Authors: Tim Dorsey
THE NEXT MORNING
S
ix
A.M
.
Dawn on the way. But still half-dark.
Headlights from pickup trucks bounded onto the construction site of a new downtown Miami condo.
The trucks stopped and doors opened.
Work boots, lunch boxes, hard hats.
A foreman began unfurling blueprints, then heard a sound that wasn’t supposed to be there. He looked back at his crew. “Someone leave that thing running?”
Seven
A.M.
Crime scene tape, police, TV cameras.
The head of homicide arrived. “What have we got here?”
“One twisted bastard,” said the case detective. “Nobody hot-wires these things.”
They watched as paramedics passed what was left of Miguel out the hatch of a cement mixer.
“I’ve heard of death by a thousand cuts,” said the detective. “This was death by ten thousand blunt traumas. All minor enough to let him last for hours.”
“Wouldn’t he just roll around and get dizzy?”
“Most people might think, but the foreman explained that these trucks have blunt stirring blades to mix the cement—much like laundry dryers—and once the victim kept tripping and couldn’t get up, those blades continued lifting and tumbling him over and over.
“Who would do such a thing, let alone think it up?”
Eight
A.M.
South of Miami. A Delta 88 sat in the driveway of a nicely kept hacienda with barrel tiles.
Only one person home.
The shower was running. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s hung in the soap caddy. A diluted pink mixture of water and blood swirled down the drain.
The leg wound had been a pass-through in the meaty part of the thigh, and another bullet had just grazed the right shoulder. That left two in his favored arm.
Guillermo screamed.
A twisted piece of lead bounced on a rubber shower mat. Guillermo hung tweezers from the caddy and grabbed the bottle of sour mash. Some went in his mouth, the rest over an inelegantly gouged-out wound. Another scream.
He set the bottle back and grabbed the tweezers again.
Drain water turned darker red.
Nine
A.M.
Ice cubes fell in a crystal rocks glass, followed by two fingers of Jack Daniel’s. A first-aid kit lay open. Two pools of spilled whiskey on the dining room table and more dripping off Guillermo’s fingertips from the limp arm hanging by his side.
He cringed and gently eased himself into a chair at the table, gauze bandages bleeding through. Guillermo unwrapped the worst and tossed the wad in a trash basket next to his seat.
He reached in the first-aid kit and took another slug of whiskey, then tore off a fresh stretch of white tape with his teeth.
A Mercedes pulled up the driveway. The front door opened. Juanita hummed merrily, a bakery sack in her arms. The foyer filled with the aroma of just-out-of-the-oven Cuban bread. Then she smelled liquor.
Juanita came around the corner to the dining room, only seeing his back and the bottle. Uncharacteristic.
“Guillermo?” She slowly set the bag on a counter. “Are you . . . drunk?”
“Not yet.”
“Guillermo, I’m surprised . . .” She took a few more steps. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”
The bottle poured. “Ramirez double-crossed us.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“Right.”
“You’re in no condition.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll take care of this Ramirez. Almost makes me cry what he did to you.”
“No, I mean, ‘right,’ as in he’s already dead.”
She put down the phone. “You handled Ramirez?”
A boozy nod.
She patted him on the head. “Good boy . . . What about Andy?”
He shook his head. “There were like a million of ’em. I was ambushed.”
“You didn’t take care of Andy?”
“No, but I’ll find him.”
Another pat. “You rest.” She grabbed the phone again. “I’ll send someone else.”
“Who?”
She opened her mouth to say “Pedro,” then stopped. She thought of Raul. Stopped again. Miguel. A longer pause. “Is anyone left at all?”
“Just me.”
Juanita took a seat at the table and stared down in thought.
SIMULTANEOUSLY
A ’73 Challenger cruised south on Biscayne Boulevard.
Just Serge and Andy.
They crossed the intersection for the causeway to Bal Harbor. A skyline came into view.
“Holy smokes,” said Serge. “There’s more every time I come here, and that’s usually only months apart.”
