AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (3 page)

Desi Junior

Miami, Florida

Saturday, December 28, 1996

11:15 PM

F
OR HIS
SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY
,
Desi Ramos's father, Desi Senior, let him do his first coke deal.
Usually, Dad handled these on his own, taking along one or two of his men for
protection. But Desi had been after his father to let him do a deal on his own.
He wanted to prove himself, to make Dad proud.

Father and son met late that night at a warehouse on Panama Way near the
Port of Miami. Winter had arrived in south Florida, a refreshing breeze floated
in from the sea, and the annual snowbird invasion was in fourth gear, meaning
the drug sales curve took its usual sharp, upward spike.

Dad incorporated him into the organization early. A lookout at twelve, a
runner at fourteen, and now this. Desi did what he could to tamp down his
excitement over this important assignment, this rite of passage. Tonight was
the biggest moment of his life, and he better not fuck it up.

There were three of them: Desi Senior, Desi Junior, and Alicia López,
Desi's sixteen-year-old sidekick. Actually, "sidekick" was too
demeaning a word. Even though she was six months younger than Desi, her
credentials in the drug world were actually far more valid than his. Where
tonight was Desi's first true deal, she had been moving weight for over a year
now, hustling up whatever business she could without getting in anyone else's
way. There was this gang of teenage girls calling themselves
Las Brujas
, the Witches, operating in
East Hialeah, Desi's old neighborhood. They controlled a lot of the dope moving
through that part of town and they would have certainly extracted a hefty tax
from this young upstart if they had known about her. But Alicia knew where they
operated, knew all the corners and alleys and empty lots they controlled, so
she made it her business to go where they weren't, staying well below their
radar.

Standing five-six, she was slim and dark, temporarily caught in that
in-between stage with her beauty not yet fully emerged, but beginning the
process of shedding her tomboy past.

Desi, at five-eleven, was hard-muscled and unafraid, a veteran of many
street altercations, accustomed to the use of force when he figured it
necessary. He had watched Dad's rise in the drug business over the last several
years and he knew the importance of tonight. Alicia was solid. He knew she
wouldn't let him down, wouldn't flinch if things went south.

Both he and Alicia were born and raised in Hialeah, tight friends since
elementary school, although she refused to quit school with him in the eighth
grade. Her drug activities never could sour her on her thirst for learning, the
quenching of which often gave her a rousing sense of accomplishment.

The trio stood on the driver's side of Desi's Dodge Durango. Dad held a
leather briefcase containing two keys of coke. His thick voice cut the quiet
night. "You're gonna take this to Liberty City. A coupla niggers are gonna
meet you, one of them is called Bebop. They'll be waiting for you in the
parking lot of an apartment complex. It's on Northwest 61st Street just off
13th Avenue. First apartment complex on your left after you cross 13th. Three
stories high. They'll be in a black Lexus SUV. Got it?"

Desi's shoulders were relaxed and he showed a lot of calm for this, his
first important work. "Bebop. Northwest 61st off 13th Avenue, first
apartment complex on the left. Three stories high, black Lexus SUV."

"Right. Now, remember, make them show you the money first," he
said. "Then, and only then, do you open this briefcase." His words
hung in the fresh, breezy air. Desi and Alicia nodded. "One of them will
produce a knife. Don't be startled, don't make any moves that might set them
off. He only wants to make a small cut in one of the packages to pull out a
little bit of the coke for testing. Once he's satisfied, one of his friends
will give you the money. That's when you give him this briefcase."

"Do I count the money right there?" Desi asked.

"No. It will be in banded packets. Pull one out and look through it
and make sure they're all hundreds. Each packet should hold ten grand."

"Then what?"

"Then you back away and get in your vehicle. Remember, back away,
got it?"

They both nodded and Desi said, "Back away."

"That's right. They'll be backing away, too. They shouldn't try
anything after the deal goes down, but you have to be ready in case they do.
Take this." He gave Desi a Springfield .357 SIG semiauto.

