The Victim (35 page)

“
Wouldn’t you like to find out who Lola Munson was with?”

CHAPTER 36

Coke Dog’s eyes watched the road, glazed over from some sticky chronic, hidden beneath the razor-straight brim of his Pittsburgh Pirates hat. Not that he was a fan of the team; the black hat with the yellow letter P embroidered on it symbolized both the name of his gang—Paid In Full—as well as their colors.

He slowed to a stop at the light. The black Chevy Caprice rode high above the road, sitting on twenty-six-inch chrome rims. Wiz Khalifa blasted from the speakers. The trunk rattled as the subwoofer pulsed in sync with the bass.

Coke Dog shot a quick glance in each direction. No five-O in sight. The light changed and he proceeded, the Brickell skyline coming into view as he rolled eastbound on Northwest 8th. He was outside of Liberty City—P.I.F.’s turf. He reached down, his fingertips grazing the crosshatched grip of the Sig .380 tucked beneath the driver’s seat. They were getting into Overtown and he knew how recognizable his car was.

A dealer was sitting on a black milk crate, manning the corner of Northwest 8th and 5th Avenue in front of a liquor store with
ebt accepted!
printed on a handmade sign in the window. His wrist-thick dreadlocks looked like horns. When he spotted the Caprice he straight up booked it, reaching deep into his pockets and throwing handfuls of little baggies into a ficus hedge. Coke Dog laughed, watching him trying to run in his saggy jeans. Damn fool probably thought he was going to be the victim of a drug rip. Coke Dog wasn’t interested in this guy, but he made a mental note to come back and check on him later. Drug dealers were territorial and if he could evade P.I.F. today, he’d come back tomorrow with renewed confidence.

Pig Pen slouched in the passenger seat, pinching the whistle tip of a Swisher Sweet, sucking down a monster hit. The cigar had been hollowed out and packed with some hydroponic weed. Pig Pen pursed his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke before passing it to Coke Dog.

Coke Dog shook his head, wiping off the wet whistle tip on his jeans. He gave his partner a side eye. Big fucker, fat dripping off his six-five frame, a double chin that hung like a cradle of flab. Four years ago he was an all-state offensive tackle at nationally ranked powerhouse Northwestern High School. He had even signed a letter of intent with the University of Georgia until four nine-millimeter rounds put an end to that dream, the aftermath of some choice words with two Gangster Disciples at a cousin’s birthday party.

He was well over three hundred pounds at the time of the shooting, a physique that doctors believed saved his life. The trajectories of the bullets slowed as they bored into the jellied mass that encased his midsection. One of the rounds blew right through the front of his left knee, shattering the kneecap like a dropped plate and tearing everything to shit on the way out.

Coke Dog took a few quick pulls on the blunt before passing it back to Pig Pen. Smoke filled the car like dense fog. He turned right onto 3rd, thinking of the instructions Quincy had given him over the phone. All P.I.F. members knew that Miami-Dade Corrections recorded all jail calls so they spoke in a cryptic slang only they could understand. Gang investigators would scratch their heads listening to the call but Coke Dog knew exactly what his orders were.

They rolled by homes that all looked the same—chipped stucco, strewn with mildew stains from overflowing rain gutters; front windows were covered with wrought-iron burglar bars. The whirr of I-95 was like a never-ending windstorm.

He got out onto Flagler and slowed his speed, lowered the window and tossed the blunt out onto the street. They were downtown now, the turf of bankers and lawyers. Well-dressed, well-educated whites and Hispanics. The scariest people of all.

But Coke Dog wasn’t the least bit nervous. Neither was Pig Pen, a lazy grin pasted on his face. His stoned eyes were mere slits.

Neither fear nor consequence crossed either of their minds. This was the life they had chosen. Their allegiance to P.I.F. took precedence over all. God, country, family—fuck them all. You claim P.I.F. then you’d better be down for yours.

Coke Dog nodded toward the building on the corner of Brickell and 12th. Pig Pen looked up and nodded back, acknowledging that was the one.

Coke Dog had no reservations. Usually they rolled four deep when it was time to do business but two would be enough to handle this bitch-ass punk.

CHAPTER 37

Begrudgingly, Jack agreed to a one-day trip to Arizona. Since the mid-nineties, Jack had been involved in the timesharing of private jets. Considering the fact that he routinely accepted federal cases across the country, he had reasoned that the $200,000 annual fee for fifty flight hours a year—which covered maintenance, fuel, and pilots—was more cost-effective in the long run. After all, it was tax-deductible and far more convenient. The timesharing company kept a small fleet at Opa-locka Airport. All he had to do was call four hours in advance and a jet would be waiting for him. No clearing security checkpoints, no lines, nothing. A taxi could literally drive right on to the tarmac and drop him off.

“
I only get fifty hours a year, kiddo, and the wife’s riding me pretty hard…and I don’t mean that in a good way. Got grandkids to visit in Colorado, her sister in New Jersey. I can’t be wasting valuable flight time on account of the fact that you wanna play Encyclopedia Brown.”

Anton assured him that one day would be enough, at the very least just to reach out to Earl Simpson to fill in the blanks created by his absence at trial.

“
I’m just saying, Jack. Same place, same time. If it were Los Angeles or New York or Miami, then I’d say okay. But we’re talking small town USA. At least let’s check to see if it’s more than a coincidence. Besides. I could really use a day away.”

