Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (5 page)

“I’ll do it right now.”

Miami is overwhelming. The city seems to breathe to a Latin beat. Spanish and English languages reside side by side, neither one dominant, but the bilingual residents have an advantage. Creole is making a dent, and the Haitian immigrants are becoming a force in the essentially Cuban political landscape. The beaches are sandy and topless, perhaps the only place in America where nudity is legally condoned. An international city acting like what it is; a vibrant, multilingual, multicultural mecca. I loved the place.

But often there is a dark side to beauty, and Miami’s splendor was tempered by criminal shadows. Crime was endemic in Miami. There were as many ethnic gangs as there were ethnic communities. Contrary to many of our politicians’ beliefs, the Hispanics are not monolithic. The Cubans, Puerto Ricans, Guatemalans, Mexicans, Hondurans, Venezuelans, Peruvians, and others have all spawned their own subcultures, replete with gangs and crime as well as good works and concerned citizens. The Haitians compete with African-Americans, the Cubans with the Puerto Ricans, and the Anglos with everyone else.

I had to insinuate myself into this melting pot of criminality, because Max Banchori was a player there. Not big-time, but not on the fringes either. My research told me that Banchori had been active in the Miami crime scene for more than fifty years. He was in his seventies now and had assumed a position as an elder statesman. He’d been arrested a number of times, but never convicted. His crimes ranged from numbers to drugs to prostitution and one murder charge. Nothing ever stuck.

I drove into the city late on Tuesday. I’d stopped in Bradenton to pick up my new .38 and turned south on I-75. I followed Alligator Alley
across the Glades, the long rays of the sun reaching from behind me, bathing the water and saw grass in vibrant colors. I was still in the rental car from the Sarasota airport. I wanted to keep a low profile, because I was about to kill another man, and I’d just as soon nobody found out.

I stopped at the first mailbox I came to. I had the hard drive in an envelope along with a typed note that simply said, “Check the .45 against IBIS.” The priority mail package was addressed to the lead detective at the Seminole County Sheriff’s Department, which had jurisdiction in Fern Park. I dropped it in the box. I’d wiped the hard drive with a paper towel to clear it of any fingerprints, and had been careful not to touch the envelope with my bare hands.

IBIS is the acronym for “Integrated Ballistics Identification System,” a database maintained by the federal government. Police agencies are able to input the ballistics information on a bullet and can then match it to other shootings.

Chardone had the perfect cover for his murderous enterprise; a New York City police officer. I knew that the heat was turned up anytime a cop was killed, but I thought the fire might go out of the investigation if local law enforcement determined that the dead man was a contract killer and a child sexual predator. I was sure that IBIS would turn up other murders committed by Chardone.

I knew a Miami-Dade detective named Carl Merritt. We’d worked together the year before on a case involving a friend of mine. I called him as I drove into downtown Miami.

“Matt,” said Carl. “Good to hear from you. How are things on the west coast?”

“Almost as good as South Florida. You doing okay?”

“Sure am. But I’ve got the feeling you’re calling for a reason other than passing the time of day.”

“I am. Do you know anything about a man named Max Banchori?”

“Piece of shit. A lot of cops have spent their careers trying to nail that bastard. We got nothing.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s been a major player in this area for fifty years or so. He’s semi-retired now, but we think he’s involved in contract killings.”

“How so?”

“I can’t give you all the details. A lot of this is stuff we pick up from informants, but can’t prove. It falls into an area of classified information that we accumulate, and hope one day it’ll lead us to a conviction.”

“Tell me what you can.”

“Banchori seems to work as some sort of a broker. People contract with him to put a hit on somebody, and Banchori farms it out to a franchisee. Old Max sets the fee and then pays the shooter a part of it. It’s pretty clean, and it gives the shooter another layer of insulation.”

“If I wanted to talk to Banchori, how would I go about it?”

“You wouldn’t Matt. He’s a dangerous man. Stay the hell away from him.”

“Can’t do that, Carl. I’ve got to see him.”

“What’s this about?”

