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Summer 1986 OCB jumps ahead to Season 3 (before Down for the Count) Enrique Mendoza looked at Pasqual and snorted. “He’s late. He’s not off to a good start.” Pasqual grinned. “Rest easy, Ricky. They say The Bat is never on time for anything. Ever. It’s part of his charm, or so they say. Personally I think it’s to keep his enemies off balance.” “And how many of those does he have? I’d like to know what kind of fleas we’ll come up with if we lie down with this dog.” “The usual. Depending on prices the Haitians either love him or hate him. Same with the Dominicans. I think it’s the Columbians he has the most bad blood with, mainly because they want in on the Dominican trade.” “We’ll agree on that, at least.” Enrique shifted, resting his elbow on the bar as he turned so he could see the door. “I suppose that’s why he wanted to meet in Little Haiti?” “He’s got a girl here, too, I think.” “Of course he does.” “And here he comes now.” Enrique gave the man coming through the door a quick glance. A neck draped with one gold chain too many. Dark glasses almost hanging off his nose. Some sort of hat that might have once been a fedora. The Bat radiated punk even before he opened his mouth, an impression solidified by a whiney voice pitched just a shade too high to be comfortable. “Pasqual! My man! I see you find my home away from home. And you bring a guest.” He stuck out his hand. “They call me…” “The Bat. Yes, I know. Call me Ricky.” “Ricky! Yeah…I dig it. Just like Ricky Ricardo.” He leaned against the bar and his demeanor changed like someone flipped a switch. “So Pasqual tells me you’re looking for weight.” “Yes. Pick up only. We handle delivery.” “Cool. Boats make me seasick, and only the glory hound Columbians use planes. I can supply no problem. Once you take possession it’s all on you.” “Just how we like it.” Enrique smiled to hide his growing annoyance. “What weight are we talking? I don’t like to promise what I can’t deliver.” “Unlike the damned Columbians. One deal with them is one too many. We won’t need more than fifty at any given time, but the supply has to be reliable and at least seventy percent pure. Anything less isn’t worth the gas it takes to move it.” “How often?” The Bat closed his eyes, and Enrique could imagine him running numbers in his head. “Every two weeks or so. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But we’d always give you a week’s notice and it’s not a problem if you can’t adjust in that time. But once every two weeks is our standard.” “I can’t bring it closer than sixty miles.” “Not a problem. We have boats.” Enrique gave Pasqual a short nod. “Look. We can run a smaller deal. Make sure things work the way we both like. Then start a regular thing. Can you manage ten kilos on short notice?” “Sure. If you can front thirty grand a key on the same notice. My product’s at least 75% pure. Every time.” Enrique ran his own numbers. It was a bit high, but he’d expected that with a handshake deal like this. “Sure. But we talk about the per kilo price later.” “Yeah. Volume is cheaper.” The Bat looked around. “I’ll need a couple of days to put it together. You got a pager number?” Enrique turned to Pasqual. “My man here will hook you up. Call when you’re ready to deal. We’ll meet again here at the same time the day you page.” He grinned. “Keeps things easy.” “Sure. And you have the money ready when we do the pickup. That also keeps things easy.” The Bat grinned and started to turn away. “Now I gotta fly. Talk at you soon.” Once the Peruvian left, Pasqual let out a long sigh. “That one…” “Is crazy. We already knew that. But his price seems fair for what we’re doing, and he’s not that Bolivian asshole.” “I know. His reputation is that he always delivers, but no one seems to know his actual source.” “Do me a favor, Pasqual. Look a bit deeper into this Bat and see if anything turns up. He might be just a little too good to be true.” “What should I look for?” “People getting arrested or disappearing after doing business with him.” Pasqual gave a low whistle. “You think he might be a cop?” “Not really, but I want to be sure. Miguel has his own reservations about dealing with him, and I want to have answers for the questions he’ll ask before setting up the money for the deal.” He raised a finger to signal for a drink. “But for now let’s drink to a successful meeting.” After thirty seconds on the phone, Miguel Mendoza could understand why Otis made infrequent use of the man who called himself Cash. “As in Cash Money, son. That’s what we’re talking about.” He’d used the line three times in those first thirty seconds, and Miguel was temped to send Esteban’s people after him just to shut him up. Still, he bit his tongue and listened to the proposal. He needed someone who could deal with reasonable amounts of money on short notice, and Cash seemed to be able to deliver. At least Otis Forsythe said he could. Cash had the rapid-fire delivery of a late night used car commercial. “Look…we do this right we both come out on top. I take ten percent. No more, no less. You get money back fresh from the laundry you can use however you want. I can’t move more than a hundred grand at one time, and it’s better if we only do that every couple weeks. I don’t move less than twenty g’s because it ain’t worth our time.” “Fair enough.” “Good. Your people drop the money by, you get it back the next day less the ten percent.” Cash had a cackle for a laugh. “And yeah, you gotta trust me. And I know better than to screw you, cause guys like you come after guys like me and chop us into little bits if we screw you. That sound about right?” “More or less. My people prefer blowtorches.” It wasn’t true, but he wanted to create confusion about his identity. “And I ain’t one for well-done meat. So we’re good. Look, you call when you need work and I get you a drop location. Pick up in the same spot twenty four hours later.” Miguel hit the button terminating the call and looked down at the speaker unit. “Did you get all that?” Behind him he could sense Esteban Morales nodding. “Yes. A nice touch with the blowtorch, by the way. I bet he thinks we’re Columbians now.” “He can think we’re Martians for all I care. So long as he can deliver.” “I have to ask…do we really need this one?” “Not on a regular basis, but for weeks when our profits are higher than normal, yes. Kind of like that Peruvian Enrique met with.” “The Bat? I know of him. Reliable with good product, but unpredictable in his personal habits. I think he uses too much of his own product.” There was a pause. “Have you heard more from Santos?” “Yes. He wants to come to Miami again. So we can meet face to face.” Miguel examined his fingernails. “I think he might suspect we’re looking for other suppliers.” “Not much he can say. Not after he screwed us. More than once.” “I know. He’ll try to play big secret policeman, even though his days in that line are long over.” Miguel chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m starting to think it might be time to send Santos a message of our own. Do nothing for now, though. I need to speak with Enrique first. Get a feel for our supply and the street demand. And we need to wait for that damned poet to get out of town. Too much police attention.” He knew they were at a delicate point…right on the verge of taking the next step but also lacking a secure base for that kind of move. “What’s your manpower situation?” “Better. We’re training some new men, and the ones we brought on before are finally starting to grow into their positions. Victor is still too hot-headed for me, but he has a tight crew and his boys respect him…” Miguel nodded, even though he’d stopped listening. He knew Esteban had enough men, even though about a quarter of them were still wet behind the ears. They’d do to keep Enrique’s boats and warehouses covered, which was what he needed right now. And he also knew Esteban had just enough hard men to send whatever kind of message he decided to send to Santos. The Keys were darker blobs against a dark night sky when Enrique cut the throttle on his Scarab and let the low craft glide into position. Beside him the Peruvian who called himself The Bat giggled. “Man…I could almost get used to one of these. You move so damned fast you ain’t got time to be seasick.” He shot a look at the small freighter. “Unlike that rusty piece of shit.” Behind them Pasqual chuckled. “He’s got a point, boss.” Enrique just nodded, reducing power even more until the boat was almost touching the rust-streaked hull of the tramp steaming flying the flag of some Caribbean island nation. He didn’t know which one and didn’t care. Turning, he nodded to the big Cuban with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Can you get the lines?” While the man went about his work with the quiet precision Enrique had come to expect from all the men his brother sent to run security, he thought about the meeting. It wasn’t much…the ten keys on one side and three hundred large on the other. But it was a start. The Peruvian started cackling again, and Enrique had to suppress a smile. I wonder what the idiot would do if I called him by his proper name? Oswaldo Cameron doesn’t have the same ring to it. It amazed him how much Miguel could dig up on short notice. Once the lines were made fast, the freighter lowered a rope ladder, Enrique grabbed one of the rungs and grinned. “Come on, Bat. Let’s go see this cargo of yours.” “Man, can’t they just drop it down?” “You want the money, yes? And you’re not coming back to shore with us. So that means the freighter or a swim.” Oswaldo’s upper lip started to curl into a snarl, and then he laughed. “You got a point, Ricky Ricardo! Grab that duffle and the test kits and let’s get this one.” Behind them Pasqual cleared his throat. “The Coast Guard likely has the freighter on radar, and they’ll get curious if it stops moving for too long.” Once on deck, Oswaldo had a muttered conversation with a greasy specimen Enrique guessed was either the captain or the master. The man shuffled off and came back with a black guy bag. Unzipping it, he dropped it on the deck at his feet and back up ten paces. Nodding, Enrique unzipped his own bag, showing Oswaldo the bundled bills. “You count while I test.” “Sure.” The Peruvian chuckled as he thumbed through the bundled stacks. Conscious of the Cuban standing so he could cover most of the freighter’s visible crew, Enrique took out a small knife and made slits in three random bags. One on top, one in the middle, and one on the bottom. Taking a small sample from each, he dropped it in one of the plastic test tubes, breaking it to release the chemicals and then checking the color against a test key. “Seventy five percent at least on each one.” “Yep. And your bag’s got the three hundred.” Oswaldo stuck out his hand. “Good doing business with you. Next time will be the real deal.” “Yes.” Zipping the bag at his feet, Enrique hefted it and started for the ladder, careful not to block the Cuban’s field of fire. “Pleasant journeys, Bat.” Pasqual was behind the wheel, and he sent the boat shooting away to the south as soon as the lines were free. “No reason for them to know where we’re really going,” he said with a grin. “That radar they’ve got’s good for ten, maybe twelve nautical miles, so I’ll run close to the islands and then take the old cigar route home.” “Good thinking.” Enrique sank back in the co-pilot’s chair, feeling the rush of the deal leaving his system. It was always the same…coming down after a good deal or a fast run. There was always the temptation to sample the product, anything to keep the rush alive. But he always resisted. He’d seen too many pilots crash and burn trying to chase that rush through their noses, and he didn’t want to join them. Pasqual’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Got something on radar, boss. Just on the edge, but it looks to be trying to plot an intercept.” “Damn. Coast Guard?” “Maybe. We’re right on the edge of one of their patrol routes.” Pasqual snorted. “The ones trying to intercept those poor bastards fleeing Castro’s apes. They’ve been running more regularly with that poet in town. What’s his name? Sandoval.” Enrique nodded, his head briefly silhouetted by the instrument panel lights. “Shift over to the alternate route. The one Jesus used to use. There should be enough coastal clutter there they’ll lose us. Assuming they have us on radar.” “I always assume if I can see them, they can see me.” “I wonder where you heard that?” Enrique chuckled as Pasqual tossed one of his stock phrases back at him. “But it’s true. We don’t need to attract any attention.” “What about The Bat?” “What about him? If his people aren’t clean, it’s not our problem. It was his damned idea to stop a freighter dead in the water in a high-traffic area. And this isn’t the first time he’s done this.” “Yeah. I just wish I could be there to see the little bastard squirm.” “Unless that’s what he wanted to see us do.” Enrique watched the radar screen, smiling as the dot faded and finally disappeared into the electronic gloom. “Maybe he delayed on purpose, to see how we’d handle the Coast Guard. If so, I almost hate to disappoint him.” He sank back in the seat again. “Let’s move. I’ll feel better once we’re back on shore and have the product moved.” “My man said the deal went according to plan.” Miguel nodded. “I heard the same thing from Enrique. You think Oswaldo lured the Coast Guard in on purpose?” Esteban shook his head. “No. It’s possible, I suppose, but I think he just lost track of time. Or didn’t know about the increased patrols. Careless, but from what I hear the freighter was clean. I don’t even think they were boarded.” “Good.” Miguel sat at the big desk in the study of the family home. He’d taken to holding more of his meetings in the dark paneled room. It felt…comfortable. More like a business instead of a hobby. No…it felt like an enterprise. “Did your people learn anything about this Cash?” Esteban chuckled. “Dixon Cash Walker. A minor stockbroker who has a brother-in-law who’s a major branch manager for Florida Trust Savings and Loan. Married, with one kid and a waitress he screws on the side. The brother-in-law might be doing her, too. He’s fairly reliable from what my people can determine. Hasn’t shorted any customers and usually deals with the Dominicans and some of the larger Puerto Rican outfits when he’s not washing money for the Dixie Mafia. They’re his main customers.” “Good work. Do we have pictures of this waitress?” “Yes. In various compromising positions.” “Perfect. I don’t plan to use him often, but it’s good to have something in reserve in case he gets ideas.” Miguel leaned back in his leather desk chair. “What do you think about expanding into Liberty City?” Esteban pursed his lips. “I know the Puerto Ricans haven’t been very organized, but they’re dangerous as hell if provoked. Liberty City might be a good dumping ground for low-grade product, but I don’t know if it’s worth the fight it would take to go big there.” He shrugged. “That’s not my decision, though.” “You and Enrique agree.” Miguel nodded slowly. In truth he hadn’t wanted to expand there, either. Not yet, at least. Uncle Jesus had been the one with the idea. Something about bringing money to the old neighborhood. Sometimes I wonder if he understands exactly what we’re doing now. This isn’t the old days when they were opening speakeasies to sell bootleg rum. “It’s not something we’ll be looking at.” “That’s for the best, I think. Miami Beach might be a better choice.” Esteban shifted in his chair. “To tell the truth, I don’t know if I’d have enough manpower to back a major play. Someone’s been hiring shooters lately. And paying a lot of money.” “Columbians? Or is it related to Hector Sandoval? Do we need…” “No. It’s not Columbians. Or that damned crippled poet. It’s someone the old men know.” “CIA?” “No, but whoever it is might have been CIA once. I don’t know many details, but Nicaragua keeps coming up.” “Have we lost any men to these people?” “No.” Esteban smiled. “I recruit based on loyalty, jefe. Not just pay. Besides, most of our boys are city born and bred. The thought of crawling through the jungle doesn’t appeal to them at all. And they’re mainly Cubans, so they don’t give two shits about Nicaragua. But it does mean there aren’t many trained freelancers right now. The old men in Little Havana are sending most of those guys to this new crew.” “How long has it been going on?” “At least a couple of weeks. Maybe a month or more. I’ve heard of this kind of thing before, but never this many at once.” He leaned forward. “There’s also talk of some of the old training camps starting up again.” Miguel nodded. “The president and his Contras, no doubt. Keep an eye on it, but don’t get too close. The CIA might not be officially involved, but you know there’re lurking in the bushes somewhere. We’re at a delicate point, Esteban, and we don’t need any distractions or attention turned out way. Better to loose a few men if we have to.” “I would have advised the same thing. I’ve spent enough time with the old men to have an idea of what the CIA is capable of…both officially and unofficially.” Esteban shook his head. “With any luck this will pass in a few months. They’re not keeping a very low profile, and one of those monkeys from the press is bound to sniff out something. Then they’ll have to go to ground again.” Miguel nodded. “True. But can you find out where these idiots are training? Just the