AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (5 page)

Josh

Brooklyn, New York

Monday, April 2, 2012

12:05 PM

H
E HAD ONCE
HEARD TONI GO ON
about this place called MOB, a little vegan joint
four or five blocks away, down on Atlantic Avenue. She said she had lunch there
often. He hated vegan food — all that tofu and other creepy shit —
but along about noon, he went there anyway, looking for her.

It was cold outside, still in the low 40s, but at
least the sun was out for a change and there was no rain. He put on his leather
jacket and took the stroll over to MOB.

As soon as he walked in, he saw her seated at one
of the rickety tables with a skanky girlfriend, someone he couldn't place. He
approached the table and she looked up. A big smile reflexively broke out all over
her face.

Her eyes, big and brown, went with her hair, which
was also big and brown. Her heart-shaped face contained a really small mouth
and tapered down to a delicate chin which pointed outward above an Audrey
Hepburn-like long, long neck.

"Hi, Toni," he said.

"Why … hi, Josh b'gosh," she said, using
the alliteration by which she had recently started addressing him. He knew she
was trying to insinuate herself into his life and she obviously felt this was
one cute little way to do it. "Well, how
are
you doing?" She couldn't contain her enthusiasm.

"I'm great," he said, pouring on his
smile. The girl with Toni, still somewhat out of the picture, blushed.

Toni picked up on it. "Oh, Josh, let me
introduce you to Ellin. She lives right down the hall from me in my apartment
building."

"Hi, Ellin. Pleased to know you." Josh
extended a hand and Ellin placed her hand in his. He thought it would melt.

Toni pointed to a chair. "Won't you join
us?"

"Thanks," he said. "I'd love to.
But there's something I want to talk to you about. It's pretty important."

She glanced at Ellin, who said, "Well, I have
to be going anyway. I've got to read up on the Bill of Rights for when classes
resume. American Government class, you know."

Josh nodded like he knew, and Ellin left. Toni
never looked at her, unable to remove her gaze from Josh's amazing face while
he took a seat.

"So what brings you here today, big
fella?" she asked in her hearty voice.

The waitress came to the table right then and
asked Josh if he wanted to see a menu. He shook his head and she went back
where she came from.

Meanwhile, he never quit smiling. "I'll come
right to the point," he said to Toni. "How would you like to take a
trip to Florida with me?"

"Florida?" She managed to set her fork
down before it fell from her hand. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean Florida," he said, broadening
his smile to megawatt levels. "You and me. We leave Friday. What do you
say?"

"What do I say? You're asking
me
to go to Florida with
you
? Why?"

"I have to drive a car down to Miami for a
friend of mine and I don't want to make the trip alone." Her hand was on
the table and he gently placed his hand on hers. "I want you to go with
me. We can make a little vacation out of it. What do you say?"

Now Toni widened her own smile. It wasn't nearly
as winning as Josh's but it was far more sincere. "Miami? I — I
don't know, Josh. I mean I'd love to, of course, but Friday, that's pretty
soon."

"Come on," he said. "It'll be an
adventure. Spur of the moment. Just the two of us." Then he lowered his
voice ever so slightly and murmured, "Come on. Say yes." He squeezed
her hand with just the right amount of pressure.

She said yes.

Silvana

Coral Gables, Florida

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

11:55 AM

B
OB HARVEY'S
FUNERAL
WAS BIG
.
Really big. Lots of important people showed up — the mayor, most of the
City Commissioners, all of the County Commissioners, a couple of Congressmen,
even the Governor. Appropriate black limos snaked along the narrow driveways of
the cemetery, their drivers lingering among the cars, smoking and chatting with
each other.

Even though powerful outdoor speakers had been
specially installed, the large crowd still strained to hear the priest's words
over the casket. He was soft-spoken, obviously unaccustomed to large audiences.
His breathy voice barely made it to the first couple of rows as he extolled Bob
Harvey and the great accomplishments of his life.

Silvana and Vargas stationed themselves at the
outer edges of the throng, properly dressed in black to blend in. Their eyes
scanned the crowd.

Despite the overwhelming size of the event, it was
still conducted with dignity. Silvana figured this to be the brother's doing.
Where it could have veered into caricature, it remained well within the bounds
of respectability, reaching the proper level of majesty without sailing over
the top. She assumed the brother, Phil Harvey, wanted him to have a proper
sendoff. Bob, as the older brother, was probably someone he always looked up to
ever since they were kids.