"Dad, this is
your
piece.
I can't take that. It's yours."

"Take it. And hope to God you don't have to use it. Give it back to
me when you come back with the money." Desi nodded. Dad turned to Alicia.
"You holding,
mi hija
?"

"Yes, sir," Alicia said, and she reached under her long
sweatshirt and pulled a huge Dirty Harry-sized revolver out of her waistband. One
biiiiiiig motherfucker. It looked almost as big as she was, but she handled it
with ease, fully in control.

Desi's eyebrows shot up. He didn't know Alicia owned such a lethal piece.
He figured she had some girl type of weapon, like maybe a .25 or a .32 or some
little thing like that, but this fucking cannon?

"Is that … is that a .44 Magnum?" he asked her.

""That's the one," she said.

"Where the fuck you get that?"

"Last week. On the street. I got it off a girl who didn't want to
give it up." Alicia's smile told all.

"One more thing," Dad said. "Be careful driving away.
You're still in Niggertown, remember, so watch for anyone following you or
pulling up beside you. Take the quickest fucking route out of there. And come
straight back here. To this spot. No stopping off anywhere."

"Okay," Desi said. He wanted desperately to please his father. That's
the way it is with first-generation Cuban Americans. They want to please their
exile parents, make them feel it was all worthwhile. Dad had come over as a
small child with his parents in the early 1960s, when Cuba started sliding down
the toilet, but while Cubans could still leave the island legally. He later met
Marianela in their Hialeah neighborhood. Her family had been here for a few
years already and her English was getting pretty good, so they became friends
while she helped him with the language. They were inseparable as they went
through elementary school, junior high, and high school. He was drafted, served
a year at the tail end of Vietnam and then a year stateside, after which he
came back to Marianela. They were married a couple of years later and nine
months after that, Desi Junior arrived.

Dad threw his arms around his son. "
Buena suerte, mi hijo
." Desi returned the hug with a couple of
pats on his Dad's shoulder.

They got into the Durango. Desi handed Alicia the keys. "Here, you
drive,
hermana
, but be careful. Don't
fuck my car up."

She chuckled. "Don't worry. I can drive these things."

"Yeah, you can drive these things. You sixteen, girl. You can barely
drive at all. I'm tellin' you, don't fuck up my car."

Truth was, Desi was worried about a lot more than his Dodge Durango. The
driver on these deals had to be quick-thinking and able. Had to squeeze that
car through the tightest of spots if the occasion suddenly called for it.
Alicia had the heart, Desi knew. He wasn't worried about that. He only wondered
about her ability to handle a car under tough circumstances. Could she do a
sliding 90? Or a high-speed drift? You never knew what was going to happen on
these deals. Or so Dad had told him in preparation for this one.

He hoped it would never come to that.

≈ ≈ ≈

The drive to Liberty City took forever. An
eighteen-wheeler had rammed a minivan causing a multi-car pileup on I-95, funneling
the great freeway down to one northbound lane. Cop cars and ambulances were
everywhere, their flashers washing over the whole scene as they sorted through
the wreckage for bodies. Desi and Alicia sat in what amounted to a parking lot
for nearly twenty minutes, cursing the seemingly unmanageable Miami traffic
every one of those minutes. By the time they got to the 62nd Street exit, they
were already a couple of minutes late.

Not a good start for my
first real job
, Desi thought.

Alicia knew the way and found the apartment complex on 61st Street
without incident. The Lexus stood alone with its lights on at the dark end of
the lot, parked in getaway position.

"Pull up facing them," Desi said. "About fifty feet from
their car."

Alicia placed the Durango perfectly and pointed it directly at them,
leaving the lights on. Desi, Alicia, and one of the Lexus occupants got out of
their vehicles at the same time, and Desi noticed the breeze that refreshed the
Port of Miami had died before it reached these humid bowels of Liberty City.