Andy was in a funk.
“Andy”—shaking his arm—“are you looking?”
“Yeah, I’m looking. More what?”
“Condos under construction.” Serge stopped at a red light next to the Miami Shores Country Club. “They’re all over the dang place, blotting out the sun.”
“I thought those were office buildings.” Andy stared out the window at towering high-rises, most with unfinished upper floors. “They’re putting condos downtown?”
“Now they are. Almost outnumbering businesses.” His eyes moved north to south. “. . . Nine, ten, eleven . . .”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting construction cranes. I do it every time I’m here . . . thirteen, fourteen, now fifteen! Amazing. I still remember one of the local TV anchors joking that the city’s official bird should be the crane.”
“Fifteen are getting built at the same time?”
“Probably a couple less,” said Serge. “They glutted the market in the housing crisis. I’m betting work’s stalled on a few from lack of pre-sales. That’s how the Elbo Room was saved.” He aimed his camcorder out the windshield at the skyline.
“Serge, what are you doing?”
“I’m always in awe at the scale of those things.”
“How can you be so flip at a time like this? Talking about buildings and cranes when Guillermo is still loose.”
“You were just talking about them, too.”
“I was distracted.”
“Promised I’d take care of this.” Serge turned on the radio, Randy Newman. “That’s where we’re going now.”
Andy bolted up straight. “We’re driving to Guillermo?”
“Heck no.”
“Then where are we going?”
“Research. Putting an end to something requires thorough preparation and a killer sound track.”
“Why do I have to come?”
“
. . . Gee, I love Miami. . .
”
“After what you pulled yesterday, we’re joined at the hip.” Serge clicked off his video camera. “In the meantime, no sense fretting between stops. Enjoy the beautiful day!”
Andy pounded the dashboard in whining desperation. “Please . . .”
“It’s almost over,” said Serge. “Just a little longer.”
“It
is
over. Ramirez was the traitor. So now you can take me in.”
“Sometimes there’s more than one. We have to cut the snake off at the head. Then it doesn’t matter how many they got inside . . . Look! One of the cranes is starting to move!”
“
. . . every building’s so pretty and white . . .
”
“Serge!”
“Shhhhhh!” He grabbed his camcorder again. “It’s incredible how those things work. Ever watch
Modern Marvels?
”
“No!”
“Check out that tiny guy fifty stories up in the glassed-in control cab. He’s just moving little levers . . .”—Serge panned down to a massive steel beam leaving the ground—“. . . yet able to lift tons of metal hundreds of feet into the air and place it precisely where he wants . . .”
The Challenger continued south along the waterfront, past the American Airlines Arena, Freedom Tower, Bayside Market. Serge made a right on Flagler and drove through a district of small shops with Spanish signs.
“Where are we now?” asked Andy.
“Here.” Serge parked on the street.
“The library?”
“Not just
any
library. The main Miami-Dade.“ Serge ran up steps.”Hurry! Crime-fighting’s loads of fun!”
“Wait up!” Andy chased Serge across a vast, elevated brick courtyard, where people in business suits ate takeout lunch on shaded benches.
Serge knew right where to go. In minutes, he was sitting at a projector, reading negative images of a fifteen-year-old
Herald.
It was a Wednesday, final street edition.
Andy dragged over a chair. “Why are we reading newspapers?”
“You’re too young to remember . . .”—Serge turned the advance knob; Thursday, Friday—“. . . but back then, Madre was legendary, like the bogeyman. Everyone knew what she was up to, but five levels of law enforcement could never touch her. Witnesses were petrified, and those who did talk ended up in the Miami River, not all in one place.”
“How does that help us?”
“There was a big raid with her brothers. And when arrests make the paper, there’s an address.” Serge turned the knob again. Frontpage story with four-column photo: Two men and a woman being led handcuffed from a south county hacienda. “Here we go. And I lucked out. Not only the address, but a photo of the house . . . Man, she looks young there.”