general areas. I want to keep our boats well clear until they shut down again.” Once Esteban left, Miguel fished a cigar out of the center desk drawer and went through the ritual of clipping the tip and puffing it to life. He’d only started recently, and found they settled his nerves and cleared his mind in equal measure. The fucking CIA! He wasn’t sure if it was them or one of their ‘former employees’ working on their behalf, but having them nosing around in his back yard made him nervous. Not because they’d try to shut him down, but because he was afraid they’d want a piece of his action. Or use it to try to leverage him into moving cargo or people for them. No, better to slow down a bit and maybe absorb some losses than risk that kind of attention. But it was hard. Looking around the study, Miguel felt the pull of memory. His grandfather had started it all, running rum back in the old days, then branching out into other things once they legalized booze again. But the rum was always there. Even now he continued to move some, more as a tribute to the old man. His father knew nothing of their actual business, through his own choice. He still dabbled in Mendoza Distributors, meeting with old clients and smoking illegal cigars while they went over stagnant accounts. It made for good theater, but Miguel knew the real money was out there on the water where it always had been. Connecting people with things they wanted that the government didn’t want them to have. He also knew they were at another tipping point. The handful of upscale clubs in Brickell catering to the financial crowd were proving incapable of absorbing everything they could bring in. He knew there were plenty of clubs in Miami Beach, and even more young idiots with money in their pockets who wanted to snort the party up their noses. They needed contacts there, but if the CIA was poking around again he’d need to wait. But waiting held its own dangers. Sending a thick cloud of cigar smoke toward the slowly-turning ceiling fan, Miguel got to his feet. Maybe the appearance of the CIA and Santos wanting to come back to Miami wasn’t a coincidence. He suspected the Bolivian might have his uses for the Company, and they wouldn’t let a small thing like an international arrest warrant stand in their way if they needed him. It was what happened when they no longer needed the renegade Bolivian that bothered him. Sighing, he picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. “Enrique? Yes, it’s me. Look, do your people have any contacts in the Miami Beach clubs? We might need to diversify a bit. No, I’ll tell you later when we meet for dinner. And see if that girl Holly will come.” He laughed. “Yeah, I know she’s not. But it’s always nice to have dinner with a beautiful woman. We’ll talk business over dinks before she arrives.” Miguel snorted as the pink and blue neon lining the bar washed over his brother’s face. “Who decorated this place? A fucking fruit?” Enrique laughed. “Yeah, I know. Not enough fake oak paneling to suit you. But it’s the new way, brother. This is where the people with money come to snort their lives away. You know…our customers.” Miguel nodded as he sipped his rum. He hadn’t been to The Overton before, and likely wouldn’t come back if he had his way. Granted, he could understand the appeal of looking at waitresses wearing tight dresses barely covering what men most wanted to see, but all the neon and chrome made it feel temporary to him. Something built for one quick, brilliant show and not intended to last. It might explain the appeal to Enrique, though. The place was built like one of his go-fasts. “Sure. But how do we reach them?” “Not here. The Overton is wired in with someone else. Don’t ask me who. I don’t know. But they’re big.” Enrique polished off his brightly-colored drink and waved for another. “I don’t know what the hell they put in those things, but they taste good and knock you on your ass. Anyhow, we might have a way in to Miami Beach. At least a couple of the clubs there. Remember cousin Gustavo?” “Yes. Hard to forget that one. You said he’s been doing ok on the boats.” “More or less. I’d never let him pilot one. But that’s not where he has value.” Enrique paused as the bartender delivered his drink. “Turns out the little idiot has an in with a couple of the Beach clubs. Friends who supply our product and might be looking for a less expensive supplier. Or a more reliable one.” Miguel thought for a moment. “Have him explore it, but don’t commit. Something’s going on in the swamps again…someone’s hiring a whole bunch of muscle in a hurry. We need to lay low for a bit.” Enrique nodded. “We’ve seen some usual boat traffic as well. I thought it was just another crew, but their radio discipline is too good. And they always start close to the coast. You think it’s another of those crazy Cuban combat groups?” “That or the Contras that are all over the news. Either way it means Federal people, which always means trouble. So we play it safe for a bit.” He lowered his voice even more. “And Santos wants to come back to Miami.” “As if we don’t have enough problems.” Enrique took a long drink, and his eyes clouded. “You think it’s related to this other thing?” “It could be. But either way it’s more trouble for us.” “I can do another deal with The Bat. Test his capabilities a bit.” Miguel scratched his chin. They had the cash for a larger buy, but with the CIA… “Do it. See how much he can bring in on short notice. But don’t exceed what we’re already obligated to deliver on our end. I don’t want lots of product sitting around.” He thought for a moment. “Better yet…use him to replace the next shipment from Santos. I’ll let him know there’s too much local heat or some shit.” “Great idea.” Enrique looked in the direction of the door and grinned. “And our ladies are here. I hope you don’t mind I brought some company for myself.” “I should have suggested it.” Miguel turned, feeling a slight tug in his chest when he saw Holly again. She was wearing a tight blue dress and her long dark hair flowed free down her back. He’d only seen her a couple of times since that day at the pool, and she seemed to get more beautiful every time. “Let’s go get them.” “I had them reserve a table for us near the back. The food here isn’t bad, and the music isn’t as loud back there.” Enrique’s date was a blonde named Tiffy, but Miguel forgot about her seconds after he’d been introduced. He was captivated by Holly’s deep brown eyes, the fine lines of her cheekbones, and her quick laugh. Must be working too hard. Being smitten like a schoolboy is Enrique’s thing, not mine. Still, it did feel good. So did making her laugh. “You still haven’t told me what you do.” “Nothing exciting. I run the family distribution company.” He smiled. “You know, the people who supply beer and the like to places like this.” “Really? I work with a couple of clubs down in Miami Beach. Advertising and promotions.” “Then you know the business.” He tried to hide his excitement. Miami Beach. “Some. I mean I know how to get ads on the radio and in Miami Today. That stuff.” She smiled and sipped her drink, bending forward just enough to give him a nice look down the front of her dress. “But the other stuff…not really.” Enrique’s voice cut through the rising music. “That’s my brother! Just can’t stop talking about business.” Holly raised her hand. “No, it was me. I asked him what he did. But it’s nice to know we have something in common.” Miguel nodded, shooting a glare at his brother. “He’s right, though. I do talk business too much. One of us has to, I guess. But this is a night out.” He laughed, a forced thing he hoped Holly didn’t notice. “I guess I need to learn to relax.” Before he knew it they’d finished eating. A quick glance at his watch told him it was almost ten. Shit. And I have to talk to Santos early. Holly seemed to notice the movement and finished her drink. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have to get up early tomorrow.” She smiled at Miguel. “A meeting with a radio station about a spot on one of their morning shows.” “I understand. I have a meeting myself. With a supplier.” He leaned forward, ignoring Enrique and Tiffy who seemed focused only on each other. “I’d like to see you again.” “I was hoping you’d say that.” Her fingers touched his, and then she slid a card out of her purse. “That’s my work number.” She pulled out a pen. “And that’s my apartment phone. I had fun, Miguel. Really.” “So did I. Next time we’ll have a quiet dinner alone.” He paused. “If you’d like.” “I’d like that very much.” She leaned closer, and he tasted her margarita on his lips as she kissed him. “Good night, Miguel.” Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd near the front door.

Two days later Sonny found himself standing on the dock looking down at a grease-coated Saul torquing down the last couple of bolts in his Scarab. “That should get you what you’re looking for,” the mechanic said as he closed the engine compartment and scrambled to his feet. “Not quite as past as that other boat, but you also didn’t get the boring and carb work he did.” Sonny nodded. “Yeah, but that takes cash I don’t have right now. Couple more jobs and that situation should be resolved, though.” He still remembered the look Saul had given him when he’d returned the day before. Guess my name didn’t come back all that spectacular. Gotta work on that. “I hear ya.” Saul slid the socket wrench into a side pocket of his coveralls. “Look…there’s this dude I know. Roscoe. He ain’t the biggest mover, but he’s steady as they come and is always looking for someone with a fast boat. You want, I can give you an intro.” Sonny was about to shake his head no, but stopped. He knew he wasn’t going to get to Pasqual through Saul…he’d figured that out early in the game. But maybe there was another way. Saul seemed to know a certain class of runner: the kind Pasqual mingled with. It might not be much of a step, but it was a step up. “Sure. Why not. You got my pager number. Pass it on and we’ll see what we can work out.” “I’ll do that. Like I said, he don’t look like much when you first meet him, but he moves steady product. And he knows people. Not leftovers from Calderone’s time.” “Thanks.” Sonny paid the mechanic in cash, knowing the serial numbers had been recorded for later tracing. They’d pass it off to Robbery and let them get the points for the bust. As he started the Scarab and eased her away from the dock, Sonny thought back to what Saul had said. In many ways he was chasing the remains of Calderone’s crew…runners who’d made their bones under the Columbian and were just trying to pick up their share of the pieces. The Mendozas didn’t fit into that picture. He knew Rico was still working Newton Blade, but it was likely a dead end. Blade had been in the game too damned long…kept all his stuff tightly compartmentalized. If he was doing anything for the Mendozas it was unlikely Rico would ever get even a whiff of it, let alone be let in on the action. But at least Rico’s money might help the Feds make the case they’d been building against Blade for years. Sonny shook his head, opening the throttles wide and grinning when he felt an extra kick of acceleration. Much as he liked Otis Forsythe, he knew he’d hit the same dead end. If anything Otis was more careful than Blade, and given the links between the Forsythes and the Mendozas he’d be even more close-mouthed about any deals involving them. We’ll have to break ‘em the old-fashioned way…working our way up the food chain and getting more informants like Gustavo. Assuming they let him in the family business to begin with. Still, there was the meeting with Roscoe to look forward to, and there was something he wanted to try. Something to make Sonny Burnett a little more dangerous. And maybe more appealing to players on the Mendoza level. June 1986 After B-U-R-N-E-double T, Little Miss Dangerous Ricardo Tubbs tried to focus on the scene playing out through his binoculars, but he couldn’t. Instead he kept seeing her face. Her wide eyes. And the blood. Always the blood. “You ok, partner?” He mentally shook himself. “Yeah. I’m always ok. How long are we gonna wait on these chumps?” “As long as it takes, Rico. You know that.” Sonny Crockett sat next to him at the cheap folding table in another dingy hotel room. The only difference was he had the higher-power spotter’s scope. “These bastards always take their damned sweet time working a deal. Nothing new there.” “Yeah, but the lieutenant could have given this to Gorman and Dibble.” “Maybe he thinks you need a little R&R.” Sonny leaned forward and looked through the scope. “That Jackie thing hit you pretty hard.” “Yeah. Maybe. And you sure bounced back from your big lead into the Mendozas getting one in the face. You still don’t think it was them?” “Naw. I know it was a .45, but it just didn’t feel right. No display. Guy was just offed and dumped.” Sonny kept talking about something, but Rico tuned him out. He tried again to focus on the three men down by the coffee shop, but his brain kept leading him back to Jackie. I should have seen it coming. I should have known. A corner of his mind knew he wasn’t being fair to himself. No way I could have known how broken she was. Still…I never should have let her get to me like that. “Are these idiots ever gonna do anything aside from drinking coffee?” “Doesn’t look like it to me. I think the tip was a bust.” “We’ll give ‘em ten more minutes, and if nothing happens I’m calling it in.” Nodding, Rico raised the binoculars and tightened the focus. Still the same two goofballs sitting at a table, with one set just to side acting as security for the money man. Or what they guessed was the money man. The way this one had been going, the money man might just be a pimp negotiating a price for the muscle-head. Never really seen a deal where only one heavy showed up to the party. “You sure these guys are Columbians?” “Only thing I’m sure of is this room smells like hobo piss.” Sonny snorted. “Hell, it ain’t our tip. The lieutenant didn’t even say where it came from. They could be Columbians, or they could be fruits in from Georgia or Tampa Bay.” Rico let himself smile. “Naw. They don’t dress well enough to be from Tampa.” Another car rolled past on the street below, blocking his view for a moment. “Georgia, maybe.” Sighing, Sonny looked at his watch. “I’m calling it.” He reached for the radio. Nodding, Rico made one final sweep with the glasses. The three men still hadn’t moved, and he was about to lower them when a flash of movement caught his eye. “Sonny, check out that scooter with two dudes. I think the circus just hit town.” Sonny turned back to the spotting scope, then his posture changed. “Only if clowns carry shotguns. It’s…” The binoculars gave Rico a front-row seat as the scooter slowed, the driver taking a firm grip on the handlebars as the passenger raised a semi-automatic shotgun from under his long black coat. The flashes blurred into one long yellow and white explosion, the booms reaching his ears a second after his eyes registered the three men being blown away from their table in a spray of red blood. Though the echoes he heard Sonny screaming into the radio, calling in the shooting as he dropped the glasses and went for his Smith & Wesson. The scooter was a memory by the time they reached the street. Red and blue lights played across the cafe’s patio and the faded hotel sign across the street, washing over the faces of the crime scene techs working the area. The ME had already hauled the bodies away, leaving Sonny and Rico to deal with an annoyed, chain-smoking Homicide detective with close-set eyes. He looked from one to the other. “So you say you have no idea what they were doing here?” Rico snorted. “How many times we gotta tell you, chump? We got no idea. The lieutenant says go stake out something a tip said was a meet, so we staked it out. Assuming our equipment hasn’t been stolen yet, you’ll find it in room 204 across the street.” “Was it related to Vice, drugs?” “Like my partner said, we got no idea.” Sonny lit a Lucky Strike. “The tip said possible narcotics, but it didn’t look like a normal deal meet to us.” The Homicide detective looked up from his notebook. “How’s that?” “Not enough security for one.” Rico jerked his head in the direction of the three chalk outlines. “Normally these cats haul at least four bodies to a meet. But this one, only the short dude at the table had what looked like security. The other one came alone. And for another they never exchanged cash or product. It could have been a meet-and-greet, but it wasn’t a deal.” “What about the shooters?” “Two goofballs on a damned scooter.” The tip of Sonny’s cigarette glowed bright red as he inhaled. “Look, pal, we’re used to Columbians going after each other with automatic weapons. The whole ‘ride up and shotgun them’ thing ain’t their style.” “You say you were conducting surveillance. You get any kind of look at the shooter or the driver?” Rico shook his head. “The driver was wearing a crash helmet. Skinny little punk, though. Hispanic, maybe. Leather jacket. The shooter was wearing a black trench coat to hide the shotgun. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but you could tell he was tall. Over six foot. Definitely Hispanic. Long black hair. And the shotgun was a semi-auto. Wasn’t cut down, either.” “I don’t suppose we got lucky and have pictures?” The detective waited a heartbeat. “Didn’t think so. Either of you get a look at a plate?” “Didn’t have one,” Rico said. “I looked for that the second they rolled off. No plate, and the scooter had been painted flat black. No maker’s name or anything.” The man from Homicide sighed. “Thanks. I’ll let you guys do whatever you gotta do. We’ll keep you in the loop if anything breaks on this, but I ain’t hopeful. We’ve had ten homicides in this area in the last six weeks, and no leads on most of ‘em. Gangs thinks it’s some kinda turf thing, but they don’t wanna take it.” Rico chuckled, feeling some of his anger slip away. He’d forgotten Homicide had more cases dumped on them than even OCB. “Yeah, I get it.” Sonny flicked the butt of his cigarette toward the gutter on the other side of the crime scene tape. “We’ll let you know if we turn up anything, but like the man said I don’t think there’s gonna be much. The tip was a one-off from a source we don’t know, and it’s not tied to any active cases.” As they trudged back up the stairs to collect their gear, Rico shook his head. “Man, I don’t envy him.” “Naw. He’ll get reamed for low activity when there’s no chance in hell of getting any cooperation out of this neighborhood.” Sonny waved his hand. “I mean look around! Junkies, hookers, and God knows what else don’t make for good witnesses, even if they want to admit they saw anything.” Once in the room, he started breaking down the spotter’s scope. “You have any idea where the tip came from?” Shaking his head, Rico stuffed the binoculars in their case. “No more than you, partner.” He paused, the blood from the crime scene changing into something else in his head. He could still see the look in her eyes. “It was a bit…messy, don’t you think?” Victor looked back at Esteban Morales and shook his head. “For what we usually do, yes. But to hide what we’re doing, no. Your orders were to settle the situation without any tracks leading back to us.” “Very true.” Esteban narrowed his eyes. Victor was another product of the camps in the swamps, but there was something about him… “What about the shooters?” “Two Dominicans we contracted.” Victor raised a hand. “Don’t worry, jefe. They’re food for the gators now. Nothing can come back to us.” It was messier than Esteban preferred, but Miguel hadn’t left him with many options. ‘Louis is looking to make his own deal. Take care of him and the man he’s dealing with. But it can’t come back to us.’ Those were the orders. With his men stretched as thin as they were, Esteban had to contract out. He would have preferred going elsewhere, but Victor had Dominican contacts who could move now. “I’ll let the boss know the situation is handled. Good work.” He tried to make it convincing. Victor grinned. “Of course, jefe. I would have preferred to use our own people, but…” “Time. Of course. The Lame Bull wasn’t crowded this early in the afternoon, and Esteban remained at the bar for a time after Victor left. There was still time before he had to meet Miguel, and he wanted to get the facts straight in his head. Mostly why Victor had decided to handle the operation the way he had. He was still sitting on the same stool, nursing his third rum, when Miguel came in and took a seat next to him. They didn’t normally meet in places like this, but for some reason Miguel had insisted. Esteban figured the boss wanted to see where his shooters came from, or maybe visit a girl. Either way, it wasn’t his concern. He just caught the bartender’s eye. “Another for me and the same for my friend.” Miguel nodded. He’d slicked back his hair, looking more like a pirate with every passing day. “I see the task was completed.” “Yes. I let my man arrange the details. I’m afraid…” “No. It was perfect. Well, maybe a bit too, how do I put it, bold for us. But that’s an advantage. They’ll look elsewhere to find someone to blame. Have the actors been dealt with?” “Yes.” Esteban waited while the bartender delivered the drinks and moved back down the bar. “They should be composting in the swamps north of town soon enough.” “Good. I can always count on you to leave no loose ends, Esteban.” Miguel tasted the rum and nodded his approval. “This is good. Is it ours?” “I expect so. The Lame Bull buys from us regularly, and we’re the only ones still bringing this one in as far as I know.” “Good.” Miguel sat in silence for one minute. Then two. “You have questions about this one.” It hadn’t been a question. “I know better than to ask, jefe.” “Of course. You’re a good solider, Esteban. But yes, this one was different. What do you know of the targets?” “Nothing. There were three men. Two who had a meeting and one providing security for one of the others. I don’t know which one. There was no reconnaissance task.” “No. There was not. And you carried out the assignment in spite of that. Excellent work. Taking all three was a nice bonus, but in truth if you’d missed the guard it wouldn’t have mattered one bit.” “But that doesn’t…” “No. But their deaths are vital to our plans. You’ll understand when I tell you.” Martin Castillo had a headache, a single stabbing pain right behind his left eye. It had been there ever since he’d taken the call from Homicide. Still, he tried not to show it as he looked across his desk at Crockett and Tubbs. “I just heard from Homicide. The three men who were killed the other day.” Sonny nodded. “Yeah. I still say that wasn’t a drug deal, lieutenant.” Castillo nodded, noticing the distant look in Rico’s eyes. The girl is still bothering him. If he doesn’t get it under control, I’m sending him on leave for a few days. Time away should clear his head and his heart. “It wasn’t. The tip was wrong.” “So what was it? Smelled like some kinda mob hit to me.” “Tubbs?” Rico jerked slightly as he returned to the room. “Yeah. Reminds me how the wise guys back in New York used to settle with each other. Except there it was sawed-offs and usually indoors.” “Homicide doesn’t have a bead on the shooters. But they have identified the victims. One was a guard of some kind. Rented muscle. The man they assume he was protecting was a small-time smuggler who was trying to move into distribution.” Sonny inhaled sharply on his Lucky Strike. “And the other guy?” “He was a reporter.” Castillo rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Freelance, not from one of the major papers or stations. He seems to have specialized in investigative journalism focusing on crime.” “So what you’re saying is we have no idea which one of them was the target.” Rico snorted. “Hell, there’s a good chance they both were the target.” “The good news is it’s not coming back to us.” Castillo rested his elbows on his desk top. “There’s pressure on the journalist, so Homicide is keeping it. But I have Dibble and Gorman looking at the smuggler. See if he’s been up to anything unusual.” He looked up at Sonny. “Any news on your last lead?” “I got squat on Roscoe, Lieutenant.” Sonny shook his head. “Look, I know I thought it was tied into the Mendozas, but I’m not so sure now. Homicide found heroin on him, and what we know about the Mendozas says they’re into coke. At least that’s all we hear them connected with. I hate to say it, but I think Roscoe stuck his nose somewhere it wasn’t wanted and someone blew it off.” “Do we have another way in?” “Just that cousin Switek and Zito scooped up.” Sonny shook his head. “These guys are damned good at covering their tracks, lieutenant. We know they have lines into the Brickell club scene, and supposedly some action going into Little Haiti, but we can’t get a line past that. Hell, I don’t even know how many boats they run. And that Pasqual character hasn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket since he got tangled up with that Bolivian asshole.” “Funny thing is, most of their flake tracks back to Bolivia. As far as we can tell, anyhow.” Rico leaned back against the office wall. “Ain’t got the manpower to work them and every other case that comes down the line.” “We do what we can.” Castillo thought about snapping, but restrained himself. They’d all been pushed hard the last couple of months, Tubbs perhaps more than most. “Just so you know, Crockett, Homicide has declared the other two possible Mendoza homicides cold cases. They have no new leads.” “And we haven’t given them any damned good reason to keep either case open. I get it, lieutenant. Like I said, these boys are good at covering their tracks.” “Stay on them when you can.” Castillo looked down at his desk, waiting until the two detectives left to lean back in his desk chair and close his eyes. So far we’ve been lucky. The Mendozas seem content with what they have. But sooner or later they’ll want to move up. And we’ll be playing catch-up. Again. Back in the squad room, Rico sat down behind his desk with a long sigh. He’d seen how Castillo looked at him back in the office, and he knew he wasn’t fooling the man. Sonny? Maybe. But not him. The thing with Jackie had been tough. Tougher than he wanted to admit. The girl had gotten inside his head, and in a way he’d not felt since Valerie. But what bothered him more was what he’d missed. He’d been so set on saving her he didn’t notice she was more interested in killing him. “Everything ok, partner?” Rico flinched. He hadn’t noticed Sonny sitting down. “Yeah. It’s cool.” “Come on, Rico. You might be able to fool Castillo, though I wouldn’t bet on it, but you can’t fool me. Not for long, anyhow. It’s that girl, isn’t it?” Rico started to shake his head, then sighed. “Yeah. How could I be so damned wrong about her?” “I don’t think you were necessarily wrong, Rico. You just didn’t see the whole picture. And I should know…I’m an expert on crazy women. Problem is I don’t usually find out they’re crazy until it’s too late.” “If that’s supposed to help…” “No. Not really. Just wanted to get you to laugh.” Sonny lit a cigarette, the flare of the Ronson highlighting the side of his face. “What you gotta remember is your heart was in the right place. You wanted to help her, man. You tried to help her. It doesn’t get any more righteous than that. Trouble was, she was beyond help.” “Cat tried to tell us…” “Yeah. In his own way he did. Sad thing is he really did love her. He just didn’t have the damndest idea about how to get her some help. We were just too late.” Sonny sent smoke trailing toward the ceiling. “Day late and a dollar short. The story of my entire romantic life in a nutshell.” “Yeah. Mine too.” “You’ll be ok, Rico. Just let it go. Let her go. You did everything you could, and at the end of the day that’s all we can do.” Rico sighed. He knew Sonny was right, but he didn’t like the way it made him feel. Somehow it felt like he was just giving up on Jackie, like everyone else in her life had given up on her. And he knew it would be some time before he stopped seeing her shooting herself with his pistol. “Take a couple of days, man. Go tie one on and pick up one of those fancy ladies you like so much. Or, hell, just drive up the coast and watch the sun set somewhere. You gotta get your head right, Rico, so we can get back in the game.” Rico thought about snapping, but didn’t when he saw the look in Sonny’s eyes. “Yeah…I think I’ll do that.” “It’s either that or they pack you off to the department shrink who tells you it’s all because you wanted to sleep with your mother, shoot your father, or both.” Sonny winked. “Trust me…I’ve been there, too. And the cases won’t go anywhere. You got nothing to worry about there. They’re all in holding patterns. Lack of evidence, no evidence, you name it.” Sonny looked at a paper on his desk and snorted. “Besides, I’m gonna be down for a couple of days. Got a summons to testify at the grand jury on Callie’s case.” He shook his head. “Speaking of crazy…” “So you dealt with them both?” Miguel nodded, watching Enrique’s face for any reaction. Sometimes he thought his younger brother might be a touch too soft for what it took to keep the family business safe and growing. “You said yourself Silvo’s crew was starting to sniff around our boats. And the reporter? He was digging into smuggling. Cigars. Our business.” “And both men had more than a few enemies?” “The reporter more than Silvo, but yes. And the shotgun makes it look like something it’s not. The mob, perhaps. Or Haitians or Dominicans settling scores.” He leaned against the balcony rail. “And Silvo’s departure creates an opportunity for us. Didn’t you say he regularly moved product for someone from Peru?” Esteban’s intelligence had already confirmed Silvo’s source, but he liked making Enrique feel involved beyond the boats. “He did. Guy goes by the street name The Bat.” Enrique smiled. “He likes to think it’s because he stays up all night, but it’s really because most of the dealers think he’s bat shit crazy. But he’s got reliable access to good product, crazy or not.” “Set up a a meeting with this idiot. See if he’s crazy or not. If not, maybe we can offer our transportation services.” “From what I understand he usually moves anywhere from ten to forty kilos. Enough to supplement what we get from the Bolivians, and maybe replace some of it if he’s dependable.” “What about quality?” Enrique chuckled. “It doesn’t matter. If it’s crap, we’ll move it to the Haitians. Keep the good stuff moving to the Brickell clubs and one or two other places. Mainly people in the middle who keep the corner traffic supplied. One of my boys has a line into Liberty City.” Miguel nodded, hiding his annoyance behind hooded eyes. “Good, but don’t move too fast. We need to be able to keep up with security.” “Don’t worry, brother. This what they call sub-contracted. We sell the product to the middle direct and then walk away. And it doesn’t happen often. I can always find security from one of the boat houses.” He clapped Miguel on the shoulder. “So long as your man can keep moving the money we should be fine.” Miguel stayed on the balcony after Enrique left, looking down at the manicured lawns. The mention of Newton Blade was something of a sore point…the man had cut back on the amount of cash he was willing to handle with no warning. He’d muttered a few excuses, and paraded a number of girls almost wearing bikinis in front of Miguel to distract him, but Miguel was fairly certain Blade was being investigated by either the IRS or the FBI. Maybe both. So he needed to find a new money man, and find one quickly. When he went back into the Pelican’s Nest, he thought for a moment about looking for Otis. There was only so much money he could funnel through his distribution business as it stood, and Jesus had made it very clear he wouldn’t handle any more. If Blade was coming up short, Otis might have a lead to another banker or someone he could add as a sales client. It might be possible to pad his existing accounts more, but they were already bloated enough as it was. Any more might raise uncomfortable questions at either the state or federal revenue level. No, better to play it safe. At least with this. Otis was holding down the far end of the bar, nursing what Miguel assumed was his habitual afternoon brandy. “Miguel! It’s been too long. Sit and have a drink with me.” He waved in the general direction of the bartender. “Perhaps just one, Otis.” Miguel settled onto the stool and sighed. “I was actually hoping you might help with a small problem.” “Do tell. Might it be related to our friend with the oversized boat?” Otis gave one of his sly smiles. “Word travels fast in this world. I hear our dear friend might be on an extended tour of the Caribbean islands…specifically those without extradition arrangements. And while he’s on that little tour I fear his oversight of his various enterprises might be, shall we say, lacking.” “You know me too well, Otis.” “Nonsense, dear boy. We simply share a problem.” Otis sipped at his brandy. “Now I do find myself in need of some of those specialty libations I hear your distribution company imports, so we might help each other. But my need won’t be enough to replace Newton’s various clubs and tours.” “Mendoza Spirts would be proud to supply the needs of the Pelican’s Nest.” Miguel nodded his thanks. “I’m sure we can make some unique contributions to your cellar.” “Of that I have no doubt. You’re a gifted man, Miguel. You remind me of your grandfather, or what my father told me of him at least. I did meet him once or twice, but I’m afraid I was a touch too young to remember much.” He took another sip of brandy. “As for your other concerns, I think I might know someone who could help. He’s not the most reliable sort, mind, but in a pinch…” “Of course.” Miguel let the thought float in his mind. Having someone to deal with contingencies might be worthwhile, but he’d have to be careful. Otis seemed to read his thoughts. “This gentleman wouldn’t need to know a thing about your business. In fact, I’d consider it a mistake to tell him a damned thing. But for ten percent he can clean up to one hundred thousand dollars. No questions asked and quick service. I believe he has a brother-in-law or some such who’s in banking. I never inquired too closely. Nor do I use him with great regularity. But in times of need he can be handy.” “I take it you don’t sit down directly…” “Heavens no. I send one of the staff. I’d suggest you do the same.” Pulling a card from the outside pocket of his plaid blazer, Otis produced a gold Pelican pen and scribbled down a name and phone number. “Let that start your journey.” He checked his Rolex and sighed. “And now I’m afraid I must take my leave. Another boring business appointment. But we’ll meet tomorrow and go over the fine details of our distribution contract, yes?”

