Setup on Front Street (13 page)

"What do you mean by that?"

"I say 'semi-legitimate' because,
while they're licensed to do that kind of business, they hardly ever do any.
They began operations exactly three days before Sullivan opened the
account."

 
"Where you going with this?"

He smiled. "Right up Whitney's
ass."

He finished off his coffee.

Then he said, "So I call Tallahassee.
The Florida Department of Business and Professional Regulation. They look into
Adams Securities. It's a hundred percent owned by a company called WA Financial
Group."

"So what?"

"So this. WA Financial Group is a
dummy corporation. It doesn't do anything except serve as a buffer between
Adams Securities and the real owner."

"The real owner?"

"The real owner, the owner of WA
Financial Group, and therefore of Adams Securities, is none other than
Whitney-Adams Enterprises, Incorporated, a holding company which also happens
to own all of Whitney's other businesses. Adams, it turns out, was his first
wife's maiden name. She must've been some great pussy, huh?"

"What happened to the four hundred
Gs?"

"Until just recently, nothing special.
It went into a larger fund and from there into a few commercial real estate
buys, strictly routine, and Sullivan even saw a little income from it. Then,
about a month before you got out, Adams Securities pulled a little high-finance
sleight-of-hand with debt-shifting and shell companies and a few other tricks.
When the smoke cleared, the money was gone."

"Gone right into Whitney's
pocket," I said.

"No doubt."

With a slightly flamboyant arm motion,
Ryder crushed out his cigarette, signaling that the curtain had fallen.

I got up from the table.

"Thanks for the data."

"Hey, wait a second. I go to a shitload
of trouble and that's all I get? Just a quick thanks?"

I kept walking toward the door, but turned
back to say, "No. You also get the check. And my thanks for the
coffee."

YALE
Lando told me my ID would be ready on the twelfth, which was tomorrow. But I
thought I'd drop by just in case he got it together early.

First, though, I had to eat; I was starved.
After leaving the Waffle House, I made sure I wasn't being tailed, then went
down to a little spot on White Street, one of the DeLima joints, for a
leisurely Cuban breakfast.

Around nine o'clock, I caught Yale outside
his gate, just as he was hurrying into his house.

"Yo, Yale!" I hollered from my
car.

He turned around and saw me.

"Hey, man! Come on in!" He rushed
up to unlock his door.

"C'mere, Yale!"

He ignored me as he ran inside. I climbed
out of Norma's Toyota and followed him through the gate, up the steps, into the
house.

His house
was nice and cool, providing refuge from the intensity of the sun. I relaxed
immediately while he frantically flipped on the TV. After a couple of channel
changes, he located his target.

A guy
with white hair talking to another guy across a table.

"This is Phil Donahue. Y'ever see this
show?"

I shook my head.

"This guy's great. He has all these
guests on, you know, where they talk about current events and big issues and
shit. Really interesting. He gets these people to open up to him and then,
bam
,
he nails 'em."

After that little dramatic explanation, I
thought he was ready to get down to business.

But instead, "Oh, and the audience! He
even lets the audience ask questions. And people can phone in from home and ask
questions. It's really great. I tried phoning in a couple of times, but I could
never get through. Sometimes it's more lighthearted, but usually it's heavy
shit like this. Events. And issues."

I took a seat on his dilapidated couch. We
watched the show for a few minutes while Donahue held up a book which the other
guy had apparently written. Donahue did most of the talking.

Then, as they broke for a commercial, Yale
said, "I'll bet I know why you're here."

"You got something for me?"

"You're in luck, Don Roy. It's all
ready to go."

He went into the other room, the one where
only he is allowed to go, and came out with a small envelope.

He sat next to me on the couch and peered
inside the envelope. This was all for maximum effect, of course, his own little
drama played out for my benefit. I half expected to see a glittering light flow
out of the envelope and illuminate his face.

Finally, he took out three items.

"Here's your passport."

I checked it out as he carefully placed it
in my hand. It looked fantastic, with its thick blue cover and the number
punched out across the top. All perfectly legal, just like he'd told me. I
flipped through it. It looked just like the real thing, with my photo stamped
into it under the name of Roy Davis.

He handed
me another item.

