Miami to that apartment building. It was right, I'm tellin' you. There was
nobody around. Nobody can make me for it, believe me."

"I
don't
fucking believe you. You're an impulsive fuck! You could've staked him out and
taken him when he was alone, or at least with his driver."

"I'm telling you, he was
never
alone. You gotta believe that. I waited outside the club,
then followed him down to Little Haiti. I watched him shoot some guy there.
Right on the fucking street! And then he got back in his car and they went over
to the apartment building. He was never alone."

"So you
wait
.
You take him the next day. Or the day after that. You wait! I swear, I ought to
call Méndez right this minute."

"No, no! Don't do that! Please. Alicia."
Desi only now sensing the depth of the shit he'd stepped in.
"Please."

She set the phone on the table. "Let me tell
you something. If Maxie Méndez comes sniffing around me or my organization,
making trouble for me, I will personally drive him to your fucking house and
walk him to your front door.
¿Me
entendés?
"

"
Sí,
sí, te entiendo,
" Desi said in a choking voice, head down.

The clouds had made their way down Collins and the
first few drops of rain fell, thick, heavy drops. Alicia looked up at the
blackening sky, felt the breeze, signaled Berto for the car.

She thought,
I
don't know if I can really rat Desi out. He's like my brother. He fucked up
bad, sure, but I don't know if I can actually give him up.

Either way,
this is gonna be one hell of a storm
.

Desi Junior

Hialeah, Florida

Friday, April 13, 2012

10:30 AM

D
ESI WALKED
TO HIS CAR TWO BLOCKS AWAY.
He'd never heard Alicia talk that way to anyone before
— well, not since middle school, anyway, during her days as a drug dealer
.
And she had never, ever talked like
that to him. It just wasn't part of their deal. They had this understanding,
born of more than twenty years of friendship, an unspoken rule such as the kind
that exists between a real brother and sister, a love born out of deep mutual
respect.

Normally, Desi would be upset at her treating him like that, but he knew
he had stepped way over the line. Not with missing Bebop the other night during
the drug deal, that could be explained — even forgiven. And he had the
clear sense she
had
forgiven him for
that. The way it went down, it could've happened to anybody. It was just a case
of really bad timing, that woman turning to hug Bebop at the precise moment
Desi's finger squeezed the trigger.

But killing Bebop with Maxie Méndez's daughter as collateral damage, that
was utterly unacceptable. All of Alicia's cursing and threats … those were
coming from a place so deep inside her he never knew it existed. It scared him,
it really did, and not much could scare him.

He had driven to North Miami the other night and hung around that
Jamaican nightclub, knowing full well he might never see the sun again.
 
But he wasn't afraid and he didn't care.
He didn't care because Bebop had gunned down his father, Desi Senior, and
revenge needed to be served up.

He started his car and headed for home, but now, after hearing Alicia
make dark, full-bodied threats against him, he was plenty scared.

≈ ≈ ≈

He loved his little house
on West 30th Street
in Hialeah. Not that there was anything flashy about it, he really wasn't a
flashy kind of guy. It was only about a thousand square feet, and had a small
yard, but at least it was a yard. Many places on this street had only pavement
where yards ought to be, allowing off-street parking. Desi was fortunate enough
to have real grass hemmed in by a chain link fence, and a driveway leading to a
carport, so his Escalade wouldn't just sit out there baking in the subtropical
sun. He hated looking at these Miami cars where the paint had oxidized from
sitting in the sun. It mystified him why people didn't take better care of
their cars, why they let them go to shit like that.

In the five years he'd lived in this house, he
enjoyed every single day of it. He knew those three rooms over the mattress
store were only a couple of bad breaks away, that he could easily wind up in a
similar place if he wasn't careful, so he did everything he could to keep his
past at bay and to ensure his future.

As soon as he got back from his meeting with
Alicia, he stumbled into the shower. The moment he got himself lathered up, his
phone rang again.

Damn it
,
he thought.
What the fuck does she want
now? She gonna dump on me some more? I got the fucking idea already!

It was Wilfredo, one of his boys who works the
territory, doing Desi's business around the Mall of the Americas and a couple
of fringe areas of the airport.

"Yo, Wili, what's up?" Desi said,
standing naked with his cell phone in his hand.

"Listen, man," Wilfredo said. "A
lotta shit's been comin' down."

"What shit? Whatchu talkin' about?"

"Word's out, man, that you smoked that
Jamaican dude the other night. The one they call Bebop."

"Who's been spreadin' that shit, man? That
ain't real."

Wilfredo said, "Them Jamaicans, man, they
think it's real. They think that nigger was the second fucking coming of, I
don't know, Bob Marley or somebody. They all plenty hot that he got clipped
in his own fuckin' doorway
. Every
fucking Jamaican in North Miami is all stirred up now, thinking you did it, you
know what I'm sayin'?"

"I ask you again, man, who's spreadin' this
shit?"