“Do you believe what he said?” Esteban Morales nodded. “He was in no real condition to lie. If he was a stronger man, perhaps. But not that one.” Miguel Mendoza inclined his head. “The fire was a nice touch. It should make Santos think his man mixed with the wrong people and got burned. Literally in this case.” In truth he wasn’t totally pleased with how things had turned out, but sometimes it was necessary to get dirty to find the answers you needed. At least Esteban had made sure the man wouldn’t reveal who’d interrogated him. “Why do you think they’d do this?” “I honestly don’t know. If it was his own people ripping him off, I would have thought he’d be screaming about the rest of his money by now. After all, we only paid for the half of the load we got.” Miguel raised a finger as the phone in the next room started ringing. “And speak of the devil. You’d best get going, Esteban. And good work.” Cristobal Santos had an annoying voice, made worse by the tinny quality of the overseas connection. “What’s this about only paying for forty?” “What? Not even a hello?” Miguel glared at the phone as he tried to keep anger out of his voice. “Your people only brought us forty, so we only paid for forty. That’s how business works.” “We loaded eighty.” “I suggest you take that up with your hired help. It isn’t always easy to find trustworthy people in this business. But your fat man delivered forty, and that’s what we paid for.” There was a pause, and Miguel listened to static zinging through the line. When Santos spoke again, his voice was lower. “I’ll look into it. There may have been a misunderstanding.” “Not on our end. We had the resources on hand to pay for eighty. Just be glad we didn’t have pending orders for what your people didn’t deliver.” “Who are you…” “The man who controls this end of the business. And the man who can take your word this was a simple misunderstanding. Or not. I’d suggest we take a shipment or two off so this misunderstanding isn’t repeated. Don’t you agree?” “Sure. Why not. I’ll call as soon as we’ve sorted things out on this end.” There was another pause. “We need each other, after all.” “Of course.” Miguel waited for the click before hanging up on his end. Better to let Santos think he’d gotten in the last word. This time. But Miguel had already made his decision. It was time to explore new suppliers. They’d been lucky this time. If there had been other clients, he’d be scrambling right now instead of just angry. But he couldn’t let it happen again. Picking up the phone, he dialed another number. “Ricky? Yes, it’s me. Look, our friend didn’t have any real answers. We need to find a secondary source of supply. I’ll meet you at the dock and we can go out on the water. Better to talk there.” Enrique eased back on the throttles once they were a mile out. “I love it out here. It’s so quiet. You can hear yourself think.” Miguel nodded, leaning back against the cushions in the co-pilot’s seat. “And we need to think, brother. No question about that. Santos is busy proving he can’t be trusted, so we need a secondary line of supply. And that will take more people.” “What about Gustavo?” “I know he’s family, but he doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. What’s he doing now? Selling stolen car stereos? Before that it was breaking into houses. The boy may have some skills, but he’s lacking in brains.” “Let me work with him. I can put him with one of the cigar boat crews and see how he does. If he passes the tests, we have another man we can rely on. If not…” “He knows nothing about our real operation and can go back to stealing stereos and basically being a punk.” Miguel smiled. “It’s a good idea, brother. But let’s see if he can avoid being arrested for stealing car stereos first.” “Sure.” Enrique laughed. “He’s always turning up anyhow…begging to be let into the family business. It won’t be hard to find him if he manages to succeed.” He turned and looked out to the south. Toward memories of islands. “What did Santos really say?” “He claimed it was a misunderstanding. I think the fat one was trying to steal from him, personally, but it could be something else. In any case, he seemed surprised. About what I can’t say for sure. We’re just lucky only half the planned load was spoken for.” “I never did like that pig.” “Neither did I. I hear the police are still trying to talk to some of the girls he and his men roughed up when they were here.” Miguel shook his head. “Perhaps dealing with him was a mistake in the long term, but we needed a quick, sure source of supply.” “I know. He was the only choice then, but we can always make new choices.” “See what you can learn, brother. I’ll do the same. And when the time comes, maybe we can make Santos suffer just a bit for our trouble.” Miami, 1986 After King’s Pawn, Back in the World, and Phil the Shill “Any news about Stone?” Sonny winced behind his sunglasses. “No. The little worm skipped out as soon as he could walk out of his hospital room. Bailed on paying, too. But somehow he always lands on his feet. Like that weasel of a Brit.” “Yeah. That’s one chump who’d better hope Switek never catches up with him.” “I still can’t believe those two managed to put the finger on a Mendoza.” Making the turn into the OCB lot, Sonny downshifted the Ferrari and pulled into his usual spot. “We’ve been chasing our tails for weeks trying to get a bead on that Benitez punk, and they hook an actual Mendoza during a pawn shop sting.” “Some guys get all the luck.” Rico chuckled. “Go easy on ‘em, partner. They put in their time for sure, and it was a good bust.” “Yeah, it was. Gotta give ‘em that. And they got something worthwhile out of Moreno and Lamonte. That alone’s gotta be worth some kind of commendation. Might even get ‘em out of Castillo’s dog house sooner.” Sonny shook his head as they pushed through the double doors into the squad room. “I still can’t believe he took sick time to be on that damned game show.” “Speaking of game shows, who’s the lucky winner of the ‘girl of the month’ prize?” “Not you, too? Come on, man.” Sonny grinned. He couldn’t really get mad about it, even though Zito had come up with the name. There was more than a grain of truth to it. After Brenda he’d either been working or trolling…dating one girl a few times and then moving on to the next. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it had something to do with seeing Billy less. “Her name’s Sara. She’s got a gig as a stewardess, so it kinda works out. She’s gone quite a bit, so my work doesn’t really get in the way.” “Fly the friendly skies, right?” Rico grinned. “More like you flyin’…” “Yeah, yeah. Maybe you can put that quick wit to better use by trying to figure out how the hell we can either use this Gustavo asshole or finding a way to get to Pasqual Benitez. Gina said her girl hasn’t seen him since the night with the Bolivians, so that’s out.” He sank into his chair with a halfhearted groan. The thing of it was he was starting to like Sara. Rico nodded as he sat down behind his desk. “And what the hell’s up with that mystery Bolivian Santos? Those cats usually like to check on their projects personally, but there hasn’t been a peep about him since the one visit.” “I don’t know, Rico. The whole thing smells funny to me. And I still can’t figure how the Mendozas could be operating in Miami and staying off the radar.” “I hate to say it, partner, but look at that cat Maynard. He was up to his tricks here, and we had no idea he existed until that freak Stone dropped in on the DEA’s pot bust.” “Yeah, I know. And it’s a family business for the Mendozas. Means they’re damned good at it. Just switched the cigars for coke is all.” And that’s a world we don’t know. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever busted a smuggler who ran cigars. Different trade for a different world, I guess. He turned and looked at the window into the conference room. “Hey. Did they change the briefing schedule?” “Nope.” Gorman, his bald head dotted with glittering beads of sweat, sent a thick cloud of cigar smoke toward the fluorescent lights. “Lieutenant had something going downtown, and judging from the way they were dressed the two lovelies had a case. And the two tech monkeys were headed back to that pawn shop.” “Thanks.” Sonny turned back to the files on his desk. Gorman meant well, he guessed, but there was something about the thickset man that never failed to get on his nerves. He knew they needed bodies on the squad. There was no question about that. But sometimes it felt like Gorman and his almost-invisible partner Dibble existed more to soak up oxygen than to do real police work. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d worked a case on their own. “Earth to Sonny. Let’s take this as a sign and get the hell out of here. Maybe go see if we can shake some leads loose on that Pasqual chump.” Sonny was about to shake his head when the bite of Gorman’s cheap cigar hit his nose. “Yeah, let’s go do that. Hey, Gorman! If you’re still here when the lieutenant gets back, tell him we’re running down a lead on Pasqual Benitez.” “Sure. I’ll…Wait. Did you say Benitez?” “Yeah.” Don’t tell me… “Name mean something to you?” “Yeah. Kinda, anyhow. Dibble and I were working this idiot who used to work on other peoples’ boats. As in people who had boats that didn’t belong to them. He had this little rat-trap shop down by the canals. I think one of his customers was named Benitez.” “This guy a CI or something?” “Naw. Nothing that fancy. We busted him about a year ago, give or take. He should be out by now…charge got pled down to some piddly-ass crap. Minimal time and probation. And I can’t see him taking no regular job. His name’s Saul Keller.” “Thanks, man.” Sonny scribbled the name in his small notebook. “Hey, Rico! We gotta swing by Records before we head out. Got a name to check.” “Man, now you owe that greasy chump.” Rico was grinning as he leaned over Sonny’s shoulder and stared at the flickering green letters on the computer monitor. “Don’t remind me.” Sonny stabbed at the keys with his forefingers. “How in the hell do you…there! I think I got it. Well, well. Gorman was right. Ol’ Saul here already has an active warrant for a probation violation. Last known is some fleabag hotel down by the canals.” “Odds are he’s already skipped out.” Rico rubbed his chin. “We know anyone who might know people in that world?” “Yeah, but I don’t feel like talking to Noogie. Problem is, he’s the one who might have an in with the chop shop crowd, even if it is boats. Izzy…that ain’t his cup of whatever the hell he drinks.” He raised a finger. “And don’t say bull sweat.” “You mean the perspirationals of the mighty bulls.” Rico chuckled. “Thing is, it’s easier to find Izzy than it is Noogie.” Sonny looked at his watch. “You think he’s up and about this early? It’s only two in the afternoon.” Damn. I was gonna see if Sara’s back in town. But duty calls and all that. Besides, the quicker we get this done the quicker I can buy Gorman a cheap six-pack and a couple of those dog turds he smokes. It sits too long, he’ll start getting bigger ideas. “All we can do is try, partner. I know we got this Gustavo chump, but I don’t think we can have too many lines into the Mendozas.” “That’s no lie, Rico.” Sonny logged out of the records terminal and got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s blow this pop stand. I’ve got an idea where we might start lookin’ for Noogie.” Club Fandango wasn’t much to look at, and the view didn’t get better when you went inside. The bar was lined with mismatched neon someone had salvaged from any number of other clubs, the low tables were a mix of stainless steel and cheap warping plywood, and the lighting had seen better days back in the ‘20s. The place catered to people who didn’t, or couldn’t, fit in anywhere else in Miami’s scene. But it had a killer sound system playing jazz, punk, or even ‘60s Motown depending on the mood of whoever was running the turntable. Today it was Suicidal Tendencies. Sonny pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. “Welcome to the freak show,” he said, nodding toward an Amazon of a woman who was arm-wrestling with a spindly goof who could be Izzy Moreno’s cousin. Or sister. In the dim lighting it was hard to tell. “You call this a freak show? I call it Times Square on a Sunday afternoon.” Rico grinned and moved to one side to avoid a couple trying to dance to the music. “But I can dig why Noogie likes this joint. Hell, if anything he’d be underdressed.” “And there he is.” Sonny headed for the middle of the bar, locking his hand on the shoulder of Noogie Lamonte before he could slip off the stool. “Where do you think you’re going, Noogie?” “The Noog-man’s got business. An’ I do mean important business.” Noogie was wearing a pair of purple sunglasses with frames that hid half his face, and it took him a second to realize who’d just grabbed him. “Sonny and Rico! Two of the Noog-man’s favorite dudes! When you ain’t busting the Noog-chops, that is.” “Yeah, yeah. And if you don’t want those chops busted, you’ll have an answer for a question.” “Lay it on me, jack! I’m the man with the plan, the stud with the…” “Ok. I don’t think we want to know what you have.” Sonny grinned in spite of himself. “I just bet you know guys who come by auto parts in less-than-legal ways, don’t you?” Noogie laughed. “Man! You gotta stick with Deetroit muscle, Sonny. That spaghetti machine of yours finally choke on a meatball?” “I’ll choke you, you meatball. You know guys like that or not?” “Hey, man! The Noog’s a lover, not a fighter, so put down the mitts. I don’t remember so good with fists in my face, if you can dig what the Noog-man is sayin’.” Noogie scrunched up his face like a Saturday morning cartoon character pantomiming deep thought. “Any particular bits you cats need? I happen to know a few dudes who deal in that kinda merchandise.” “Boat parts. Guy named Saul Keller.” “Let me think…” He scratched his chin with an overlong finger. “Yeah! Saul! Naw…not that Saul. He’s in county for stealing bikes. Yeah! I got it now. Motorboat Saul. Not ‘cause he works on boats, but ‘cause the Noog-man hears he likes his ladies with the big headlights an’ does this thing…” Sonny raised his hand. “We get the idea. So where is he?” “Last I heard he was workin’ out of a shop down in Edgewater. Can’t say which one, though.” “Can’t or won’t?” “Can’t. He ain’t my type. The Noog-man ain’t into boats. They like to sink, Jack, an’ the Noog-man an’ the deep blue sea don’t get along. But he likes boats, right? So look for a place that moves boats that are short in the paperwork department. And you can bet it ain’t his shop, pop. Gonna be in some other dude’s name.” “Now that was a big nothing sandwich.” Rico straightened his suit jacket as soon as they were back on the street. “Not really. We just call Robbery and see if they have a line on a shop like that in Edgewater. At least the little freak gave us a neighborhood.” Sonny grinned as they got into the Ferrari. “Now all we gotta do is hope we don’t get pulled off this again.” Sonny shot Rico a quick grin while the phone rang. “This won’t take long. I came up through Robbery.” A tired voice answered on the fourth ring. “Robbery. Malone.” “Hey, John.” “I’d know that wiseass voice anywhere. How ya doing, Sonny?” “Good, good.” Sonny kept his voice upbeat, but something was off about John Malone’s voice. Damn. He sounds tired. “Got a quick question for you. We’re working a lead, and it’s taking us straight to Edgewater. Specifically someone who might deal with hot boats.” “What, your dealers can’t buy their own hotshot boats out of petty cash these days?” “Yeah, most of ‘em can. But the guy we’re looking for is something of a wizard with the engines. He’s got a record, so he’s not gonna be operating his own place.” “Yeah. I get it.” Again the tiredness seeped into Malone’s voice. “We don’t work those too much. Coast Guard usually gets involved. But I hear there’s a shop down by one of the docks. Place called The Outboard.” A dry chuckle echoed down the line. “Yeah, they need help in the marketing department. But it gets mentioned when a boat goes missing. If he’s not there, I’d try the Coast Guard.” “Thanks.” Sonny hung up, staring at the receiver after he returned it to the base. Something’s off with John. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him that tired. Hell, I can’t blame him, though. He’s been on the Job for years, and Robbery’s a damned thankless beat. “You get anything?” “Yeah.” Sonny pushed his worries to the back of his mind. Maybe later, over a bourbon, he’d let them out again. “Lieutenant Malone says there’s a place over there called The Outboard.” “I got that. I also heard Coast Guard. We ain’t goin’ there, are we?” “Not unless we have to, Rico.” Getting to his feet, he grabbed for his white blazer. “Feel like going for a little boat ride? I might take the Scarab over there and have a look-see as Burnett. Shake the tree and see what falls out.” “Solid. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” “Hell, Rico, on this one we’re about due. You know, I still can’t make up my mind if the Mendozas are legit or just some kind of urban legend.” Enrique Mendoza looked over at Pasqual Benitez, wishing for once the bar had better lighting. I’d like to see his face when I ask. “How did the last run go?” “Good, boss. All the product was there as promised, and delivery went off without any complications.” “So the Bolivians…” “Yes. They came through. Still…” “I know. I don’t trust them, either. We need a second supplier. More would be better.” The rum was smooth on his tongue, and he waved for another as he emptied his glass. “If we do that, we may need another boat. Maybe two. And crew to match.” “I know. Speaking of crew, how’s Gustavo working out?” Pasqual snorted. “He’s adequate. A good worker when he remembers that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s done two runs with cigars now and nothing bad has happened. I think he’d be a solid pilot if he’d quit playing the boss.” “I’ll remind him of his place.” Enrique grinned, then nodded his thanks when the bartender appeared with another rum. “You be honest with me about him, Pasqual. Miguel is serious about him earning his place. If he doesn’t cut it, we must know. The operation’s too important to be put at risk by an idiot, even if he is related to us.” He almost chuckled when he remembered what Miguel had actually said about good cousin Gustavo. “Have there been any other problems?” “No. Nothing worth talking about, anyhow. There’s a crew working down close to one of our runs, but we don’t use it so much so I’m not worried about them.” “And the clubs?” “That’s going well. Demand is growing, but we’re bringing enough in to keep it covered and still have extra to sell to the Haitians when they come calling. But if we have another thing like that freighter…” “I know.” Enrique sipped his rum. Thinking. “Look, I want you to send a warning to this new crew. Nothing big. Maybe just suggest they find someplace else to work.” “What did you have in mind?” “Oh, I don’t know. Burn their dock if they have one. Maybe blow up a boat. Just let them know we mean business and there’s a cost to doing business on our turf.” “Ok. I might need one or two of those big Cubans to make that happen, though. This crew’s mostly Columbian, so they have firepower.” “I’ll let Miguel know. And if they’re Columbians all the more reason to dig them out now. Little bastards are like termites.” The run from the marina to The Outboard wasn’t much, but Sonny made the most of it by swinging wide out and then coming back in. The salt air on his face cleared his head, and there was something soothing about the thump of the twin V-8s as the Scarab hit her stride. The water was calm and the sky clear, making for fantastic boating. Next to him, Rico gripped the cockpit frame as he heeled the boat around. “This beast can really move!” “Yeah, she does pretty good.” Sonny shot a quick glance at his partner. “Still ain’t much for sea legs, are you?” “Where I grew up the most sea time you saw was on a damned ferry. So, no, sea legs ain’t my thing.” “We need to something about that sometime, Rico.” Sonny opened the engines again, sending the Scarab shooting toward the shore and smiling as he felt the prow climb out of the water. “But we got business now.” He eased back on the throttles as they got closer to the dock, feeling the usual pang of sadness as the big boat settled back down into the water. The engines were just idling when Sonny steered the boat up against the long dock and hopped out to make the lines fast. Getting back in, he shut down and turned to Rico. “Let’s go see what we can see. I’m looking for some custom work for the boat and you’re a ‘business associate’ from up north along for the ride.” “Solid.” Rico looked up the dock toward a structure looking something like a gas station projecting out just over the water. “That must be the place.” “Yeah. Kinda hard to miss with that damned sign.” “Who the hell outlines an outboard motor with red neon?” “Only in Miami.” Sonny slipped on his Ray Bans and lit a Lucky Strike, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. “Let’s go see who’s home.” The clerk barely looked up from his Jugs magazine. “Rent on the dock’s two buck an hour, gents.” Sonny took a step and leaned partway over the counter. “I ain’t here to rent dock space, Jack. Got a boat that could use some tuning, and I hear you’re the ones to see.” He looked around and snorted. “So far I can’t say I’m impressed. What Motorboat Saul sees in this dump…” The clerk couldn’t have been much over eighteen, and his tough look was ruined by the red splotches of acne on his nose and chin. “First off, this ain’t no dump. And second, who told you Saul was here?” “In my line of work you know these things.” “And what work is that?” “Transport. Name’s Sonny Burnett.” The clerk gave a slow nod. “Yeah, I think I heard the name. Who’s the spook?” Rico grinned and let the Armani coat fall open enough to show the pistol grip of his cut-down Mossberg. “That’s sir spook to you, chump.” “Sorry.” The kid’s eyes went wide. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, sir.” Then he turned back to Sonny. “Look, Saul’s workin’ on a motor right now. I can get word you want to see him, but there’s no…” “Sure. Just do it before my friend here gets restless. I told him we’d do the beach bikini tour before it got dark.” The kid disappeared through a door into the shop, and two minutes later he came back with a skinny man with a pencil mustache who looked like he’d been dipped in motor oil. “Vinnie said you needed some work done,” he said in a voice as thin as the mustache. “Yeah. The Scarab tied up out there. It feels like she’s running rough in the port engine, and I’d like to get a few more knots out of her.” Sonny gave his best Burnett grin. “Competition’s getting faster every day.” “Power boat racing?” “Something like that.” Saul nodded, his head bobbing like it was about to break loose from his neck. “I can take a look. But my work don’t come cheap.” “The best never does. Hear you did a good tune job for Pasqual. I’d like the same.” The head stopped moving. “Who?” “Guy named Pasqual.” “You know him?” “No. Not personally. But one of my associates does. We were talkin’ boats and he said Pasqual has one of the fastest working the Keys. He also said you were the man to talk to if you wanted something that fast.” “Sounds like your friend talks too much.” Sonny chuckled. “You know, I told him the same thing.” Rico made a show of looking at his Rolex. “Burnett, we got that meeting soon. I hate to cut this date short, but…” Saul turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go look at this boat.” The mechanic spent ten minutes crawling all over the engines, starting them, and testing the throttles before coming up for air. “You got a good baseline, Burnett. But sounds like your carbs need cleaning, and there’s something catching in the throttle on the starboard engine.” He narrowed his eyes. “She usually run with just passengers?” “Not always. In my business speed is king.” “Yeah.” Saul stood on the dock, staring down at the boat. “I get that kinda business.” “If you can work the same magic on her you did for Pasqual’s boat…” Saul narrowed his eyes. “That’ll cost you.” “If it’s that good, it’s worth it.” “What’d you say your name was?” “Sonny Burnett. That’s B-U-R-N-E-double T.” The mechanic nodded slow. “I might have a spot later this week. Drop back by tomorrow and I’ll know for sure.” Turning, he walked back toward the shop without another word. Rico was about to say something, but Sonny raised his hand. “Come on, Cooper. We gotta make that meeting of yours unless you want to lose the load.” He cast off before jumping on board and easing the Scarab away from the dock. “What the hell was that about?” “He’s gotta check on me. Make sure someone knows my name and that I’m not a cop.” Sonny chuckled as he steered the big boat toward open water and opened the throttles. “Old Saul ain’t in the crowd Burnett normally runs with.” “Maybe we’d better change that, partner.” Sonny was about to shake his head, but something stopped him. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Rico. Sonny Burnett needs to up his status a bit. Again.”