He saw two more niggers get out of the Lexus, and prickles ran up his
spine. Those two stood behind the first one, silhouetted against the bright
lights of their parked vehicle. Desi squinted — in fact he very nearly
put his hand up to shield his eyes from the intense lights, but he immediately
knew squinting was a rookie mistake, showing weakness. He was positive the first
guy had seen him do it and immediately hated the fact he'd given him this
advantage.

As they approached each other, Desi got a better look at him. He saw
right away the guy was about six feet tall, black, bald, and built wide, with a
neatly-trimmed goatee around his wide mouth. He wore a red Busta Rhymes
T-shirt, a bulge clearly visible under the shirt on the right side of his
waist. He also appeared to be in excellent shape, with thick biceps stretching
the short sleeves of his T-shirt. Desi also made him to be older, like maybe
middle twenties. No kid.

"Where Desi at?" he said in a deep voice that made Desi
uncomfortable. Desi made it as a Caribbean accent, probably Jamaican.

"I'm Desi. Er — Desi Junior. My Dad couldn't make it. I'm here
instead."

The big man chuckled. "You late, Junior."

"Big accident on I-95 near 36th Street. Sorry, couldn't be helped.
You Bebop?"

"Yeah. Who de girl? You Cubans runnin' wid girls now?"

Desi was already standing ramrod-straight, but he somehow managed to
stand a shade more erect. "Don't worry about her," he said. "She
knows what time it is."

"Ha! I bet she do. You got de goods?"

Desi kept his cool and said, "You got the money?"

Without taking his eyes off Desi and Alicia, he hand-signaled one of his
boys behind him, who moved up with a briefcase of his own. He opened it,
showing banded packets of hundreds. Desi nodded to Alicia, who opened their
briefcase containing two kilo-sized packets of white powder. Bebop looked it
over, then reached a hand into his pocket. Desi flinched, only a little, but he
saw it register in the big man's eyes.

"Easy, Junior," Bebop said with a smile. "Just gonna look
at de merchandise."

Bebop's hand came out with a knife handle. One loud flick and the long
blade appeared, shiny and corrugated, designed for maximum damage, glistening
in the Durango's headlamps. Desi hoped Alicia stood ready to draw her monster
revolver at a moment's notice. He noticed she held the briefcase with her left
hand, the open lid resting against her body. Her right hand was free.

Bebop lifted one of the packets partway out of the briefcase and sliced
it open, about an inch-long cut. Ladling out a tiny amount of the powder on the
tip of his knife, he turned to one of his associates who was waiting with a
small vial filled with clear liquid. The powder went into the vial, and after a
little shaking, he held it up to Desi's headlights. It had turned a deep
reddish-brown.

"Yeahhh. Dat what I'm talkin' 'bout, mahn," he said to his
partner. Then to Desi, "Dis be good shit."

"Damn right it is," Desi said, not sure what his answer should
have been, or if he should have answered at all. He decided in the future, when
in doubt, shut the fuck up.

Bebop threw his partner a head signal and they passed the money to Desi,
who handed the coke over. He dutifully removed one of the money packets,
flipped through it to make sure they were all hundreds, and put it back,
snapping the briefcase shut. Everyone nodded at each other and backed away
toward their respective SUVs. Desi was surprised at how Alicia expertly backed
the Durango around and exited the property.

They hustled back to 62nd Street, a chancy-looking thoroughfare running
through Liberty City, and made their way back to I-95 in a hurry. Once they
were safely on the Interstate, they both exhaled and started whooping and
high-fiving. Amid all the excitement of having completed their first major drug
deal, they made sure to tell each other how confident they were the whole time,
how they weren't afraid of those niggers. Bebop's intimidating presence, the
headlights, the fact they were outnumbered three to two, the flick of the
switchblade — the whole thing. None of it bothered them, they said.
You just got to stay cool
.
And baby, we were cool!