“Unfortunately, there’re also things I can’t tell you. I’m working on a case and you know how lawyer confidentiality works. But I need to talk to him.” I hated lying to a good man, but Carl knew I was a lawyer. I’d been trying a murder case when we’d met before, and to be fair, I was sort of working on a case now.

“There’s a bar over on the beach that’s controlled by one of the crime syndicates. It’s called The Hunt Club. Word on the street is that if you want to see Banchori, you talk to a bartender named Mickey. He sets up the meetings.”

“Thanks, Carl. Stay well.”

“Be careful, Matt. Be very careful.” He hung up.

If bad guys controlled The Hunt Club, I was sure there’d be a surveillance system. They’d want a record of who came calling. I didn’t want my face on a videotape that the police, or friends of Banchori’s, would surely look at after the coldhearted bastard went to the great beyond.

I stopped at a convenience store that still had a pay phone hanging on its front wall. I was in a poor section of Miami, and I guessed that not many people had cell phones. Either that, or the drug dealers used the pay phone so they couldn’t be tracked by their cell phones.

The phone book was in tatters, pages and parts of pages torn out. If somebody needed a phone number, they just took the page. No sense in writing it down. Luckily, the Yellow Pages were for the most part intact. I found what I was looking for in Coconut Grove, an upscale neighborhood south of downtown. I also wrote down the address for The Hunt Club.

The costume shop was located on a small street off Grand Avenue in the Grove. It catered to the actors and makeup artists who worked the theaters in the area. I found a parking place and went into the shop. As I opened the door, I heard a tinkling sound. It was an old-fashioned bell suspended above the entrance. The door brushed against a lever causing the bell to sound. There were makeup kits, wigs, and fake mustaches and eyebrows arranged in a glass case that was set against one wall, each with a price tag. A price list was tacked to the wall over the counter. The prices charged made the place seem very professional indeed.

An elderly man came through the curtained doorway from what I assumed was a workroom. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a mustache. I need one that looks real and matches my hair color.”

“Come into the light.” He motioned me over to the counter where an overhead fixture provided illumination. He looked closely at my head and disappeared into the back. He reappeared in moments carrying a tray of mustaches.

“Here,” he said, “these are made of real human hair.” He pulled one from its perch in the tray and held it up to my head. He nodded. “This one will do nicely.”

“Can you put it on for me? I’ve never done this, and I want to surprise some old friends.”

“Sure. Come on back.”

We went into his back room, and he had me sit before a dresser with a mirror that had lighted bulbs all along its periphery. He placed the fake mustache on my lip and asked me to hold it. It was the right color and full enough to cover my entire upper lip. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought it made me look dashing. “That’s good,” I said.

“Okay. Let’s put some spirit gum on your lip to hold the mustache.” He squeezed the adhesive out of a tube onto a cotton swab and gently rubbed it onto my lip. He stood back to look at his handiwork. “We need to let that set for a minute,” he said.

In a few moments he took the mustache and held it firmly against my lip. He stepped back, and I saw a different man staring at me in the mirror. It wasn’t much of a change, but it was enough that it might throw off any hunters looking for me.

The old man gave me a tube of spirit gum remover and handwrote a bill. I paid in cash and left the shop. I stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a pair of mirrored sunglasses, the kind aviators wear, a Miami Dolphin ball cap, an extra large green and white Dolphin windbreaker, a belt four sizes too large for me, and a souvenir Dolphin throw pillow.

I drove across the bridge onto Miami Beach just as the sun was winking out on the western horizon. A large yacht, its superstructure ablaze in lights, was moving under the bridge, pointed south toward Lower Biscayne Bay. A cruise ship was putting out to sea from Government Cut. The buildings of South Beach were coming alive with lights, bringing a sense of gaiety and the promise of a night of revelry in the clubs that lined the streets.

