Setup on Front Street (2 page)

He went back to his cigarette.

When it came to brass balls, I had to hand
it to him. Here I was twice his size, plenty hot, and ready to tear him apart.
But he was still jacking with me.

I reached across the desk, grabbing him by
his silk shirt.

"Open the safe."

"Hey, what —"

"Open the fucking safe!"

I poised a big fist in front of his face. I
saw the beginnings of a quiver. About time.

He got up. I led him by the shirt over to
the safe. He opened it, revealing a wad of cash in there, what looked like
about seven or eight grand, along with a couple of passports. I took the cash.

"Hey, wait a second! That's —"

"Let's call this the vig," I
hissed, shoving him up against the wall. I got right in his face.

"Today's Wednesday. You got one week
to come up with my money, the full load. You better know I mean business,
Sully. You don't deliver and a couple of Cubans are gonna come calling on you
one night, and the next morning you're in the fucking breakfast sausage up in
Little Havana. Got it?"

He got it. His fear-filled eyes said so. No
more of his cockiness.

"Y-yeah, Don Roy. I got it. You'll get
the money. You'll get it."

I finally released his shirt with one final
push. His back hit the wall.

"Remember, the full load by next
Wednesday, or else. And no bullshit stories."

I headed downstairs, out the back door.

The night was still warm but no longer hot.
It felt good. Back here behind the building, the Duval Street racket was
muffled.

I reached under my guayabera, fingering the
scar on my side. I thought about the nigger who shanked me two years ago
because I turned the channel on the rec room TV. That's how they do it in
there. No warning, no nothing. The minute I turned off his cartoons, he came up
behind me and let me have it.

I dropped him in secret last week, just a
couple of days before I got processed out.

I had one more stop to make. I decided I
would make it, then go back to my nice cool room to watch TV.

Whatever shows I wanted.

UP
the street to Keys Tees, one of a few dozen T-shirt ripoff joints on Duval
Street. These places were supposedly owned by various foreign businessmen,
mostly Israelis. Keys Tees was no different.

Avi Abraham ran it. I never knew his real
name, but whatever it was, you can be sure it was near the top of Israel's Most
Wanted list.

Like all the rest of those places, the
bright lights inside Keys Tees spilled out to the crowded sidewalk. Hip new
music blared its way outside through speakers hanging in the doorway.

The blasting AC dropped the temperature
about fifteen degrees as I stepped through the wide-open door. Racks crammed
with merchandise crowded the floor. T-shirts covered virtually every square
inch of wall space, all of them sporting iron-on decals.

There were no customers, as usual.

Nine grand a month rent, with no business
on a nice evening in high season? You tell me.

Avi was back at the register, reading a
magazine. He never saw me come in.

I hid behind a rack of overpriced tank tops
just inside the front door. The music was quieter inside than out on the
street.

"Immigration!" I shouted.
"Freeze!"

He dropped the magazine as he reflexively
jumped off his stool. Quickly, he ducked behind the counter, half-expecting
gunfire.

I stepped out into the open, unable to hold
back a laugh.

"Hey, nothing to worry about, man.
Just tell your Russian bosses you got deported."

Avi slowly straightened up, breaking out into
a wide grin as he saw me.

"Donny! Donny! Ah, you're back!"
he said in his familiar thick accent. He was the only guy who I let call me
Donny.

He came around the counter with open arms
and we embraced. I was a little taller than he was, but he was bigger around in
the middle. His hair, once jet-black, was now thinning a little, showing slim
strips of gray. Dark, expressive eyes threw me a welcome look, and his smile
was wide and genuine.

After the hug, with my big shoulders in his
small hands, he checked me out, up and down.

"Ah, you look fine, my boy. When did
you get out?"

"Three days ago. I just got back in
town."

"Must feel good to be back home.
Nevada so dry. I been there—Vegas, Reno. I don't like it. Is desert. Like
Israel."

"Yeah, except no Israelis."

He laughed. "Is good to see you! So
good!"

He finally released my shoulders. A couple
of customers wandered in, checking out his selection of Hawaiian shirts. They
stayed near the front of the store. He ignored them.

"You know, Donny, things are changing
here. Is different from when you left."

"How so?"

"Cuba is going to open up. Very soon.
The Soviet Union has disappeared. I'm sure you heard about that." I
nodded. "They do not send any more billions of dollars to Castro. He
cannot survive without it." I could tell he was getting worked up over
this prospect.