When the service ended, everyone filed past Phil
and Consuela, Bob's widow, to offer their final words of condolence, all about
what a great guy Bob was and how everybody loved him. Consuela doled out all
the appropriate nods, showing her deep appreciation for each person's attendance.
After they paid their respects, they piled into the limos, which fired up and
slowly motored out of the cemetery.

One of the final mourners to shake Phil's hand was
Maxie Méndez. Silvana knew Maxie's age to be right at fifty, but all his excess
weight, and there was plenty of it, made him look ten years older. The blonde
on his arm was around twenty-five and utterly without excess weight. She wore a
tight black dress that showed plenty of cleavage and her walk conveyed an
attitude Silvana didn't like. The black veil over her heavily-painted face
didn't make her look any more respectable. Silvana made her as one of Maxie's
strippers.

With the crowd thinning fast, Silvana and Vargas
backed away toward their car just over the rise. They saw Maxie have a few
words with Phil before making for his Mercedes Maybach, more expensive than any
two of the limos combined. It stood nearby with gaping doors and liveried
driver.

≈ ≈ ≈

Back in the car, Vargas
said from behind the wheel, "Where to?"

"Hialeah," Silvana said. "Maxie's
probably going back to work. Let's brace him there."

"Do we have anything to go on?"

"Flaco called me last night and gave me some
data. Not a lot, but enough to get his attention."

She briefed Vargas and they reached Hialeah in
less than a half-hour. Traffic on the Palmetto, usually a nightmare any time of
day or night, was eerily light. Vargas made the most of it and sped up to
eighty. After an exit and a turn, they soon pulled into the strip center on
West 49th Street that housed Lolita's Liquors.

Lolita's occupied two adjacent storefronts to make
up one huge liquor store. Vargas parked in the handicapped spot closest to the
entrance and they went in, straight to the back door marked "Employees
Only" and beyond that, toward the door marked "Private". The
goon standing guard moved to block their way, then saw who it was. He stepped
aside and they sauntered in.

Maxie was on the phone, and for some reason the
air conditioning which cooled off the rest of the store to perfection wasn't
functioning back here. The jacket to Maxie's funeral suit and his tie were off,
draped over his high-backed leather chair, and he barked into the phone. His
mustache dripped sweat, and his oily hair began to lose its slickness,
crinkling up in the humid office. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, but
within seconds, the perspiration was back. His expensive shirt stuck to his
skin.

"I'm tellin' you, it's like a fuckin' oven in
here … Yeah … I dunno what happened … Hey, I don't give a shit if you got a
call to go to the fuckin' White House, get over here and fix this. I'm dyin'
here."

He swiped the call off and looked up at Silvana
and Vargas.

"Air conditioning go down today, Maxie?"
Silvana said.

"What the fuck do you want? It ain't
Friday."

"We were in the neighborhood, so we're
collecting early this week," she said.

He eyed Vargas. "What's with the sidekick?
You usually come by yourself."

"I was feeling lonely. Now let's have it."

"I tell you, ain't Friday."

Silvana said, "Look at the bright side,
Maxie. You won't see me again for nine whole days."

Maxie reached into his pants pocket and came out
with a roll of bills. "It ain't right," he said. "It ain't even
Friday." He stripped the rubber band off the roll and counted out ten
hundreds. Dropped them on the desk for Silvana to pick up, which she did.

"I saw you at Bob Harvey's funeral," she
said.

"Yeah. I knew him. Too bad about what
happened."

"Do you mean too bad your shopping center has
already broken ground, but now Bob Harvey won't be around to deliver the
permanent financing for it? Or do you mean too bad because his brother is
having second thoughts about honoring the deal you made with Bob?"

"What deal are you talking about?" he
said. "You're fulla shit."

"What deal? I mean the deal giving you
exclusive vending machine and video game rights in the entire center."

"What fuckin' center? I don't know what
you're sayin'."

"Behave yourself, Maxie," Silvana said.
"Loma Linda. The center that's going up right now over by Hialeah Park has
got your fingerprints all over it. You're getting two adjacent storefronts in a
primo location for another liquor store. And he's maybe even thinking of
welshing on the deal that gives you a cut of the whole damn center. I
know
you wouldn't appreciate that. Not
after all you've done for him."

"I don't know what you're talking about,
Machado."

Silvana took one step toward the desk. "Tell
us, is the financing going to disappear now that Bob Harvey is dead? Is that
it?"

"Hey, what is this? What do you give a shit
about all this anyway?"

"We've got to find whoever put two slugs in
Harvey's head, and all roads lead to you, my man."