I found a parking place on the street about two blocks from The Hunt Club. I used the new belt to strap the pillow to my waist and put the windbreaker on over it. I was wearing jeans, the legs pulled over cowboy boots I’d brought along for this purpose. The high heels added about two inches to my height. I put on the sunglasses and ball cap, pulled the brim low over my eyes, and walked toward the bar. It was dusk, but half the people I saw were still wearing shades. I caught a reflected glimpse of myself in a store window that had not yet been lighted. I looked like an overweight Dolphin fan out on the town. I sure didn’t look like Matt Royal of Longboat Key.

The bar was not large, but it spilled out onto the sidewalk, its tables and chairs full of the beautiful people. Waiters in tuxedos rushed about filling drink orders. Large sliding glass doors were open to the interior.

I wound my way through the closely packed tables and reached the bar. A crush of people stood two or three deep, loudly ordering drinks from the three bartenders, two of whom were young women. The male bartender worked his way to the end of the bar near where I was standing. He wore black pants, a formal pleated shirt with a wingtip collar and French cuffs, a black bow tie, a cummerbund, and large gold cufflinks. He was about forty years old, six feet tall, and wiry. His head was shaved bald. He had a name tag pinned to his shirt that said, “Mickey.”

I held up a twenty-dollar bill and waved him over. He leaned across the bar. “Can I help you?” he asked.

I handed him the bill. “I need to see Max Banchori.”

“Who?”

“Tell him it’s business. Tell him I’m a friend of Rudy Chardone’s.”

“Tell who?”

“Bring me a Miller Lite. I’m going to find a table and drink the beer. If Mr. Banchori wants to do business, point me out to him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll get you the beer.”

He brought me a cold long-neck bottle, and I handed him another twenty, waving off any change. I found a table being vacated by a man in a thousand-dollar suit and a woman in a halter top and hip-hugger shorts. I sat and sipped my beer.

I was just about finished when a man wearing designer jeans and a
designer tee shirt took a seat at my table. He was large and muscled, a body builder who regularly worked out with weights. He was wearing flip-flops, probably also designer, although I didn’t look that closely. He had a fruity looking drink in his hand, some sort of rum concoction, I thought.

“Why do you want to see Mr. Banchori?”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind he does.”

“Be more specific.”

“Do you know Rudy Chardone?”

“No.”

“Michael Rupert?”

“No.”

“They’re in the kind of business I need to talk to Mr. Banchori about.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wally Shirra.”

“Like the astronaut?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“Right.”

“I still need to speak with Mr. Banchori.”

“Stay here,” he said, and got up and walked outside, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

He was back in five minutes. “Come with me,” he said, and I followed him out the door.

The man was walking at a fast pace down the sidewalk, dodging the diners who were seated haphazardly at outdoor tables that spewed out of the restaurants and bars along Ocean Drive. I hurried to catch up.

“Where’re we going?” I asked, as I came up beside him.

“Mr. Banchori keeps a suite in a hotel in the next block. We’ll see him there.”

We crossed a street and moved to the middle of the block. One of the old hotels, done up in the art deco style of the 1930s, crowded the sidewalk. The place had been restored some years before, but must have recently had another facelift. It shined in the night air. We walked up two steps and entered the double doors.

The lobby was small, a registration desk taking up one corner of the room. The art deco theme dominated the area. The furniture, fixtures, floor tile, and drapes were right out of the 1930s. I followed my guide to the back of the lobby and waited while he summoned an elevator. We rode to the top floor, walked down a hall, and entered the suite. More art deco.

An elderly white-haired man rose from the sofa. He was wearing a gray suit, complete with vest, white shirt, a red foulard tie, and oxblood tasseled loafers. He was smoking a cigarette, and ashes had fallen onto the front of his vest. He held a clear drink in his left hand, gin probably, over ice. He had a long face, wrinkled beyond his years, and his blue eyes were bloodshot. His nose was large and sported three moles.

He walked toward me, hand outstretched. I stuck my hand out and felt someone grab me from behind. He pulled my arms back, his arms locked into mine. It was like being handcuffed behind your back, except the muscled arms of my guide were holding me above the elbows. The
old man came forward, raised his hand, and slapped me across the face. He backhanded me and then slapped me again. My aviator shades and hat flew off and hit the floor.