"I don't know, man. But one of my homies,
this dude Flaco, he high up in Maxie Méndez's organization, you know? He's
Cuban but he's black, too, like me, and he got Jamaican friends, you know what
I'm sayin'? I just now saw him down at the 305 pool hall. They been tellin' him
they hear this Cuban guy Desi from Hialeah was the one that done Bebop."

Desi still couldn't believe this. "Where they
gettin' this shit, man?"

Wilfredo paused, then said, "According to
Flaco, it was this dude Ansel Taylor. He was Bebop's driver. Say he saw a red
Escalade in his rear view followin' him and Bebop all over fuckin' town the
other night, you know what I'm sayin'? Say he saw the Escalade pull into the
entrance of Bebop's condo building right after he pull in himself. Made a
coupla phone calls this morning, ran a check, traced the car to you."

"Okay, man," Desi said. "Thanks for
the heads-up."

He swiped the call off and skipped the shower. He
threw on some clothes and packed a few things immediately. Reaching for a
hammer, he smashed his cell phone to bits. Back in his bedroom, he reached up
onto the top shelf of his closet, way back, and pulled out his stash of thirty
grand in cash, along with two dozen prepaid no-contract phones, which he tossed
into his bag.

Out the door and into his other car, a black four-year-old
Nissan, which he kept parked on the street, baking in the sun. He wanted it to
look used, like nobody would ever notice it.

He knew he should've taken that one Saturday
night. Black car, would've blended into the night. Invisible, right?. Why the
fuck didn't he? What the fuck was he thinking? What, did he want to impress
Bebop with his cool fucking Escalade before he blew him away? Did he want to
show him it was the same kind of car his father had when Bebop blew
him
away?

Fucking stupid is what it was. Stupid!

He headed for an apartment he kept in a rough part
of West Hollywood. He'd been renting this place for about four years now. It
was just a one-bedroom in a shabby fourplex on Garfield Street, a lonely,
pathetic piece of pavement in the noisy shadow of the Turnpike. His income
could stand the strain of keeping two places, especially when one of them was
as cheap as this one. And besides, if he ever got into a jam like the one he
was in now and didn't have this little hideaway, he wouldn't have any need for
living expenses.

The place was musty from not having been lived in
for nearly a year. The last time was when Desi took a couple of hookers there
for an all-night party. Cost him nearly two grand, but at least they didn't
find out where he really lived. He was fanatical about that, about not having
people know exactly where he lived. Just one of the security measures he
learned from his Dad.

He stepped inside and turned on the AC right away.
The place was boiling. He checked the fridge. Only a few beers left from last
year's hooker party. The nearest commercial area where he could pick up some
food and drink was State Road 7, a few blocks away, and that great Cuban
restaurant was there, too. The Las Vegas. And they delivered! Better make one
trip to the store now, he thought, and load up for a long stretch.

Going to and from the supermarket, he didn't see
anything suspicious. No tails he could spot, nobody looking as though they
noticed him. He quickly made the rounds of the supermarket aisles and zipped
through the checkout, paying cash. Back in his apartment, he called Wilfredo.

"Wili, listen, it's me. I need you to take
care of business for the next week or so. Maybe longer.
¿Se puede?
"

Wilfredo said, "Of course, man. What do you
need me to do?"

"Make your usual stops, then take care of my
stops at Dolphin Mall and those areas around the airport that you don't
normally do. Also, my little three-block area in Miami Springs, you know the
spot?"

"Yeah, I know it. I got you covered, man.
Don't worry."

" If they ask, tell 'em I had to go out of
town on business and I'll be back soon. I'll call you and tell you where to
bring me the money," Desi said.

He ended the call. Wilfredo had told him not to
worry, but in fact he was plenty worried. He knew Wilfredo would skim whatever
he could from Desi's rightful income, and that skim might be a pretty big
chunk. But that was the price he had to pay for his temporary exile in hiding.

He was also worried about Machado. If she didn't
get her dime a week every fucking Friday, she would hunt him down like a dog.
Truth was, he was more afraid of her than he was of those Jamaicans.

After a quick search of his directory, he found
her number and called it.

"Machado," she answered.

"Sergeant Machado, this is Desi Ramos."

"What is it, Desi?" Impatience all over
her voice.

"Sergeant Machado, I can't meet you at Dolphin
Mall this Friday."

"What the fuck is this, a joke? You know our
deal."

"I know, I know," Desi said. He hated
this fucking dyke. Hated everything about her. Her pushy attitude, her
high-and-mighty shit. He
really
hated
kissing her ass like this. "I'm trying to say, I can meet you, just not at
Dolphin Mall this week."

"Well … where, then?"

"There's a little Cuban restaurant in West
Hollywood called the Las Vegas. It's on State Road 7 and —"

"I know it," she said. "Our usual
time. Six o'clock Friday."

"Yeah, yeah. That'll be good. Six o'clock on
Friday."

She said, "Don't fuck up, Desi. Be
there."

He walked outside, up the street a block or so to
the Turnpike overpass, and threw his phone against the massive cement support
column. Then he returned to his apartment. The Marlins-Phillies game had just
started.