Miami, early 1986 After Junk Love and Bought and Paid For “Where are we on the Pelican’s Nest investigation?” Sonny Crockett looked at his fingernails. “Nowhere, lieutenant. The run I did for Forsythe went fine, but when we got pulled off he went somewhere else for his transportation needs. I’m still in touch with him, but that’s all.” Ricardo Tubbs nodded. “Same thing with Newton Blade. He said he’s happy to take ‘investments’ for a couple of clubs, but I don’t think he bought Cooper having to drop out of sight for a couple of weeks. I haven’t been able to get him to mention any product since. He just keeps saying ‘all in good time,’ an’ it sounds to me like that means never.” Sonny wanted to say more, but held his tongue. Goddamned politics! Pulled us off the best leads we’d had on Blade or Otis for years. Yeah, we got a couple of bad guys, but now we gotta start over. “Any word on when Gina will be back?” “Detective Calabrese is still being debriefed by Internal Affairs. Once that’s completed I suggested she take a week or so to get her head straight.” Castillo looked up, his eyes darker than usual. “I understand her frustration, but we are not judge jury, and executioner in this unit. We do our jobs, and if we don’t do them by the book people get hurt. I trust that’s clear.” “Crystal clear, lieutenant.” Sonny didn’t believe the words even as he said them. He knew just how Gina felt…watching some rich punk bastard get away with rape. The ones with the silver spoons were the most vicious, and usually got rewarded with a slap on the wrist and maybe a stern talking to before they went out and did it again. And again. Rico seemed to sense his anger. “So what do we do with Pelican’s Nest?” “Put it on hold.” “Yeah…we’ll wait another two years and hope we get lucky.” “That’s enough.” Castillo glared across his desk. “Until Detective Calabrese is returned to duty status, we’ll be running shorthanded. And there have been a series of drug-related homicides that need our attention.” Sonny managed to contain his frustration until they were back in the squad room. “So now we just sit on our asses? Cleaning up after Homicide because they ran out of leads and decided to say their murders were ‘drug related’? Drug related my ass.” Stan shifted in his chair. “True for half of ‘em. Maybe not for the other two. The ones over in Liberty City…yeah, I can believe they were random. One was a speed junkie who tried to rob the wrong corner store and got ventilated by a bunch of 9mm rounds. Owner didn’t kill him, but odds are one of his relatives did. The other was a pimp who’d been feuding with another pimp until it started raining buckshot one night and he went out without an umbrella.” Larry nodded. “But the other two…should ring a couple of bells for you, Sonny.” “Don’t tell me….45s at close range?” “Give that man a prize.” Stan chuckled. “Not the single round to the head, but two in the chest. One was a two-bit pusher in Brickell and the other guy had a boat he thought was fast.” “Just like the late and unlamented Jaime.” Rico was nodding slowly. “How long ago did these happen? Not the two chumps in Liberty City. Homicide can keep them.” “The guy in Brickell showed up in an alley about a week ago.” Stan looked down at his notes. “The guy with the boat was two days ago. And they burned the boat, too.” “Just like Jaime again. They find…” “They moved him over to the cold case pile.” Larry shook his head. “And we know what that means.” “I’m guessing you two read over the case files. Homicide find any connections, aside from them both being dead?” “Nothing, Rico.” Larry gave one of his half smiles. “But I don’t know how hard they looked. As soon as they could drum up a drug connection, they dumped them off on us.” Sonny fished a cigarette out of the almost-empty pack and lit it. “Call me crazy, Rico, but there’s something here. I can almost smell it.” “Naw, that’s just Switek’s cigar.” Stan puffed up a bit in his floral Hawaiian shirt. “Hey! This is top quality stuff, Rico!” “They’re all connected. It’s a damned line running from Jaime straight to these two jokers.” Sonny sent a cloud of smoke floating toward the ceiling. “Look…who else in town uses .45s these days?” “Cubans. That whole Bay of Pigs vibe.” “Joo got it, meng. But then you gotta ask why the Cubans would be knocking off a collection of small-timers like this? Chuckie included.” “Why Chuckie?” “The routes he was using. Like the man said, he liked the old ways. And a .45 to the head is about as old way as it gets.” “But that still don’t answer why the Cubans.” “I know. This ain’t really their game. Unless they’re working for someone else. Maybe just a few Cubans working for someone else.” Stan piped up. “Yeah. You know, it wasn’t so long ago they had those training camps out in the swamps. All the old anti-Castro guys out playing army.” Larry shook his head. “Maybe. But it still doesn’t answer Tubbs’ question. Who are the Cubans working for?” Sonny slammed his hand down on his desk. Hard. It’s been staring me in the damned face! “What do most of these bozos have in common? They were sniffing around something that involved the Mendoza family. Jaime worked for the uncle, right? Chuckie was getting too close to their routes. Maybe that goofball Joaquin did the same thing. Now we got a dealer in Brickell, where one of my CIs says someone new is getting in the coke game, and another boat guy. Just like Jaime.” “Weren’t there some Haitians, too?” Rico nodded. “Yeah. Shot up and dumped in Little Haiti. Homicide thought it was gang-related.” Sonny shook his head. “Maybe. Or maybe they just got too close to the Mendozas.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Trudy! That guy Gina said got the girls for the Bolivians. Pasqual Benitez. He’s connected to the Mendozas, isn’t he?” “He worked for a charter service.” Trudy stopped typing and looked over at Sonny. “I don’t know which one, though. We didn’t get the workup on him until after the Ivory Jones thing started. And then Odette.” “Could you check for me, darlin’? Because if we have another connection, we have an outfit that’s not only tied to a major supplier but seems to be expanding and taking out any competition.” “Why haven’t we heard of them before?’ Castillo stood in his office doorway, appearing as he often did without any warning. “I don’t know, lieutenant. Maybe because they’re careful. This is a family that’s been smuggling for generations, so if it’s them they know the game inside and out.” He paused. “Right now it’s just a feeling. But it all fits.” Castillo stood for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes. “Check it out. If there’s a connection, I want to know. Like you said, they’ve been doing this for at least three generations. If they’re back in the game, they’re a threat.” Once Castillo retreated back to his office, Rico let out a low whistle. “Man, I thought your cracker goose was cooked.” “So did I, Rico. But I think he feels it, too. Someone’s trying too hard to make this look random.” “I found it, Sonny.” Trudy smiled, holding up a fax. “He used to work for the uncle’s charter service. Jesus Estevez is the uncle’s name.” “I know that name. Guy’s a legend with the sports fishing crowd.” Sonny stubbed out his cigarette in the full ashtray on his desk. “He’s been taking people out for about thirty years, I think. Knows more about the Keys than anyone alive, and the rest of the northern Caribbean as well.” “So if this cat worked for him…” “He’s going to be a walking chart of that area, too. At least the routes he worked.” Sonny grinned. “I think it’s time we developed a special interest in Pasqual Benitez.” The moon was a silver crescent on the calm water, and Enrique Mendoza smiled. Let the others stick to their nights of the new moon. With the routes he knew, light on the water held no terrors. They can’t see you if you’re close to land. He looked over at Pasqual. “The pick-up went smoothly enough.” “Yeah. I don’t trust those Bolivians yet, though. Too jumpy for my taste.” “Sure, but they’re freighter’s untraceable. And this beast can outrun anything the Coast Guard has.” He nodded toward the dark shadow sitting in the aft bay. “And that big ape would settle any jumpy Bolivian quick enough.” “I know. Hell, he settles me quick enough, and I’m on his side.” “Miguel’s right, though. We need security on both ends of this thing now.” Enrique checked the radar one last time. “Looks like that idiot in the cabin cruiser is clear. Let’s make the last leg and get this stuff on dry land. Then it becomes someone else’s problem.” Pasqual nodded and opened the throttles wide, the boom of the twin V-8s echoing across the flat water and bouncing off the low coastline to starboard. Soon the boat and its cargo, forty kilos of prime Bolivian flake, was skimming over the water. This was always Enrique’s favorite part of the job, and he had to work to keep from shouting as the wind whipped at his thick hair. Miguel doesn’t know what he’s missing cooped up in that old pile of bricks. This is the real life! He kept one eye on the radar as the boat raced on, poised to give a command if anything popped up on the scope. But it stayed clear, as it almost always did in this stretch of water at this time of night. When the lights of Miami started banishing the stars, Enrique laid a hand on Pasqual’s shoulder. “Better bring her down now. Too many ears soon enough.” Nodding, Pasqual cut back on the throttles and sighed as the boat’s prow dipped down to touch the water. “Seems like we have to do that farther out with each run.” “In a way we do. Too many assholes trying to make high speed runs around here always brings out the Coast Guard.” Pasqual nodded. Than his brow furrowed. “Did the Bolivians tell you anything about why tonight’s package was light?” “Nothing I believed. The fat one was going on about production problems or something, but his eyes kept shifting. I think we were outbid. That or they got ripped off somewhere between Bolivia and the drop site and he was trying to figure out how to lie to his boss about it.” “I thought we had an exclusive deal.” “So did I. You can be sure Miguel will hear all about it when we’re done.” Enrique chuckled. “The good news is the idiots we’re delivering to won’t know the difference. Hell, I don’t think they can even count to forty without help.” The deal went down at one of the crumbling docks dotting the coast north of Miami…the remains of some fisherman’s dream converted to other, more profitable uses. Enrique saw the two BMWs before he saw the men, and he made sure they saw the big Cuban with the shotgun before they saw him. “Let’s get this done,” he said. “I’ve got places to be. You got the money?” “Sure.” The spokesman was a rail-thin Haitian with hooded eyes and a wide-brimmed fedora he thought made him look tough. Taking two steps forward, he dropped a gym bag on the rotting planks of the dock. “Unzip it. The bag, asshole, not something else.” Enrique took two steps back toward the boat, taking a matching bag from Pasqual. He unzipped it, letting the plastic-wrapped bricks show before he dropped it next to the money. It was joined by three more bags while the silent Cuban checked the money and gave a nod of approval. “We need to check it.” “Knock yourselves out.” Enrique made sure he was in arm’s reach of the money while the Haitian used a folding knife to cut slits in three bricks, one from each bag, and ran test kits on each one. When the last one turned bright blue, he grinned. “Good to go, mon. Pleasure doing business with you.” “Likewise.” The lie slid of Enrique’s tongue. “You know who to call if you need more of the same.” He picked up the gym back full of cash and zipped it shut. Turning, he walked back to the boat and jumped aboard, knowing the Cuban was backing down the dock behind him. They never turned their backs on customers. It was a short run down the coast to the boat’s current home, and soon enough Enrique was driving his Corvette back toward the family estate. His eyes were heavy once the rush of the run wore off, but he wanted to let Miguel know about the Bolivians while it was still in his mind. He grinned, thinking of the gym bag locked in his trunk. And get the money taken care of. Even though it was almost three in the morning, he found Miguel up and waiting in the downstairs parlor. “I had a feeling,” he explained, accepting the gym bag and dropping it on the floor next to his feet. “How did it go? And why the second bag?” “Good. Aside from the Bolivians shorting us half of the load. They had forty kilos instead of eighty, and the fat one was making thin excuses.” “Really.” Miguel’s eyes grew darker, and Enrique always thought he looked more like a pirate when he was angry. “I trust they only got paid for forty.” “Of course. The remainder of the buy money’s in the second bag.” Taking a step forward, he dropped the second bag next to the first. “I counted it in front of them so there were no misunderstandings.” “I suppose it saves us the trouble of trying to store it, but it’s still disappointing.” Miguel paused, looking down at the bags by his feet. “Do you think it was intentional?” “Yes. Either we were outbid or the fat one decided to go into business for himself. I don’t think he has the balls for that, so we’re left with the first option.” “I see.” Another pause. “And the Haitians?” “Dumb as usual. They sent the one with the stupid hat again. But they paid for their forty, and got forty. No problems from them or the run. Only the Bolivians.” “Go home. Get some rest, brother. You look tired as hell.” Miguel smiled. “I’ll look into the Bolivians and let you know what I learn.” As soon as Enrique left, Miguel let out a low curse. Then a series of curses. He’d expected Santos to pull something, but not this soon in their arrangement. He would never have called it a partnership. What was it his father said? The Mendozas don’t have partners. They have allies of convenience. And the old man was right about that. There was a phone on a small table just to the left of the overstuffed leather sofa, and Miguel was to it in three steps. Punching in a number, he waited and was rewarded in six rings with a sleepy “Hello?” “Esteban. My apologies for waking you so early. But we have a problem with our friend to the south.” It always amazed him how quickly the Cuban could become fully awake. Maybe there was something to that swamp training, after all. “I see. A big problem or a little one?” “An annoyance for now, but with the potential to get big quickly. I need some background. It seems our shipment was less than expected.” There was a moment of silence. “I’ll get on it. It might take some time…” “Take what you need. I want accuracy, not speed. And we both know our friends can be a bit…touchy.” Once Esteban hung up, Miguel replaced the receiver and stood in the dim room. The only light came from a pair of small wall sconces near the door, and he saw no reason to turn on any other lights. He did some of his best thinking in the darkness. The last month had been good. Regular shipments once a week, all the same quantity and all moved within days. Some, he knew, moved to Fort Lauderdale, while a few kilos likely ended up in Daytona Beach and other locations. It didn’t matter. The money was all the same, and they got paid no matter where the product went next. And the routes Jesus provided helped Enrique spread the traffic around, preventing patterns some bright spark in the Coast Guard might notice. Things had been going good…maybe too good. He hated having to deal with the Bolivians, especially since he lacked the firepower to take them out. Their product was good, and the supply dependable. Until now. It was a fairly easy thing to find cocaine…Columbia, Bolivia, and Peru were all producing it by the ton. But a dependable supply was another thing. So far they’d been dependable. Maybe there was a good explanation for what happened tonight. Maybe… And if not, he’d show them the Mendoza family was not to be trifled with. The single-wide trailer had seen better days. Fifteen years ago. Now the roof sagged in one corner, the windows were covered with clear construction plastic instead of glass, and the inside reeked of mildew and rotting garbage. No one lived here, except for maybe an occasional wandering junkie looking for a place out of the rain to get high. Located at the end of a winding dirt road vanishing into the wetlands, it didn’t even see many of them. But that’s what made it attractive to Esteban Morales. The man tied to the chair was somewhere between fat and thin, sliding down the steep slope to forty. His lank black hair was plastered to his head by sweat, and blood leaked from a number of cuts on his face. Wires clipped to various parts of his body led away to a hand-cranked radio generator…another trick learned from the old men. They used to say it was ‘the call everyone answered eventually.’ Two of his men stood guard outside, Mini-14s cradled in their arms. A third sat at a small table, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and his hand on the generator’s crank handle. Esteban stood just outside the bound man’s vision, close enough to hear him but not close enough to risk shock from the generator. “I want you to think before you answer.” The Spanish rolled smoothly off his tongue. “Think very carefully. I will know when you lie, and you’ll get another taste. You don’t want that, do you?” The close air was thick with the smell of fear, sweat, and piss. Already the man had soiled his pants, and the evening was still young. But he was alert enough to shake his head. “No.” “Good. Then let’s talk. Why was the cocaine shipment short forty kilos? Did your fat friend take it, or was it short when it left Bolivia?” “I…don’t know.” “Oh, I think you do know.” Turning, Esteban nodded to his man. The handle turned twice, and the man’s screams startled birds from the surrounding trees. “See? That helped your memory, did it not? Now…again. Was it the fat man or the boss?” “I think it was the fat man.” Spit dribbled from the man’s broken lips onto his chest. “I know we had the full eighty on the boat, and he told us to only move half. Please. I don’t know if it was his idea alone or if he was following orders.” “But there were eighty kilos on the boat?” The man tied to the chair was one of the freighter’s deck hands. He’d worked this trip and the one before, but he wasn’t one of Santos’s regular men. Esteban’s hunters had snatched him up outside a run-down bar near the port of entry after learning he’d been paid off in Miami and wasn’t making a return trip. “Yes. I helped load it. There were eighty kilos on the boat. I swear on my mother.” “Shall I give him another?” Esteban shook his head. “No. He’s told us what he knows. It doesn’t answer the whole question, but it’s a start.” He turned back to the man. “Thank you.” Then he pulled his Colt and shot him through the head. The boom of the shot echoed off the thin metal walls. “Let’s move. Make sure you get all your gear.” He holstered his smoking pistol and headed for the door. “I have a report to make.” “What about the body?” “Leave it. The swamp will claim it soon enough.” He paused at the top of the collapsing wooden stairs. “On second thought, burn it. Judging from the crap in the back it’s been used by speed cooks more than once. A fire here won’t seem unusual to anyone. And by the time they figure out our friend’s been shot…it won’t really matter. They’ll just figure he was a guard who got in someone’s way, or maybe a cook who tried to fight back.” The man nodded. “Collateral damage.” “Exactly. See to it, please.” “Explain to me again why we got the call.” Larry ZIto leaned forward in the bug van’s passenger seat and shot Stanly Switek an inquisitive look. “Because this ain’t a flashy coke bust at a swanky club.” Stan made the last turn, sending the van rocking down a narrow dirt road he would have missed if dispatch hadn’t given clear directions. He could just see the red cruiser lights flashing their pattern through the trees and underbrush. “Someone’s meth lab blows up? Send Stan and Larry.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but knew he’d failed. “You think it’s someone we know?” “Naw. The cooks we know of are too careful. Or in lockup. If this was a cook, it’s someone new. I’d bet my Elvis wig on it.” “Which one? The good one or that one you got at the Graceland gift shop a couple of years back?” “Come on, Lar. You know I ain’t gonna risk the good one.” Stan grinned, glad as usual Larry had been able to lighten his mood. “Looks like the coroner’s team beat us here. Crime Scene, too.” “Bet they called us last. Homicide probably punted as soon as they thought there might be even a trace of speed here.” Nodding, Stan stopped the van and jumped out. “Have no fear! Vice is here!” He grinned when a couple of the patrol guys chuckled. “What do we have?” One of the ME’s people turned away from the smoking rubble. “Looks like someone’s single wide went up in smoke. We’re just waiting on crime scene to release the body so we can haul him off.” Stan nodded. “Come on, Lar. Let’s go see if it’s anyone we know.” Whatever had been in the trailer had burned hot, melting some of the metal toward the back and turning the interior to so much charcoal. Stan picked his way around two techs poking through what might have been the kitchen and stopped next to two other techs taking pictures of what might have once been a man handcuffed to a chair. The cuffs and the steel chair frame were the only things keeping the body in place, and the stench of burned flesh, hair, and metal filled the air. Larry cleared his throat. “Fire kill him?” “Only if the fire was packing heat.” The tech chuckled at his own bad joke. “We’ll know more once the ME’s boys can do their thing, but it looks like this one was shot in the head.” He pointed to a dark circle and waved to take in the entire shattered skull. “Probably killed before the fire. You know him?” “Sure. I go to clubs all the time with crispy critters.” Stan shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a speed cook, though. He’s too big.” “Someone cooked here once, though.” The tech jabbed his thumb toward the smoking remains. “Looks like a small lab in the back there. Where the fire started.” “Fire or explosion?” “I’d say fire, but we’re not done with the scene yet. Doesn’t seem to be enough shrapnel for an explosion.” He turned back to Stan. “How’d you two catch this one?” “Homicide must be busy, and the Hardy Boys are out looking for leads in those fancy new clubs.” “Yeah. I feel ya.” The man grinned. “We’re done with the back if you want to have a look around.” Stan looked at Larry, who shrugged. “Why not? Might as well do something to justify the gas we burned getting out here.” He pulled a flashlight out of his back pocket. “Come on, Lar. Let’s see what this fella was cooking.” Stan had just made his way into what might have been the back bedroom before the walls melted when Larry let out a long sigh. “I don’t think anyone was cooking here, Stan. At least not in the last month or so.” “Yeah, I gotta agree.” Stan played his light along the remains of the back wall before shutting it off. “No chemicals I can see, and like the man said this don’t look like an explosion. More like someone stacked some greasy rags in the corner and tossed in a match.” Larry nodded. “Maybe a gas can or two, if this melted red plastic is anything to go by.” He stepped out of the small side bedroom. “So what do we do?” “Head back in and report. Won’t be able to say more until the final stuff comes in from the ME and crime scene, but whatever happened here didn’t have anything to do with speed or cooking. And I WILL bet my good Elvis wig on that.” “You’re positive?” Stan looked at Larry and nodded. “We won’t know for sure until the reports come back, lieutenant, but based on what we saw I’m sure this had nothing to do with speed. Maybe a deal gone bad, but there was no cooking going on in that dump.” He eased back in his chair, pleased with the report. “And there’s nothing on the street?” Larry shook his head. “No word we’ve heard about any big deals going down. Since the Hell’s Angels took their show north it’s been pretty quiet on that front, lieutenant. A few small operations, but nothing big enough to kill someone over.” Sonny Crockett snorted. “Come on, Zito. You know as well as I do those speed cowboys will shoot each other over damned near anything.” Stan looked over at Sonny. “Not like this. This guy was handcuffed to a chair and shot in the head. That’s not how this crowd plays. They like shotguns and stuff like that.” He paused, thinking back to the burned cinder that had once been a man. “Besides, guy didn’t look right. What was left of him., anyhow. You know coke dealers, Lar and I know this crowd.” “Yeah. He was too big. And no chains. The biker speed freaks always have chains on their wallets or some crap.” Larry looked down at his fingernails. “Stan’s right. This guy wasn’t part of that crowd.” “That and there were no bikes around. No tire tracks. Not one left behind. Crankheads would have torched the guy’s bike if it was a deal gone bad. Crime scene said they found tire tracks, but from passenger cars. They’re trying to ID them now.” Stan paused. Gathering his courage. “The thing is, lieutenant, someone wanted this to look like a lab explosion. They started the fire back where someone had cooked once, but not recently. Why go to that much trouble to try to keep us from IDing the body?” Martin Castillo nodded. “We’ll stay on it until the lab reports come back. I want to know how this man died, and possibly who he is.” “Aw come on, lieutenant. We’ve got other…” “If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll hand it back to Homicide.” Castillo looked up. “That’s all. Switek, Zito. Stay on this one. Crockett, Tubbs, keep looking for someone who can lead us to Pasqual Benitez. I expect updates as soon as you know something. Follow every lead you can. We need a way in to the Mendoza organization, if that’s what it is.” OCB shifts to King’s Pawn

“You see that thing on the news this morning?” Sonny Crockett rubbed his eyes before answering. “Yeah…something about dead bodies and a burned boat. And Cubans.” He reached for his coffee cup. “That’s why you don’t stick your nose in Little Havana, Rico.” “Except the stiff wasn’t Cuban. Some joker named Joaquin Falcone. Him and his cousins.” “Small time, Rico. One guy with a boat he thought was fast and two cousins who’d seen Scarface more than was good for them.” Stan Switek looked up from a report he was bashing out on an electric typewriter. “Hey! I know that guy. Knew him, anyhow. I guess his head’s scattered all over the front of that boat shed.” “I didn’t know you worked Little Havana.” “I don’t Sonny. And neither did he. Last I heard he was trying to move into the powder market. Lar and I bumped into him when we were working that numbers racket over by Liberty City. Him and his two cousins. They worked enforcement for the numbers runner, an’ I think Falcone was still moving pot. That right, Lar?” Larry Zito looked up from his own report and nodded, his lank hair bobbing with the movement. “Sure. I remember them. Dumber than rocks. But Joaquin had ambition. No brains, but ambition. Heard one of the cousins had a beef with someone over in Brickell not too long ago.” “It’s not our case.” Martin Castillo’s voice echoed from the doorway to his office, ending all speculation. “Homicide’s taking it. Gangs might be involved, too. I want an update on Pelican’s Nest.” Sonny nodded. What Stan and Larry said was sticking in his brain, but he could also see Castillo was in a mood. And only a complete idiot provoked Castillo when he was in a mood. “I’m meeting Forsythe this afternoon, and Rico’s got a line on Blade around the same time. I don’t think I’ll need backup for the cigar deal. Otis ain’t the kind to try a rip.” “You’ll be wired. You or your boat. Your call on which, but there will be a wire.” “Roger that, lieutenant. Stan, you got something that will work on the boat? Otis might not check me, but I don’t know who he’s dealing with.” “You got it, Sonny.” Stan nodded and started digging through one of his larger desk drawers. “Got a rig in here Larry and I were working on. It’s good out to thirty yards or so, and it’s a fixed unit so there’s no transmissions to detect or go south.” “Set it up on the boat as soon as you can. For all I know Otis might want to go today.” Sonny grinned. “Don’t worry. Elvis is on the Dance. He don’t like the Scarab much. It upsets his stomach.” “We may be pulled off this in a couple of days.” Castillo’s voice was flat, and Sonny watched as he rubbed his eyes for a moment. “There’s an assignment in the pipeline the chief wants us to give our full attention to.” “Come on, lieutenant!” Sonny snapped in spite of himself. “This is the closest we’ve ever gotten to Newton Blade, and it might be our only real chance to get something worthwhile on Forsythe. Can’t someone else…” “No. I offered Dibble and Gorman, but they’re not the right fit for this assignment.” Sonny was about to snap again when Rico stepped in. “How long do we have, lieutenant?” “Two days at the most.” Castillo looked up for a moment. “Make them count.” Once Castillo returned to his office, Sonny sat down with a snarl. “Damned politics, Rico. This has politics written all over it. Someone’s wife got her panties in a twist because she saw a hooker near her favorite beach and now we gotta do a sweep.” “It’s the Job, Sonny.” Rico sat down with a grin. “You know that. Comes with the territory.” “Yeah, I know. I know.” Sonny glared at the stack of files on the corner of his desk. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He paused, letting some thoughts slide into place. “Hey, Larry! You get a chance, see if you can find out what Falcone’s cousin was beefing about in Brickell. Something doesn’t feel right about that whole thing.” “Sure, Sonny. You know, there’s new clubs going into Brickell.” Larry gave a lopsided grin. “New markets and all that.” “You don’t say…” Sonny let the thought rattle around with the other loose facts in his head. Then he looked at his watch. “We’d better get rollin’, Rico, if we want to make our dates.” “Excellent work with that Falcone cockroach.” Miguel Mendoza stood on the balcony overlooking a swimming pool and manicured yards. Next to the study this was his favorite place in the entire house. “The press are busy chattering about Cuban gangsters, and the police are going in circles.” Esteban Morales shifted from one foot to the other. “It was sloppy, jefe. Successful, but sloppy. I need more time to recruit and train men. As we’re discussed before.” “And I understand your concerns, Esteban. Really, I do. But time is not something we have in this business. Ricky’s man is opening up Brickell to us now that Falcone is gone, and Santos is getting impatient.” A quick flash of anger touched Esteban’s eyes. “Screw that Bolivian bastard. He’s just lucky he didn’t seriously damage any of those girls he wanted. As it is, I hear the cops are sniffing around one or two of them. Looking for statements.” “There’s nothing to connect back to us?” “No, jefe. Not that I know of, at least.” Esteban sniffed. “My men were not involved with that at all.” He paused. “Do you want me to…” “No. If we move against them, it makes the police dig more. If these girls can only point to Santos or his apes, it’s not our problem. He’s out of Metro-Dade’s reach in any case.” Miguel smiled. “No, we let that one go. But to your manpower problem…maybe we should have two squads. One you use for simple things, and a smaller one trained to your standards who can take on the hard jobs. Do you have man you can trust without question?” “Lupe.” There was no hesitation in Esteban’s voice. “A couple more after that, but Lupe was part of my combat group.” “Of course.” Miguel didn’t hint at what he thought of the old Cubans still replaying the Bay of Pigs in the swamps around Miami. “Place him in charge of the lesser men. Use them like we talked about before…boat security, warehouse guards, maybe muscle for the occasional deal. Small things requiring brawn but not necessarily skill. Your others…” “Hold them in the palm of my hand and use them for the difficult tasks.” “Exactly. We talked about this before, but then it was an idea. Now, I think it’s the way we must proceed.” Miguel looked down, seeing a slender girl in a black bikini stand for a moment beside the pool before diving in and starting to swim laps. Another of Ricky’s toys? He needs to be more careful about bringing them here. If papa sees one... “But with Falcone out of the way, he take our next step. Let me know what you need. And keep an eye on those girls.” Miguel stayed on the balcony after Esteban left, admiring the slim form and graceful moves of the girl in the pool. He had to admit his brother had excellent taste in women, even if he lacked a certain level of discretion with them. He smiled. People often compared him to a pirate based on his looks, but Ricky had the more swashbuckling temperament. “I think she has a cousin.” “And I suppose you’ve slept with her as well, yes?” Miguel chuckled. “There’s no way I could keep up with you even if I tried, brother.” Ricky laughed as he strolled out on the balcony. “It helps me relax. You should try it sometime.” “Maybe once we get settled with Santos I will. But for now there’s just too much to do.” “I saw Falcone went up in smoke. Our doing, I’d guess, even though I know nothing about that.” “And if for some reason the police were to ask, you’d be answering them honestly. Just like I’d answer honestly if they asked me who operated our boats or what routes they take.” Miguel finally took his eyes off the girl, but the memory of her slim legs stayed in his brain. “It’s…” “…better that way. Yes, I know. And I agree. Still, it’s a good thing he’s gone. And his cousin with him. Now my man can work his magic in Brickell.” Ricky grinned. “We already have a line into one of the newer clubs, and the other is even bigger with a richer client base. I don’t plan to sell directly to them, though. Only to the dealers who service the market. And those men won’t know where the coke comes from. Just that it’s available and of high quality.” “Good. I’ll be giving you some men to guard your operations. They aren’t of the same caliber as the ones who handled Falcone, but they can shoot straight and follow orders.” Ricky laughed again, loud enough this time that the girl in the pool stopped swimming and looked up at them. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Holly. Keep swimming! Enjoy the morning!” He turned back to Miguel. “That’s exactly what we need. Men to ride along when we meet with Santos’ apes and also to watch the deals on shore.” “Give me a number when you can. I’ll send them to the boat sheds and tell them to follow your orders without question. If any give trouble, let me know.” His eyes stayed back to the pool for a moment, and he felt a familiar pain. Later. This isn’t the time. “The gators always need feeding.” “Sonny! Rico! Just in time for coffee! And I must say the kitchen here makes the best damned cup in the city.” Otis Forsythe, dressed in an immaculate yachting jacket and pale yellow shirt with a darker yellow tie, looked up from the morning paper. “Please. Join me. “Kyle! Two cups and a pot if you please.” Sonny nodded and sat. “Thanks, Otis, but I ain’t got much time to chat. Time is money, or so they tell me.” “Yes, I do believe some vulgar Yankees do claim that.” Otis smiled. “But speed doesn’t always equal profit. Or so grandpappy said.” Rico chuckled, accepting a cup from the waiter and watching him pour steaming coffee. “I see Newton’s supertanker is still tied up. The man come ashore yet?” “Heavens no! I don’t think Newton is upright before noon. But he did mention last night he was anxious to talk to you, Rico. I expect him sometime around two. Maybe later if some of his lady friends happened to remain on board.” “You might be on your own, Cooper.” Sonny pitched his voice into the ‘impatient Burnett’ range. “I got business this afternoon. One way or the other.” He shot Otis a penetrating glance. “Your little job still on?” “Of course. But not until this evening. These things are better handled at night, don’t you agree?” Otis reached into the side pocket of his jacket and came up with a card. “Have your boat at this dock before ten tonight. I’ll be waiting for you.” Sonny glanced at the card before dropping it in his own jacket pocket. They’d track the address later. “Don’t be late.” “I should say the same to you. I don’t expect this will take more than an hour. Maybe two if there are pesky Coast Guard patrols.” Otis smiled again. “But I don’t anticipate that. We’re going into quiet waters.” Then he seemed to dismiss Sonny. “Rico, would you care for a bite of lunch while we wait? I expect Sonny has that business to attend to.” “Yeah. I’ll see you tonight. Cooper, you good to get back to your hotel?” “Solid. This could take awhile.” Sonny finished his coffee and got to his feet. He didn’t like leaving Rico alone, but he’d already played the other business card. There wasn’t any way he could linger without raising Otis’s suspicions. And he knew Otis had a well-honed sense of caution, no matter how good his Southern fried fruit act happened to be. “I’ll see you tonight, Otis.” “Always busy, that one. But you…” Rico chuckled. “I pick my spots. And right now this is a spot for taking it easy.” Otis nodded around his Cuban sandwich. “Oh, I agree, Rico. One hundred percent. But Newton, he might not. I can never tell with that boy. One minute he’s the very picture of bone idle, and the next he’s simply abuzz with ideas and activity. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was sampling his own product. But our Newton’s far too careful for that.” “Solid. Only a fool has himself for a customer in that line of work.” “And here he is now! Newton, you’re running a bit early today.” Newton Blade flashed one of his room-spanning smiles. “Otis. And Mr. Cooper. May I join you, gentlemen?” He slid into a chair without waiting for a reply, angling it to one side so he could stretch out his long legs. Rico noticed he was wearing Armani. Rumpled, but still Armani. No mistaking that needlework. “Just coffee for me, thanks,” he said when the waiter appeared. “I have an engagement elsewhere before too long.” “I thought we had business to discuss.” “We do, Rico. The thing is, I don’t have a lot of room in the investment portfolio at the moment. My clubs are at max, and I need to add a couple more artists before I can start moving money through concert tours again.” He smiled again. “A big investor came on board shortly after we spoke. But I may be able to offer you something else. Recreational products. A wide variety of them.” “I like the sound of that. But the thing is, Newton, my people have very specific needs. Things they want but can’t get locally. All driven by market forces, you know.” “Isn’t everything?” “With the Revillas gone, their old product is choking the streets.” Rico grinned. “Like a dam broke the second they went under. Everyone started selling everything they’d been holding on to.” He leaned forward. “But what they don’t have…” Half an hour later Rico stopped at the coat check desk to order a cab. The meet had gone well on the whole. He had Blade on the hook for a test shipment of heroin and some pills from some mill in South America. Not much, but enough to keep the investigation moving. Of course none of it would touch Blade’s hands. He just made ‘introductions’ and took a broker’s fee. He had the cab drop him a block or so away from Gold Coast Shipping and walked the rest of the way, using the time to plan his next move. The air wasn’t New York crisp, but it also wasn’t thick enough to cut with a knife. A grin floated across his face as he imagined Otis Forsythe referring to this as a constitutional. Sonny was right. The man’s a pure character. But I’d bet there’s a lot of steel under that manicured pose. Cat like him don’t last long without it. Even down here. Gina looked up from a report on her desk and smiled. “You look like the cat who got the canary, Rico.” “Yeah, I guess I kinda did. Got old Newton Blade to agree to broker a couple of deals. Not something we can bust him for, but it’s a way in.” “Sonny will be jealous. He’s been after that character for years.” Gina looked down at the folder again. “I managed to track down one of the hookers who got beat up by the Bolivians. She identified Santos all right, but she also said there was a local guy there for a few minutes. I think he’s the one who hired them even though she didn’t want to say so. Does the name Pasqual Benitez mean anything to you?” Rico was about to shake his head when Sonny’s voice echoed across the squad room. “Pasqual’s a two-bit boat jockey who used to make pot runs between ‘de islands’ and Miami. I think he used to work for a charter service before he bought or stole a boat and struck out on his own.” “He ever do any pimping on the side?” “Naw. Too big-time for him. He was always just into his boats as far as I know.” Sonny sat down with a sigh. “Can’t say’s I ever worked him, though.” “So how did a small-time chump get hooked up with a Bolivian player?” Rico scratched the back of his head, trying to sort it out in his head. “Cat like Santos should be way above his league.” “Damned if I know, Rico. Maybe he got lucky.” “Or maybe he’s frontin’ for someone else.” Rico turned. “Gina, we got any known associates with this punk?” “Not really, Rico. Like Sonny said, he’s small-time. I’ll run it through the system and see what comes up, though.” “Solid. Thanks, pretty lady. I owe you one.” “More like ten, Rico.” Still, she smiled. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” Nodding again, he turned back to Sonny. “You good to go for your little excursion tonight? Better be careful, or ol’ Otis might put the moves on you out there on the deep blue sea under the light of the moon.” “You need to update your score card, Rico. Hell, Otis has three mistresses I know of, each one pulled straight from a Playboy centerfold.” Larry chuckled. “That’s no shit, Sonny. His latest is this redhead with curves you can’t even begin to imagine. She won a ‘Best Bed-Breaker’ award at the Tallahassee Adult Film Showcase back in ’83.” Castillo’s low whisper cut through the noise in the squad room like he was using a bullhorn. “Write up your report on the Blade case, Tubbs. Crockett, keep your run with Forsythe tonight, but beg off any more runs for the time being. I just got off the phone. We’re being pulled off all active cases effective tomorrow. Top priority.” “Come on, lieutenant.” Rico could hear the rising anger in Sonny’s voice. “Rico’s got the first in on Blade we’ve had in over three years! We can’t…” “Sonny’s right, lieutenant. We gotta…” “No. This comes from the top. They want the entire unit focusing on an operation in an old hotel down by the waterfront. It’s a massage parlor run by a man called Ivory that caters to high-end clients. Including a few city council members. The mayor’s concerned, which means…” “Yeah, yeah. That the chief’s concerned, so we have to be concerned. I get it, lieutenant.” Sonny leaned back in his desk chair. “I get it, but I don’t have to like it.” “We do our jobs. Or we drop our badges.” Rico spoke quickly, hoping to head off another outburst from his partner. One thing he’d learned on NYPD was the fine art of politicking the bosses. “We’re on it, lieutenant. I can tell Blade I have to head back to New York. Or maybe I’ll just let Cooper get swept up in the sting. He’s the kind of cat who’d use a service like that, and getting busted and then sprung only adds to the cover.” He smiled, hoping it was enough to cover his own anger. Damned politicians need to learn to keep it in their pants. OCB shifts to Junk Love It had been a couple of weeks since Miguel met with Jesus Estevez. His mother’s brother, Jesus had been running fishing and charter boats through the Keys and beyond for over three decades. A stocky man with a mahogany tan and hair bleached white by sun and salt, Jesus was careful to stay well clear of product, though Miguel knew he’d run his share in his younger days. Now it was fat tourists and their Hemingway fantasies, as well as cleaning a significant amount of cash for his enterprising nephew. Jesus swirled the rum in his glass, watching the ice cubes spin. “I told you I can’t handle any more.” “I know, uncle. That’s why I asked to see you.” Miguel was careful to phrase it so he didn’t remind Jesus it was he who’d sent for the older man. “You don’t need to worry about taking any more. I’ve found another cleaner for some of the money.” He raised his hand. “You’ll still get your share. I’m not taking any away from you. Just not adding to your troubles.” Jesus nodded, his large head moving almost in slow motion. “And what do you ask for this?” I’d almost forgotten how cagey the old bastard is. “Nothing much. Just a few more routes. Ones through the Keys or some of the smaller offshore islands. Ones a single, fast boat can handle.” “You’re ambitious, Miguel. Your father always missed that.” Jesus took a long sip of rum. “Just don’t let your ambition run away with you.” “No danger of that, uncle. Enrique is the risk-taker. I prefer to go slow.” “So you were paying attention.” Jesus smiled. “Back when it was cigars and rum in the hold instead of your more modern cargo.” He raised his hand. “I don’t need to know what it is, of course.” “The cargo may have changed, but some things stay the same. How many runs did we make with no problems while the men with the fast boats were being snapped up by the Coast Guard?” “More than I can remember. But you must do more than move product these days. I see the money.” “It is more involved these days, yes. If you want to survive in this business, you have to control as much of it as you can without taking too many risks. So we’ve had to expand, yes. But not into direct sales. We supply the streets, but we don’t stand on the corners.” “Good. You know, I still hear things. Whispers mostly, but sometimes they’re useful. Columbians have been turning up again, and it’s said they’re both ambitious and violent. You should take care.” “Oh, I have, uncle. You don’t need to worry about that.” “Still using Cubans?” Jesus nodded when Miguel didn’t reply. “Good. They’re good soldiers. A bit unstable sometimes, but they know their stuff and how to follow orders.” He nodded, thinking back to what Esteban had said about needing more men. Soon I might have to bring in others, though. It’s all about putting them where they can be useful without doing damage. “I wish we had more family we could count on.” “Nothing like the security of blood. But I agree. There isn’t much to this new generation.” Jesus snorted. “Take your cousin Gustavo. I offered him a job on one of my fishing charters. Good pay, and he’d learn the family business the right way. But no. He wants to be some kind of street bandit.” Miguel nodded. Gustavo was an idiot, but an ambitious one. He knew the younger man wanted to be part of what Miguel was building, but Gustavo wasn’t cut out for it. Still he kept trying, looking to prove himself in some impossible way. “We have a couple of Aunt Esmerelda’s sons working the boats, but so far that’s it. As you said, they don’t understand what it takes.” “They’ve had it too easy. Living off your grandfather’s money and assuming it’s what they deserve.” Jesus slammed his hand down on the table. “Lazy bastards! Not one of them is fit to wipe Guillermo’s ass, let alone follow in his footsteps.” He sat for a moment, then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped glistening sweat from his forehead. “You’ve done well, Miguel. You and Enrique. Don’t tell me any more about what you do…I don’t need to know. You’ll have charts for those routes tomorrow morning. I’ll send one of my boys over with them personally.” They talked for a few more minutes, mostly about storms they’d been through and marlins they’d caught, and then Miguel walked Jesus to the door. When the older man was gone, he leaned against the jam and sighed. Once they had the new routes in hand he could have Enrique start moving the new Bolivian product. What the old man had said about Columbians didn’t worry him. They were like cockroaches…always turning up no matter how quickly you squashed them. He just hoped he could keep his promise. Santos wanted to move large quantities, and he didn’t know how much cash Newton Blade could handle at any given time. And there was the question of pipelines. If Brickell didn’t pan out for some reason he’d have to start from scratch, which meant sitting on product for what could be weeks. Maybe it was time to pick up another warehouse or two, or maybe some discrete properties on the edges of the city. Santos. More and more he regretted getting involved with the Bolivian snake. It was good to have what could be a steady, dependable supply, but it was another thing if that supply came with too many strings attached. With another sigh Miguel turned and started back up the stairs. Maybe it was time to start planning for a future not including Santos. But he needed a solid network first. Supply. Dealers. And all the parts between those two things. Calderone had the right idea; he’d just gone about it the wrong way. Miguel smiled. He just needed to make sure they went about it the right way.