“But what are the odds she’s still living at the same place after all these years?”
“You’d be surprised.” Serge dropped coins in a slot and pressed a button. A copy spit from a printer. “These old families don’t move.”
Serge slid the folded page into a pocket and left the microfilm room. They waited at the elevators.
“Hold on a second,” said Andy.
“What is it?”
He ran back toward the microfilm room. “I forgot something.”
“I’ll be here.”
Andy went inside, stuck a spool back on the machine and fed coins in a slot.
I-95
A
’73 Challen ger drove back toward Fort Lauderdale. Serge avoided interstates in most situations, except when time was critical.
“Time’s critical!”
“What are you planning?” asked Andy.
“Can’t tell you,” said Serge. “Sorry, but it’s for your own good. You’d become an accessory.”
“They killed my mom.”
“I know.”
“I should be the one.”
“Andy, don’t throw your life away.” Serge took the Broward Boulevard exit as an Amtrak pulled into a station by the overpass. “Outcome will be the same.”
“But I want revenge myself.”
“It pains me to see this change.” They crossed the bridge to the beach. “You’re one of the good guys. Leave this to me and forget about it before these assholes turn you into something you’re not.”
“Can I at least be there? For closure?”
“
Closure?
“ said Serge.”Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. But yes, you can come along. Only if you agree to remain way back.”
“Will I be able to see from there?”
“I have a funny feeling everyone will be able to see.”
The Challenger reached A1A and turned south.
BAHIA CABANA
Serge ran back in the room with a bucket of ice and jammed two water bottles inside.
City and Country passed a joint and watched more tube.
Serge pulled a map from his suitcase and laid it down next to the microfilm printout from the library.
“We’re going to dinner now?” asked Country.
“What?” Serge combed streets.
“You swore to take us to this great place,” said City.
“When?”
“Fifty times. Pick one,” said Country. “And after your last lie, you gave your word it would be today.”
“I’m working.”
“You always say that.”
“This time I really am working.” Serge circled a spot on the map in ballpoint. “Something big’s come up.”
“We’re tired of being stuck in this room.”
“Why aren’t you taking advantage of the pool?” asked Serge.
“Because we were waiting to go to dinner!” said Country.
“We fucked up and believed you,” said City. “This is just like when you ditched us on the side of the road.”
“Except worse,” said Country. “It’s a perpetual ditch. Popping in and out. Stringing us along with promises.”
“I promise.” Serge rummaged through his hanging toiletry bag. “Just let me wrap this up.”
“You’re doing it again,” said City. “At least last time we could get on with our lives.”
Serge dug through all the pockets, then started again with the first.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Where are my car keys?”
“Andy took ’em.”
Serge’s head swung. “Andy’s not in the room?”
“Duh!”
“But I told him to stay put,” said Serge. “Where’d he go?”
“He took your keys, so I guess somewhere else.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
City took a hit. “What’s the big deal?”
“Oh, Andy, Andy, not again!”
“Again what?”
“When did he leave?”
“Just before you came back from getting ice,” said Country. “Surprised you didn’t bump into him in the hall.”
Serge grabbed his map off the dresser and ran out.
“When are we going to dinner?”
Students in the next room flipped quarters into shot glasses.
Serge charged through the door. “Need to borrow your car.”
“Here . . .”
Keys flew across the room and broke a mirror.
Serge jumped in a station wagon and raced south.
SOUTH OF MIAMI
A ’73 Challenger rolled down a quiet residential street with burglar bars and neglected lawns.
Andy slowed, reading mailbox numbers. He reached what he was looking for and stopped at the curb. A microfilm printout in his lap, the old
Herald
photo of the arrest. Andy looked up at the hacienda. New roof and trees, but not much else had changed. A Delta 88 and a late-model Mercedes sat out front.
He drove off.