Maxie fumed. He brought the heel of his hand down,
a sharp pound on his desk. A few droplets of sweat flew off his head. "I
just put a thousand reasons in your pocket why I didn't do it. I give you that
every fucking week, so don't come sniffing around here tryin' to link me to a
murder."

Silvana started gesturing with her hands, drawing
Maxie's attention closer to her. "We wouldn't do that, Maxie. You should
know that by now. But see, here's the problem. You're at the top of the suspect
list for obvious reasons. Our boss knows that and he knows that we know it. So
if we don't go after you, he's gonna want to know the reason why."

"What are you gonna tell him?"

Her gesturing grew more intense, like an
infomercial pitchman.

"Now, that's where you come in. If you can
give us someone for that job, it makes us look like geniuses and takes the heat
off you. You don't give us anyone, it puts us in a tough spot. You see our
problem?"

Maxie looked away, deep in thought. Silvana knew
he was working the count. She was confident he would do the right thing.
Finally, he looked up at her. "Take a look at Phil Harvey," he said.

Silvana and Vargas both were stunned by that one.

"That's right," Maxie said. "Phil
Harvey. Him and his brother never got along, not even when they were kids.
That's what Bob used to tell me. This shopping center started out as Phil's
baby, or so he thought. He didn't want to think of himself as a front. You
know, a front for Bob."

"So it was Bob's project all along?"
Vargas said.

Maxie nodded. "From the get-go. When Bob
called me for help with the unions and with the Hialeah Building Department,
Phil felt like he'd been tossed overboard. Like he was fucking useless. Then
Bob had the financing set up, financing from people he knew, where he was
getting a healthy kickback. Phil wasn't getting shit. That was when Phil knew the
real score."

"So now with Bob gone, what happens to the
financing?" said Vargas.

"It goes with him," Maxie said.
"But I've got a new source of money for Phil. They're ready to put up the
whole amount."

"Ha!" Silvana said. "New source?
You and your drug dealer friends?"

"No, no, this is for real. These guys are
totally legit."

"Legit?" said Vargas. "Where the
fuck do
you
know them from,
then?"

Maxie threw a hard glare at Vargas. "A friend
of a friend, okay? A European investment company. You don't believe me, wait
till the paperwork goes down and check 'em out."

Silvana said, "So how does this relate to
Phil Harvey?"

"He wanted to go that route. It was more
straight-arrow, easier for him to live with. Bob wanted to stay with his crony
friends and take the kickbacks." Maxie pulled out a cigar. After clipping
and carefully lighting it, he said, "I'm tellin' you, I had nothing to do
with the Bob Harvey hit. I'm not saying for sure Phil did it. I'm just saying
you can look him over. You got plenty of reason to like him for it."

Silvana looked at Vargas. He nodded once. She
said, "Okay, we'll look into it. But we better find something concrete
that puts him in the headlights."

"You will," he said.

Alicia

Miami, Florida

Thursday, April 5, 2012

11:10 AM

T
HE BLONDE
LYING NEXT TO
ALICIA
LOPEZ
woke her up by eating her pussy. Alicia had told her to do
that last night after she had fucked this girl for hours with a strap-on,
leaving herself exhausted. The only way to function after such strenuous sex,
she knew, was to start the next day off with a hearty muff dive.

And this was the girl to do it. She was Brazilian,
and brother, if there was one thing Alicia liked better than sex with her
husband, it was sex with Brazilian hookers. They were the best-looking girls on
the fucking planet, and she'd never known anyone in all her thirty-one years
more skilled at giving head than these stunning creatures from south of the
Equator. No other girls — or men — could touch them. Well … there
were a couple of Cuban girls here in Miami who could give the Brazilians a run
for their money, and she wasn't letting pride in her own Cuban heritage show
whenever those memories crossed her mind. And of course, Nick, her husband,
knew all the right buttons to push. But he was the only man who ever really got
through to her. Also, she recalled that Texas girl who stood out, but overall,
she thought, Brazil turns out the best ones by far. Very consistent. Something
in the water down there or something.

The bed was round, eight feet in diameter. Alicia
awoke to find herself somewhere in the middle of it, away from the semicircular
headboard, the girl's thick blonde hair swirling around her head while she
performed her splendid oral service. She writhed in complete synch with the
Brazilian girl who was now working harder, lifting her higher, higher, until
Alicia's final long, loud groan filled the sunny room.

It took her a minute to catch her breath. The
sheets were damp and she was covered in sweat, but the air in her condo was
running full blast and she knew she would cool down quickly.