He went on. "They say he will be gone
by next year, ninety-three at the very latest."

"I've heard about that. What do you
care about it?"

"Donny, Donny! We are so close to
Cuba. Only ninety miles from Havana itself! When it opens up, we will be a big
— how do you say it? Point of — of —"

"Jumping-off point," I said.

"Yes, that is it! Jumping-off point.
The place where everyone will leave from. You know, everyone will want to go
there, it is so beautiful. I have seen it myself. Two years ago, I was in
Havana and Varadero. Beautiful beaches, great food, and
ay
! The women!
You have never seen such women!"

I tried to calm him down.

"Avi, you forget I was born and raised
here. I've been across. I know all about it."

"Ah, yes. Of course. But anyway, the
tourist business will multiply here. Double! Triple! Maybe more. Everybody is
going to make a lot of money."

"Well," I said, "I'm sure
you'll get your share of it." I patted him on the shoulder. "And the
Russians'll have to buy bigger gym bags."

I knew the Russian mobsters were drowning
in cash since the USSR folded up, and a certain percentage of it was being
funneled through places like this one, transported weekly in gym bags from
their outpost in Fort Lauderdale.

A quick smile flashed across Avi's face.
"So, what can I do for you?"

I caught his eyes narrowing a little.
Always the merchant. Getting straight to the point.

I steered him back to the rear counter,
away from the customers, lowering my voice to a murmur.

"I need a piece."

His face registered no reaction.

"What kind?"

"Something relatively small. Maybe a
.22 semi-auto. With a muffler."

"That is no problem, Donny. For you,
anything. Now when do you need it?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? So soon. Could be difficult.
What time you want it tomorrow?"

He glanced toward the front to see the
customers leaving.

"Probably around noon."

"Is very short notice, I don't know …"

Listen to this guy.
"I don't know
.
"

I fucking knew. I knew he was setting me
up. Ex-con out on parole, very risky transaction, very expensive. I could just
hear him giving me his line of bullshit.

"Avi, I need it tomorrow. Now can you
help me or not?"

"Is
not much time, but …well …" Then he grinned again while grabbing my
shoulders. "Donny, you come by here at noon tomorrow, I have it for you,
okay?"

My nod indicated that I appreciated the
great effort and sacrifice he was about to make for me.

Another hug and I was out the door.

Duval Street foot traffic was brisk, with
lots of cars cruising up and down. I had no doubt Avi would come through for
me. I probably could've lined up a weapon somewhere else if I'd been willing to
wait, but I wasn't. So I had to go through him.

I don't like doing business with Israelis
unless I have to.

But I had a debt to collect, and in my
position...well, you get the idea.

MY
bus lag kicked in. I knew I shouldn't've taken that nap, because I stayed up
till way after two.

Despite that, I woke up at seven, just like
I'd been forced to do every morning in prison. But I realized I was in a double
bed, not a lower bunk. Since I didn't hear any of the usual monkey calls or
painful screams, I rolled right over, drifting back to sleep.

By the time I woke up again, it was
ten-thirty and I was fine.

Breakfast was at a little egg joint I
remembered over on Truman. It was a ways away, but I didn't mind the walk. I
wanted to get back into the Key West pace of life.

I took it nice and slow down Elizabeth, a
residential street, looking at all the stuff I hadn't seen for so long. The
solid houses of Key West's Old Town, each with their own long-held secrets,
loomed along both sides of the street all the way to the end.

Lush greenery covered the yards, while
occasional splashes of red and peach bougainvillea got all the green up on its
feet. People sat rocking on porch chairs beneath slow-turning ceiling fans,
while soft radio music flowed here and there through a couple of open windows.
A few bicycles gliding up and down the street were the only traffic. The sun
promised a long, warm day, and because it was March, there was practically no
chance of rain.

My hometown looked good in the late
morning. I didn't know how much I'd missed it.

I stopped at a low-hanging frangipani tree,
then tugged at one of the limbs, pulling the soft pink buds to my nose. The
fragrance was overpowering, sending me back six or seven years, right before I
left for Vegas. Back to Norma, back to all those promises we made to each
other, back to when her perfumed hair would make me dizzy, when I kissed her
for the last time …

Norma … Norma …

≈≈≈

After breakfast, I stepped out of the eatery into the heat. In
only about one hour, the temperature had shot right up — it'll do that
here. As I moved along Truman toward downtown, tiny rivulets of sweat broke out
along the back of my neck.

Duval Street at noon. A regular fucking
circus.