"Driver's
license."

I studied
it closely because a driver's license was more likely to be handled than a
passport.

He was about to explain something to me
when his head snapped back toward the TV.

Donahue raised his voice to his guest. They
were arguing. From the audience's rowdy mood, they were clearly on Donahue's
side, applauding everything he said.

"Yes, Phil!"
cried Yale. "Don't take any shit from that right-wing motherfucker!"

He turned to face me, but only halfway, so
he could still catch the action on the TV.

"You hear this? This fucking guy
doesn't want the Brady Bill to go through. Shit, even Reagan is behind it! What
fucking century is this guy living in, anyway?
Let him have it, Phil!"

Thankfully, they went to another
commercial.

Yale calmed down, then returned his
attention to the driver's license. He pointed to the long number printed on it.

"This's where so many fakes fall apart,"
he said. "Each one of those figures means something, something the
authorities use to tell if it's the real thing. For instance, the letter D
right there at the beginning of the number. That's the first initial of the
last name: Davis. If a cop sees that and it doesn't match up, you're
toast."

He pulled out the last item.

"And here's your plastic."

He laid it on the coffee table. A Visa
card, under the name of Charles Brockaway, complete with expiration date and
everything.

I looked on the back. The signature area
was blank.

Yale said, "Don't sign it right away.
Practice the signature a few times so you can get comfortable with it, so it'll
look natural. That way, it'll be easier to match it when you sign for a
purchase."

I nodded.

"I can pick up the second card on the
twenty-fifth? That right?"

"Check. Now, there's the minor matter
of the money."

He returned his attention to the TV while I
counted out twenty-one hundred dollars. As I gave it to him, he put it in the
pocket of his cutoffs without counting it. Donahue and the other guy were
getting into it again.

I patted Yale on the shoulder and left.

I
went to a pay phone to call Norma at her mother's up on Big Coppitt.

I told her I was on my way up there, then
asked how would she like to run up to Miami. She thought it was a swell idea.
So did I. Now that I was running plastic, I needed to buy some new clothes, but
I didn't want to chance any buys in Key West.

Like Yale said, it's a small town.

Anyway, I'd been wearing the same three pairs
of pants and a couple of shirts and guayaberas since I'd gotten out. I was
tired of doing all that washing every two or three days, so I picked her up and
we headed up the Keys for the mainland.

We got up there around mid-afternoon. She
picked out a shopping mall, so we went in, looking for a couple of clothing
stores.

I bought a bunch of stuff, including a few
nice things. I'd never had many nice clothes — I really was never too
interested in them, you know? — but Norma insisted. I figured if she wanted
me to look nice, then why shouldn't I?

I wanted to return the favor so we went to
a women's store, so she could go crazy. She'd had even less her whole life than
I ever did, and I really wanted to make things right for her.

If we were going to have a life together,
then I figured I ought to do what I could for her, while I could do it.

It was beginning to dawn on me that the
square life was just around the corner. I mean, I couldn't live on the con
forever, not if I wanted to be with Norma. She was a wonderful woman,
everything I ever hoped to have.

I owed her that much.

To get on the straight road.

Besides, there wasn't much action in Key
West, anyway. That's why I'd left for Vegas before. So how long would it be
this time before I'd run out of scams again?

No, Key West was … well … it was our home.
So if Norma was willing to take a chance on me, then I didn't want her worrying
every day of her life about whether or not I was going to prison.

Especially with the likes of Ortega out
there, just itching to nail me for one thing or another.

We had a nice dinner that night in a cute
little place on the ocean over in Miami Beach. Nothing real fancy, but we did
get a bottle of wine.

Neither of us had ever done that before and
it felt kind of strange. You know, where the guy brings the bottle out and
pours a little and all that ceremonial shit. We really didn't know what to do,
but the guy helped us with it, so it worked out okay.

It was a pretty nice little evening, and we
both agreed we'd do it again sometime.

Afterward, we went to a hotel to spend the
night, and what a night it was!

WE
stayed up in Miami another day, heading back on Saturday, the thirteenth.

I dropped Norma off at her mother's
trailer, reminding both of them not to answer the door for anyone until I gave
the all-clear. Norma's mother had moved to Big Coppitt Key a month or so ago,
after having lived on Stock Island her whole life, so I was pretty sure no one
knew where she was.