The requisite calendar call on the demand for speedy trial was scheduled to take place in two days. Those hearings were required, in part so that the judge could properly advise the defendant about what they were giving up by demanding a jury trial within sixty days. On a felony punishable by life, Anton knew Morales wouldn’t pull any punches. Speedy trial screw-ups were a surefire way to get reversed.

Anton packed his briefcase and agreed to meet Jack at Opa-locka Airport at six-thirty the following morning. The flight to Scottsdale Airport, where the private jets flew in, would take about four hours. Jack reminded Anton that they would be flying in a Cessna Citation, which could reach speeds of up to 530 knots.

“
It’s built for speed,” he bragged. “We’ll make it in three and a half, tops.”

With Phoenix two hours behind, it would be somewhere between seven and eight local time when they landed. They could rent a car, get down to Tempe to see Earl Simpson, and be wheels up by mid-afternoon at the latest.

He’d just have to tell Gina he’d be working late.

He cringed at the thought of lying to her yet again. What scared him the most was how easy it had become.

Yessenia was printing out pleadings in a few unrelated cases that Anton intended to drop off at the clerk’s office when he went to court for Bryan Avery’s calendar call. He grabbed a pen from his briefcase and signed the originals so that she could make copies for the state and for his own files.

The pen was a silver Mont Blanc that Gina had given to him as a gift when he went private. It was sleek and smooth in his hands.
anton l. mackey, esq.
was engraved along the side.

He put the cap on his pen and clipped it to his shirt pocket.

He rode the elevator down to the lobby and headed out the back entrance. The valet stand was closed on account of construction to the parking garage. He had parked a few blocks away. It was seventy-five and sunny with the warmth of the setting sun barely leveling out the coolness of the early evening.

He savored the peace and quiet, if only for the short walk back to his car.

***

That weed must have had some sherm in it.

Goddamn
.

Coke Dog felt like Superman. PCP had that effect on him.

They sat in the Caprice, parked alongside a swale, watching pedestrian traffic filter off of Brickell and onto Miami Avenue. Pig Pen was slumped in the passenger seat, his pumpkin-sized head sinking into the headrest. His belly lapped over his jeans like a ripe watermelon.

Coke Dog lowered the window an inch, clearing out the lingering smoke. He saw him about a hundred yards a way, holding a briefcase, trudging along the sidewalk.

He elbowed Pig Pen. “Yo, that him?”

Pig Pen shifted his body as he tried to worm his meaty hand into his pocket. He retrieved a crinkled sheet of paper. Coke Dog smoothed it out against the center console and studied it. It was a printout from the homepage of the attorney’s website. His eyes moved from the page to the man in the suit carrying the briefcase. From the page, to the man.

“
Can you tell from here?” Pig Pen asked. His voice was soft and smooth, unfit for a three hundred-fifty-pound man.

“
Shit, I can’t tell. All them white boys look the same.”

They watched as he aimed a key fob at a black Lexus ES 350 parked by a meter at the curb. The parking lights flashed and he opened the rear door, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on the hook. He got into the front seat and sped away.

Coke Dog shifted into drive and stayed a good distance behind.
Fuck that fool, no matter who he is. Take his wallet, whatever he’s got in that briefcase, and his ride.
They knew a chop shop down south that would pay them five hundred cash on the spot for a car like that. No doubt the thing would be stripped for parts. Or maybe the VIN number would be swapped out so the car could be resold or used as a switch car if a few of the homies wanted to knock off a jewelry store.

One hand on the wheel, Coke Dog reached for the Sig on the floor mat. When he got to the light, he pulled back the slide, loading a round into the chamber.

***

Flagler was a parking lot. Anton squeezed into the next lane, aggressively pulling in while the driver behind him laid on the horn. Anton looked in his rearview. The driver was giving him the finger.

Rush hour in Miami.

He accelerated through the narrow streets of downtown, slaloming around slower moving traffic. At the Dade County Courthouse, he hung a quick right and proceeded into Overtown. Traffic was all but gone, most of the after-work commuters too scared to venture into this neighborhood. Other than the reassurance of the .38 in his glove box, Anton had represented enough clients there to know that he had a pass. He turned left onto 14th and headed under the overpass. A collection of homeless people meandered through the darkness, the rush of traffic above them, filling the air like white noise. Trash filled the gutters, clung to the lattice of the chain-link fence that edged the sidewalk. As his headlights swept across the street, their eyes reflected little glints like bats in a cave. He drove slowly, cautiously, in the event one of them had passed out in the street. A man slept on a bus bench, curled in a fetal ball beneath a few unfolded sections of the
Herald
. A rail-thin woman pushed a Publix cart full of crushed aluminum cans. A distraction of sorts, until he heard his bumper crunch and his car jerked forward.

***

He parked at the curb and got out to survey the damage. It was his fault; he was driving too slowly.

The homeless gathered around in a wide circle, jostling for position as the well-dressed white lawyer got out of his Lexus and walked around to the back. The car that had rear-ended him was parked, a Chevy Caprice with oversized chrome rims that must have cost more than the car itself.

Through the tinted windshield he could make out a Pittsburgh Pirates hat. He knew they were P.I.F. boys, Quincy Arrington’s crew.

“
You guys okay?”

The driver stepped out. He was short and ran thin but he was lean. He wore baggy jeans and a white wifebeater that clung to his flat midsection. His sinewy arms were covered in gang tattoos. He had the roughhewn knuckles of a street fighter.