The college crowd was in town for spring
break, with the boys riding shirtless up and down the street on their rented
mopeds, swerving, beeping, whooping. Behind them on the moped seats, girls in
bikinis clung to their waists, probably looking forward to an afternoon of
Jello shots.

I was glad when I finally got to Keys Tees
because I knew the AC would cool me down fast. It did, while I took note of the
eight or ten customers browsing around different parts of the store.

Cruise ship passenger types, all of them. A
couple of Avi's relatives worked the floor: a foxy girl with flowing black hair
and a slim young guy with the required beard stubble spoke to the suckers in
accented English, pushing them to buy decals for their shirts, which would
conveniently jack up the price by about triple.

Whoever dreamed up this racket was a stone
genius.

A tall, rawboned guy with a yellow crewcut
came out of the back, definitely not Israeli, but Avi followed him out as far
as the counter. I made him as a Russian.

He carried a gym bag which, by the way it
swung in his grip, looked empty. He left without any goodbyes. Avi saw me, then
beckoned me to the back.

The back room was a hodgepodge of clutter.
Clothing all over the place, on hangers, in boxes, on shelves, on the floor,
even piled up on the folding picnic table along the side wall. The table served
as a desk, while somewhere underneath all of the T-shirts was a telephone,
along with other office-type shit.

Avi pushed some of the clothes aside as we
took seats in the plastic chairs at the table. Sidelong, I glimpsed the safe,
thinking about the Russian and the empty gym bag. It must've been cash delivery
day.

A Burger King sack sat on the table behind
a pile of T-shirts. Avi pulled it toward himself, simultaneously reaching
inside. From under the french fries, he pulled a Browning .22 semiautomatic.

"They don't get colder than this,
Donny," he said under his breath. "Never been fired."

He held it gingerly in both hands, like it
was a jar of nitro about to go off, while his small, black eyes constantly
darted over his shoulder.

Taking it from him, I looked it over. It
looked good. I jacked the slide, noting the smooth and easy feel. It had good
balance, and was nice and light.

"Ammo?"

"Yes, of course."

He reached back in the bag and pulled out
two full magazines along with a box of shells and a silencer, all wrapped in a
Burger King wrapper.

I loaded the gun and put the extra mag in
my pocket. I rewrapped the silencer and the shell box, returning it to the bag
under the Whopper. The heater went into my rear waistband.

"How much?"

"Donny, you know is very hard to get a
— a virgin piece like this one. And you want it so quickly. I had to call
my —"

"Skip the bullshit, Avi. How
much?"

"Normally, I would charge fifteen
hundred, Donny, because you know is crime to sell gun to a convicted felon. But
for you, I make it one thousand even."

What a crock of shit. He could've gotten a
surface-to-air missile launcher if I'd wanted one, and in half the time. As it
was, he probably got the .22 for free from the Russian who just left, so now he
wants me to pour on the gravy.

Fuck it.

The bazaar was now open.

"Four hundred," I said.
"That's all it's worth."

"Four hundred? Donny, this is a fine
weapon, never been fired. It cost me more than that. I can maybe go down to
eight-fifty. But no lower."

"Shit, for eight-fifty I could buy two
of these anywhere else. Plus a couple of hundred rounds to go with them. I'll
give you five because you got it for me overnight."

"Donny, please. I take big chance
selling you this gun. I could go to prison. My business would close! My family —"

"Okay, okay, spare me the tears.
Five-fifty and that's it. And before you say yes, I want you to remember who it
was back in eighty-four who shook down the owner of that building in the next
block. Remember? When he swore he'd never sell it to you people? And now you
own it, right? And what do you suppose is in that building right now? One of
your T-shirt operations! Can you say 'thank you'?"

"All right, Donny," he sighed,
looking downcast. "Five-fifty. But I paid you to do that job."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

He did pay me for that job, all right. Ten
thousand, in fact, so the owner would cave and sell him the building for three
hundred big ones, about twice what it was worth. Everybody made out on the
deal. Me, the owner, but especially Avi and the Russians, who are now running
millions through that location.

As I reached into my pocket, I carefully
pulled out just a few of the C-notes I glommed off Sully last night. I didn't
want Avi to know I was quite so flush. Once the mini-roll was in plain sight, I
peeled off six while I fanned out the rest, making sure he saw I only had three
or four left. He pulled fifty change out of his own pocket, mumbling some
comment about being careful.

I put the burger bag under my arm and
split.