The Challenger parked seven blocks away at a baseball field with a rusted Pepsi scoreboard. Standard getaway vehicle placement from the movies. Andy set out on foot. The Glock slipped from his waistband into his underwear. He stopped to pull it up.
The front door of a hacienda opened. Juanita strolled to the driveway. A Mercedes backed out.
There’d been better days.
Guillermo had disappointed her again. Not only that, but Serge had depleted her crew. To recruit reinforcements, she now was compelled to do what she hadn’t in years. But Juanita could still drive to the jail in her sleep.
Five blocks down the road: “What’s this?”
She drove past a young man trotting up the sidewalk the other way, glancing around suspiciously.
Juanita looked in the rearview. A gun suddenly fell from Andy’s belt. He quickly grabbed it off a lawn.
Juanita smiled. Obviously green, but already into the life. The day’s fortune had just changed. She made a wide U-turn in a vacant intersection.
Andy jogged through another cross street, holding his stomach. Three blocks to go.
A Mercedes pulled alongside. The passenger window went down. “Need a lift?”
Andy almost came out of his skin.
“No!”
“You sure? It’s awfully hot out today. Your shirt’s soaked through.”
From nerves.
“I’m fine.”
“You look hungry.”
Andy and the car simultaneously slowed until they both stopped.
Juanita leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door. “Why don’t you get in?”
Andy stared at the car and it fell into place. From the hacienda’s driveway. Either incredibly good luck or terribly bad. The perfect opportunity for him to get the drop. Or, if he’d been recognized, then they had the drop. He didn’t give a shit anymore.
“Okay, thanks.”
Andy climbed in. Air-conditioning chilled his sweat. He recognized the way the car was going.
“I’m Juanita, but all my boys call me Madre. What’s your name?”
“Bill. Billy.”
“Which is it?”
“Billy.”
Juanita smiled. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.” Andy’s heart pounded so hard now he was sure she could hear it. His hand slowly fell toward his belt, in case . . .
Juanita stared straight ahead. “What’s the gun for?”
His heart almost blew. “What gun?”
Another smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell who?”
“You were running.” She laughed. “And looking more than guilty. Where’d you just come from?”
“Nothing . . . I mean nowhere.”
“Have you been a bad boy today?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Relax, I don’t like the police either.”
“Why do you think I don’t like the police?”
She patted his knee. “I’ve raised a lot of boys.”
Andy, thinking what might await him at the house: “How many boys do you have?”
“Why don’t I make you lunch?”
The Mercedes pulled up a driveway.
“Nice place,” said Andy.
Juanita turned and looked into his eyes with decades of maternal manipulation. “Would you like a job?”
“What kind of job?”
“Pretty much the same as you’re doing now. Except better pay. And less sloppy. You won’t get caught.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever I say.” She opened her door. “Are you obedient?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me Madre.”
Serge barreled down South Dixie Highway, timing green lights. Ignoring red.
“God, just this one favor . . .”
Juanita led Andy through the front door.
“Guillermo,” she called from the foyer, hanging her purse on a hook. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
They came around the corner into the dining room.
Guillermo’s back was to them, head sagging. The clear part of the Jack Daniel’s bottle now much bigger than the brown.
Juanita turned to Andy. “Don’t get the wrong idea. He just had an accident, in a lot of pain.”
“Not anymore,” said Guillermo, reaching for the sour mash.
They walked around the table into his view.
“Guillermo,” said Juanita. “I’d like you to meet Billy . . . Billy, Guillermo.”
“Yo.” Guillermo was now pulling straight from the bottle.
“Billy,” said Juanita. “Let me see your gun.”
Moment of truth. The pistol was his only ace. Unarmed, he’d be helpless. A calculation.
He pulled it from his shirt. “Here you go.”
Juanita popped the clip and racked the slide. A bullet ejected into the air and bounced across the wooden floor. She replaced the clip and racked again.
“Glock. Nice one.” She handed it back. “You said you were obedient?”
Andy nodded.
Juanita looked toward Guillermo. “Shoot him.”