She looked down at the girl through deep-set eyes.
God, she was gorgeous! The girl smiled at her, showing two rows of perfect,
gleaming white teeth, further enhanced by her butterscotch complexion.

She asked Alicia in Portuguese-accented Spanish,
"Can I do a line?"

Alicia motioned toward the coffee table on the
other side of the bedroom, between the four leather sling chairs. There was a
little pile of coke on the glass top, next to it a razor blade. The stuff was
always there. She never did any of it herself, though, having been raised on
Scarface
and Commandment Number One:
Don't get high on your own supply
. Not
that she ever sold it or anything. Well, not since way back when, anyway. That
wasn't her thing at all. The shit was just there for the bitches.

The blonde walked naked to the table and cut
herself two slim lines.

That was one great goddamn movie,
Scarface
. She had the Twenty-Fifth
Anniversary Edition Blu-Ray version. Deleted scenes, a "making of" documentary,
all kinds of good stuff. She watched the whole thing about once every two or
three months. The first few years, she watched it for a sort of reverse
inspiration, to make sure she knew what
not
to do. Nowadays, though, she just liked to spot little details she missed in
all her other viewings. And she damn sure spotted something new every time out
— a clever line, an article of clothing worn by one of the characters, a sharp
camera angle — some little corner of the film that eluded her before.

But she did make sure she never got high, even
though since she went into laundering many years ago, she had no personal
supply. For that matter, she never did anything stronger than wine, or maybe an
occasional shot of single-malt whiskey, and even then, not much of that. No
coke, meth, not even marijuana. Not since she was a kid. You see some of these
guys coked up twenty-four seven, guys who oversee big organizations, who should
know better, for God's sake. It made her wonder how they ever got to where they
were in the first place.

She'd done a little business in Mexico a couple of
years ago, a one-time arrangement to hide some cash for a couple of big boys.
Ciudad Juárez it was, and those top two guys in the cartel were high all the
fucking time. That Juárez cartel is one gigantic goddamn organization, and
these guys, the guys who ran it, were slaves to their own fucking product. It
was unbelievable! That's what happens when you think you can snort coke all day
long and run a major operation like Juárez. You get so fucked up you can't
think clearly, you can't make decisions. And you
will
lose respect from those around you. Word gets out and pretty
soon, you're swallowing your own blood.

Look at Tony Montana. Look what happened to him!
By the end of the movie, when he was lying face down in that bloody pool, after
taking God knows how many bullets, he was so fucking zonked out on his own
shit, you didn't know whether he had more cocaine or lead inside him.

A year or so ago, Alicia heard those two Juárez
guys were found in a sitting position, opposite each other, their legs crossed
with their heads carefully placed upright on their laps, scalps missing.

She was not only keenly aware of the dangers of
doing drugs, but she had a vast, extensive pool of knowledge about the
incomprehensible sums of money that industry produced. This knowledge came
about — was fueled, actually — by her own insatiable curiosity.

Her understanding of the economics of the drug world had begun simmering
at a relatively early age, when she started selling coke. It was the money that
drew her to that world, of course. She didn't have any — nor did her
family — and she wanted it, just like all the other girls she knew.
Growing up poor and becoming hypnotized by the fabulous wealth displayed on the
television shows she watched at home, she naturally reached for anything that
sparkled. Trendy fashions, flashy cars, smooth and handsome men … she wanted
all of it. But it wasn't only the sheer accumulation of money that attracted
her. Her curious bone was tweaked by how all this money moves through the
system, how unimaginable sums are collected and processed by God knows who. She
used to think,
It's all got to go
somewhere. Where does it end up? And how does it get there?

Her first deal was the purchase of two marijuana joints when she was
fourteen. She sold one and made back her investment, then smoked the other one.
Immediately upon handing her hard-earned dollars to that guy on East Eighth
Avenue, she wondered what quantity he had originally bought in order to sell
her the two joints and still make money. Her mind traveled freely and tried to
conceive of how much he paid for it and to whom, and so on up the line.

In any case, she soon realized if she had sold both joints, she would
have made twice her investment. It was at that moment in her life, seventeen
years ago, that she stopped doing drugs.

≈ ≈ ≈

Still naked but now fully
alert, she organized her thoughts. There was one matter she needed to take care
of. She slithered up the bed to the nightstand and picked up her cell phone.
Scrolling through the directory, she came to the number she wanted and punched
it in.

Two rings later: "Desi, it's me.
Alicia."

"Alicia! Hey, girl!
¿Cómo estás? ¿Qué pasó?
"

"I'm great,
hermano
. How about you?"