But with Vasiliev after her, I couldn't get
overconfident.

Back in my room, I gathered up my piece and
the muffler, along with a couple of extra clips, which I'd bought at a real gun
shop up in Miami. Then I got into the car for a quick trip across the island to
the Ocean Walk apartments.

There it was, in the parking lot right by
the stairwell to Norma's building, the dark blue Land Rover I'd seen the other
day. I circled around the building, parked on the other side, then got out and
made my way back around on foot, approaching it from behind.

As I crept closer to the Land Rover, I saw
there was no one sitting inside. I glimpsed the plates. Broward County.

I went into the building, taking the back
stairs up to Norma's floor. When I got to her apartment, I gently put my ear to
her door. I heard the TV going.

I stayed still for a few minutes.
Eventually, I heard voices in the room, speaking in a foreign language. I
slowly attached the silencer to the end of my automatic. Then I made a fist and
pounded on the door a couple of times.

The TV stopped immediately. After a little
rapid talk in their language, one of them soon stood on the other side of the
door.

"Who is it?" he asked in accented
English.

I stood to one side of the door with my gun
in one hand, the other hand covering the peephole.

"Police officers!" I said in my
best cop voice. "Open up!"

After a
moment's pause, in which he apparently tried to look through the peephole, he
said, "I can't see you through little hole in door."

"Open up! Police! Open up
now!"

"What do you want? Get away from
hole!"

Then I said in a lower voice, but so he
could still hear me, "Twenty-one-fifty to headquarters. Officers need
assistance. Ocean Walk apartments, building —"

"Okay, okay!" he shouted.
"You don't need more cops! I open up."

And he unbolted the door, but didn't
unchain it. When he inched it open to peek through, I came bursting through it
with all of my weight, breaking the chain and sending him reeling against the
far wall. The revolver fell from his hand on impact.

His pal came running in from the living
room, gun in hand, but I fired first. Two quiet pops found the mark, as he
collapsed to the floor with small red stains across the center of his white
shirt.

The guy who answered the door was still
down, but recovered now. He reached for his piece on the floor. I put a heavy
foot on his hand before he could get to it.

With the business end of my silencer
touching his temple, I said, "What's your name, friend?"

"Alexei. Please,
ay-yy-y!
Please
move foot!"

"Yeah, in a minute. But first, Alexei,
what's this all about?

I ground my heel into the back of his hand.
I felt one of the little bones crack. He yelped.

"I said,
what's this all about?
"

He gasped and groaned. I pushed the
silencer harder against his head.

"It's gonna get a lot worse if you
don't tell me right now."

"Is Whitney! Whitney and Yuri!"
he said through his gasps. "Is all I know! I do what Yuri tells me! Is all
I know!"

"Where's Yuri? Where is he?"

"He fly back to Lauderdale the other
day. He have business."

"When's he coming back?"

I stepped a little harder on his broken
hand, sending major hurt all through his body.

"He —
oh-hh
— he
come back tomorrow! Please! Move foot!
Please!"

I gave one more full-weight heel-grind into
his hand, breaking another bone or two.

He screamed, then I let up.

As I bent down to pick up his gun, he
groaned again while he tenderly cradled his injured hand, glad for the relief.

I pulled
him to his feet, then made him help me clean up the blood from the floor by his
buddy's corpse. We wrapped the body in Norma's bedspread before carrying it
downstairs.

Once we
got to the ground floor, I fished through his pockets, finding the Land Rover
key. The Rover wasn't far away, but I went and got it. As soon as I brought it
over by the stairwell, we loaded the body inside.

I grabbed
Alexei by his collar. With all the upper body force I could muster, I shoved
him up against the side of the car.

"You tell Yuri to leave my woman
alone," I snarled, "or he's gonna
wish
he died as easily as your friend here. You understand me,
Alexei?"

He moved his head up and down, fear all
over his face.

"If Yuri wants me, I'll be around. But
I mean it, if he fucks with my woman, I'll make him eat his own balls! You got
it?"

I pushed him away without waiting for an
answer, then headed back to my car.