He said, "Aw, I'm doin' great too. I been
…"

Desi went on a little about his current
activities, in code of course, in case there was bad company on the line.
Alicia looked over at the coffee table. The hooker's blonde hair hung down in
front of her as she dipped her head to snort the powder. "That's good,
Desi," she said. "That's real good. Listen, I'd like to see you
today. Can you meet me in about an hour? We can have a little lunch."

"Lunch? Sure thing! It'll be great to see
you!"

"Yeah, it will. Meet me at the Tavern at the
Hotel Croydon. It's in Miami Beach. Collins Avenue between 37th and 38th
Streets."

"Got it," Desi said.

"Okay. Let's make it about twelve-thirty, all
right?"

"
Cómo
no, hermana. A las doce y media.
"

Alicia mumbled, "See you then," and
ended the call.

She leaped out of bed just as the blonde was
returning, her youthful, Brazilian breasts leading the way. Temptation lit up
this girl's eyes, visible ideas about keeping Alicia in bed a while longer, but
she put her hands on the girl's shoulders and spun her around. Told her to
throw her clothes on and leave. She gave her a sharp spank on the ass as
punctuation and the girl squealed, but then she smiled and did as she was told.

As Alicia hustled her out the bedroom door, the
girl awkwardly pulled her dress over her nakedness. When she was gone, Alicia
went over to a pair of sliding glass doors in the bedroom and slid them open,
stepping nude out onto the balcony. Forty-three floors above the city, which
was now bathed in sunlight and wholly engaged for the day. Her elbows rested on
the balcony rail as she took in the spectacular view. This high, the traffic
noise fell away to a mere whisper, even after echoing in the canyon-like walls
of nearby skyscrapers. But she still felt the activity all the way up here,
felt the restless motion of Miami, the pulse that throbbed day and night like a
salsa rhythm and made this city like no other.

Turning to her left, she took in the soothing calm
of the expansive sea, bound only by the line of the horizon. A few sailboats
drifted along here and there and Alicia thought about the people on those
boats.
Who are they? What are they doing
now? At this very moment. Where do they come from?
Boats weren't her thing
— she never cared for them, thought they were big money pits, but she did
wonder for a second or two if any cocaine was on those boats crossing her line
of vision. She chuckled and supposed there might well be. And there was no
question that part of the money they spent on whatever cocaine there was found
its way to her and eventually helped pay for this condo on the forty-third
floor. This condo whose balcony she was standing on watching their boat pass by
with cocaine on board.

There was a sort of lovely symmetry about that,
she thought, as she turned her gaze back to the cityscape.

A couple of blocks away, a man stood on the
balcony of a taller building, maybe ten stories higher than she was. He looked
down at her well-toned naked body and waved. She could see a broad smile
underneath messed-up black hair. He looked pretty good — maybe late
thirties, although it was hard to tell from this distance. Something about him
gave off a kind of sensation she liked, drawing a chuckle out of her. He vibed,
"I see what I want and I'm going to step up and take it."

That's how she always was. Want, take. The taking
part doesn't always have to be by force, though. There are lots of ways to take
something, ways in which the person who's giving it up doesn't even have to
know you're taking it. Alicia's dark, angular face and natural charisma did a
lot of the work for her. Force was often unnecessary.

Another chuckle and she waved back.
I wonder what his story is,
she thought.
Does he have a woman inside that apartment,
maybe showering or something? What does he do? For a living, I mean. How did he
wind up in that classy building?

After a couple of deep breaths of the cool ocean
air, she turned and went back inside. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the
man was still there on his balcony, still looking in her direction, throwing her
a final wave.

She showered and dressed from the selection of
clothes she kept at this condo. Nothing too fancy, this was only lunch with
Desi. She selected the right outfit and tossed it on. Finally, she went into
the living room. Her bodyguard stood when she entered.

She said, "
Berto, el carro. Cinco minutos.
"

"
Sí,
jefa
," Berto replied, and he went to get the car.

Five minutes later, Alicia stepped out of the
lobby of her building. The car was waiting in the porte-cochère, motor softly
humming. Berto got out and came around to the passenger side. He opened the
rear door and she slid in. A Bentley Mulsanne, nearly three hundred grand worth
of luxury automobile. A rolling comfort zone if ever there was one. Many cows
and trees perished in the making of the car's interior, but right now, Alicia
was only interested in the fourteen speakers that surrounded her as she slipped
a salsa CD into the drive and sat back.

"Hotel Croydon, Miami Beach," she told
Berto, who dropped it into gear and they glided away to the frantic sounds of
Los Jefes.