It was just past noon when Lupe finished his report. “That’s what we got on Falcone, boss. He’s a little worm with ambition. Did some small work for the Revillas, mostly loads under five keys.” Esteban Morales nodded, looking at the papers Lupe had handed him. “So it’s just him, his damned boat, and two cousins?” He snorted. “Little worm is too big for this one.” “Si. I thought so as well. It looks like the cousins might be bigger men than he is, though. One of them is a shooter for one of the Dominican gangs on the edges of Little Haiti. The other seems to work for whoever can pay him the most, though he is loyal to Joaquin.” Lupe grinned. “God only knows why.” “Do you know why he might want to make a move on us?” Lupe shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s a complicated thing…” “You mean it might involve Enrique.” Esteban smiled. “What did he do this time?” “It’s not just that. I mean, Enrique did insult Falcone’s boat. But there’s more. One of Falcone’s cousins, the one who works for pay, is trying to work his way into one of the Brickell clubs.” “Let me guess. It’s one of the ones Enrique’s man claims to have an in with.” “The very one. They had a bit of a pushing match the other night, and the cousin said he’ll get his revenge.” “Did he now? Interesting. Thank you, Lupe. Have the rest of team two come in, please.” Esteban liked to conduct his side of the business like a military operation. It was how the old men had trained him, and he also thought it made his men take their jobs more seriously. Anyone could pull a trigger, but it took a real man - a real warrior - to plan and execute a perfect mission. And survive to complete another perfect mission. He felt it even more now with the business expanding faster than he could recruit. The four men stood in a loose arc in front of his desk as he went through the information Lupe had brought. “So,” he concluded, looking first at the team leader and then the others, “that’s what we have. The boss wants this quiet, but he also wants to send a message: don’t fuck with us.” He already had an idea of what he wanted to do, but he liked to include the boys. Sometimes they surprised him. “What do you think?” The leader, a tall, muscled man with a thick black mustache, stared at the picture of the boat. “Boats explode all the time, jefe. Fuel tanks have leaks, and we all know how hot those engines run.” “True, but how does that send a message? As you say, accidents happen.” One of the other men cleared his throat. “We must burn the boat. That’s clear. But what if we shoot the men and leave them outside the boathouse? We can stage it so the cops think it’s a robbery gone wrong or some kind of turf war, but for those who know it will be a message.” “How?” “We use the Colts. No other organization uses the .45s like we do.” Like we did with Jaime a few years ago. “A solid idea.” And close to what I was thinking already. “But for the police to believe it’s a turf war…” He smiled. “Kill the men with the .45s, then shoot the bodies with the 9mms the Dominicans love so dearly. But then the message might be missed. No, just use the Colts. Screw the police. They can think what they will. It’s more important other players recognize our signature and understand the warning.” He looked at each man. “I will lead the strike. But we need to know when they are all there.” “Can we draw them to us?” “An excellent question. Lupe, do we know when they make their runs?” Lupe shook his head. “There doesn’t seem to be anything regular. They work for themselves, so…” “Set something up. Quickly. Say we need someone who can move five kilos of product. We have it offshore, but no way to get it closer. Offer them half down, and half once the cocaine is in our hands. That should draw them out.” The team leader chuckled. “I’d say so.” “Good. Lupe, work it out. Say we’re representing Columbians or something. Anything they’ll believe without question. I leave that to you. Once we have a meeting time, we strike.” “You think Blade’s really gonna be here?” Sonny Crockett nodded, pointing to the massive white motor yacht superstructure they could just make out above the hedges bordering Pelican’s Nest. “From the size of that damned thing, I’d say he’s already here.” “Any chance he’ll have the goods?” “No way, Rico. Like I said before we went to New York, he’s the Sears and Roebuck of narcotics. You order from his little catalog and someone else delivers. Not him. He’s too damned careful.” “How we gonna play off the Revillas?” Sonny swung the Ferrari onto the long drive up to the yacht club. “We were working with Jimmy Borges when he made a wrong move and got wasted. We were damned lucky to get out with our lives.” “So we tell him the truth.” It wasn’t a question. Sonny smiled. “More or less.” Newton Blade had a way of filling a room without saying a word. Part of it was his physical size, but the rest came from his eyes. Otis ushered them into one of the club rooms looking out over the dock and then bowed himself out. “I’m sure you boys have all kinds of things to discuss. Let me know when you’re done and we’ll see about some lunch.” Blade chuckled. “Leave it to Otis to think of food. I don’t know how he stays so thin. Man eats like a horse.” He was sitting in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, his legs crossed in front of him. “Burnett and Cooper. I see you fared better than the late, lamented Jimmy Borges.” “Yeah. He pissed off the wrong Indians the way I heard it.” Sonny tucked his sunglasses in the front pocket of his blazer and sat down. “And how did your associates react to that, Cooper?” “Pissed. Like you’d expect.” Sonny caught the edge in Rico’s voice. Valerie. Can’t blame the guy, I guess. I’m just glad he came back to Miami. “But once the Revillas bit the dust they were happy to buy our product.” “I bet they were. Can’t say I miss those two, though. They were bad for business.” Blade laid his hands on his knee. “Now what can I do for you? Otis said something about business.” “Something like that.” Sonny leaned forward. “I know you don’t touch product, Newton. Just the proceeds from it. But a guy like you has gotta know the players in the game. Cooper here has a job that’s a bit bigger than I can handle.” He grinned. “And it pains the hell outa me to admit it. But I’m only one boat, an’ this is bigger than one boat.” “I have to say the whole New York thing didn’t exactly inspire confidence, Sonny. But I’m willing to let the past be the past.” Blade smiled. “For a price, of course.” “Of course.” Rico hissed the words. “See, the thing is…I got this connection. A south of the border kinda connection. They have some bulk product they want shipped, and Burnett’s boat just ain’t quite big enough.” “You understand your problem isn’t unique? Getting goods to Florida is one thing. Moving it elsewhere is quite another.” Blade leaned back in his chair. “Especially if you don’t want to be too close to what’s being moved.” “Solid. Thing is, I can take over once the product gets to New York. My associates have connections as far out as Detroit. It’s the hop up the coast that’s a problem.” Blade stared at them for a long couple of minutes, leaving Sonny feeling like they were across the desk from a smiling Castillo. Man’s a lot more dangerous than he looks. Then he nodded. “I’ll make some calls. We’re dealing with the same situation, Cooper, so maybe we can help each other out. Check back in a couple of days.” Back at the bar, Rico was still fuming. “Smug-ass bastard.” “That’s Newton in a nutshell, partner.” Sonny chuckled in spite of himself. “He can piss off anyone in two seconds flat. Then charm the hell outa them two seconds later.” “I trust your meeting went well?” Sonny tapped a cigarette out of the small Lucky Stikes pack as he turned to face Otis. “As well as it can when you’re dealing with Newton Blade an’ he’s feeling cagey.” He lit the cigarette with his battered Ronson and inhaled the smoke deep, letting it hiss out his nostrils. “He can be a trial. But don’t let it get to you. Odds are he’ll do business. It’s what he does.” Otis looked around. “And speaking of business, can we have a word, Sonny? In private.” He bowed his head slightly in Rico’s direction. “No offense, you understand.” “None taken.” Rico’s voice was tight, and Sonny knew he was still pissed about something. “I’ll be here.” Once they were in the club office, Otis smiled. “I fear I’ve annoyed your associate.” “Aw, he’s got a thin skin some days. It’ll pass.” Sonny took another drag on the cigarette. “Now what’s so important we have to come back here?” “I have a…cargo. One that’s technically not legal.” “I didn’t think you were in the powder trade.” “Oh, it’s not that, Sonny. “ He smiled again. “Cigars. Cuban cigars. My old supplier is currently…how shall I put it…indisposed. I need someone to fill in until he’s back in action.” Sonny made a show of thinking, even though he already knew his answer. “Just one run?” “Just the one. Maybe two if his problems continue. But I won’t trouble you after that.” “Why not? Never hauled smokes before.” “You’ll find it’s dreadfully dull. Meet up with some greasy freighter, likely Panamanian, move some boxes from their tub to your boat, and then make haste for a nice sheltered cove I happen to know.” “What’s the pay for this dangerous work? I gotta buy gas, after all.” “Five thousand dollars.” “We talking three tons of cigars?” “Oh, no. Nothing that exciting. But you have to understand…Uncle Sam and his Yankee carpetbaggers still consider those cigars almost the same as Khrushchev’s missiles. Let’s just say your commission is about twenty percent of what they’re worth. Conservatively.” Sonny whistled. “I’ll be damned. And I thought a couple of bucks for these was high.” He looked at his Lucky Strike and chuckled, sending a trail of smoke toward the high ceiling. “When do you need the boat?” “Stop by the club tomorrow and I’ll let you know. I have a call or two to make first.” They were almost back to OCB when Rico let out a deep laugh. “Here I think we’re gonna finally get the skinny on that Blade chump and you go and land a deal with Otis.” “Yeah, yeah.” Sonny looked out the window as he made the turn into the Gold Coast lot. “Now I gotta figure out how we can keep Otis in play without blowing Burnett sky-high.” “I can’t see Castillo letting you make a run with Cuban cigars.” Rico chuckled again. “But you never know with him. Cat’s a mix of conventional and unconventional.” “You got that right.” Sonny swung the Ferrari into his usual spot and shut off the engine. “Guess we’d better go make our case.” Castillo didn’t look up from his desk as Sonny spoke. “…so we think Blade’s down here for a reason. Otis hinted at it, but he’s not the kind to get into details. If I move the cigars for him, it might open him up a bit more. Give us a way in to whatever Blade’s up to.” He paused. “That and the Mendozas ran cigars in addition to rum.” “Blade was asking about New York, so he knows what happened there. Or at least part of it.” Rico was standing back by the door, leaning against the jam with his arms crossed. “I told him my guys ended up buying the coke, and I think he bought it. He didn’t want to move product himself, but he said he’d make some calls and see if he could line someone up for us. Maybe Forsythe threw Sonny the cigars as a bone.” “You want to deliver the cigars to Forsythe.” “Yes. I’ll turn in the five grand he’s gonna pay me to make the drop. Look, lieutenant, I know it’s not conventional, but it’s a way into that world. Pelican’s Nest is an old-time smuggler’s hangout. We know that. And it’s got ties to what’s happening now. But it’s a closed world unless we get invited in. And a few cases of Cubans seems like a damned low entry price to me.” Castillo looked up, and Sonny felt the weight of his stare. “You forget yourself.” “Sorry, lieutenant. But I’ve been working Blade for years now. Otis, too. These guys aren’t flash in the pan Columbians or jacked-up Haitians. They’re strictly business, and hard to get a line on.” “Sonny’s right, lieutenant. We walk in that place and it’s like walking into a mobster’s brownstone back in New York.” Rico flashed one of his winning Cooper grins. “You can feel the old money and power in the place. And they’re good at what they do.” Silence dominated the room for a minute. Then two. Finally there was a creak of metal on metal as Castillo leaned back slightly in his chair. “I’ll authorize it. But I’ll need to know just how many cigars you bring through. And you get one chance. We can’t risk another run. Make it count.” Back at his desk, Sonny let out a long sigh. “Man…did you see the look in his eyes?” “Yeah. I thought I was gonna have to break in a new partner.” Rico swiveled his chair so he could look toward Castillo’s office. “You think he’ll let us run this out?” “Maybe. Ah, hell. I don’t know. But what do we have to run out? A guy from old money smuggling cigars and another guy with a boat the size of a supertanker who never gets within five hundred yards of any kind of drugs. It’s a thin hand, Rico.” “Maybe. Maybe it is.” Rico narrowed his eyes and stared at Sonny. “But…” “Yeah. My gut’s telling me there’s more there. Granted we don’t have a scrap of evidence, but there’s just something.” Sonny let his mind play back through events. “And why didn’t Otis just reach out to one of the Mendozas? Hell, they used to run rum and cigars all the time. And he’s gotta know the entire clan.” “Maybe they’re really out of the game.” “Or maybe they’re too busy upping their status.” “You work your end with Otis, and I’ll try cozying up to Newton Blade.” Rico chuckled. “At least we can trade stories about clubs in New York.” “Yeah. I wish we could get eyes on that club, but Switek and Zito have full dance cards.” Sonny shot a meaningful glance across the room. “And don’t even mention Dibble or Gorman. Those two couldn’t get within half a mile of Pelican’s Nest.” “I think the lieutenant has them working something.” Rico grinned. “They keep running around like they’re important or something.” “Let’s just hope they don’t screw it up and get us pulled off this.” Sonny shook his head. Damned feeling isn’t going away. There’s something up at that yacht club, and I’d bet the Ferrari it’s tied to the Mendozas somehow. “The meeting is set for tomorrow night.” Lupe smiled before sitting down in the comfortable chair in front of Esteban’s desk. “They suspect nothing. I told them just what you suggested…I’m looking to move five kilos of cocaine quickly and don’t have time to use my normal runner. I also said I’d heard Flacone had the fastest boat in Miami and he puffed up like a peacock.” “Good.” Esteban leaned back his his desk chair. “What else did you tell him?” “That I’d bring the money because I was going with him to the meet. That’s when he volunteered his two cousins.” Lupe paused. “For protection. I think he plans to rip me off.” “Of course he does. And maybe beat the location of the meeting out of you so he can make the buy himself and turn a bigger profit. It’s almost a shame to disappoint him.” He turned to look out the narrow window. “Brief Team Two. I want them in position before the idiot and his men arrive. They’re using his boathouse?” “Yes. I don’t think he has another location.” “Good. Tell the team leader I’ll be with them, but I want him to plan the operation.” Esteban kept his eyes hooded. The leader of team two had promise, and he wanted to see how the man handled planning an operation on his own. At the rate Miguel was expanding, he needed to develop as many crew leaders as quickly as possible. Men he could trust who knew what they were doing. The next twenty-four hours seemed to crawl by, but Esteban was used to it. The hours before an operation were always long, until the last couple raced by in the space of a few heartbeats. His crew leader used the time well, sending men to scout Falcone’s boathouse and preparing a sketch map of the target location so his men could see where they’d be when things went down. Just like the old men had trained, except now it was men training younger men. Passing on skills which vanished if not used. In the end Esteban was satisfied. His man had covered what could be covered, and allowed for what might happen. The rest was what it would be. It wasn’t much of a drive from their staging area to a turnoff a few hundred yards from the boathouse, and they were in position before the sun set. Esteban checked his Colt while the crew leader went over the details again. “Lupe and Hector will arrive around 2200, and we expect the target and his punks to get here early. Maybe an hour before. Xavier confirmed the boat is in the shed now, so they’re not out running around trying to get laid. We don’t move until Lupe and Hector arrive.” Esteban nodded and stepped forward. “It’s a good plan. Remember your lessons and don’t act until the time is right. We want clean kills on all three. Headshots if possible. Xavier and Hector will see to the burning of the boat. We leave the area as soon as the boat is in flames.” “What about the police?” Esteban stared at the man. He’s new. We’ll need to watch him. “Patrols out here are few. Usually Metro-Dade just prefers to fly over in helicopters and say things are fine.” A thin smile formed on his face. “But we’ll be listening to the scanner as well. If any patrols come close, I’ll make a call and one of the other teams will start a diversion. Nothing big, but enough to divert any patrols from our area.” There were no more questions, and the men moved out in pairs. Esteban decided to go with the new man who’d asked about the police, mostly to see how he did under fire. If there was any hesitation, he’d be moved to boat security. His crews had to be tight and smart. They settled in to wait, darkness gathering around them as the sun slid down the sky. They were far enough away from the main flow of traffic to hear bird calls and insects chirping, and it was almost easy to forget why they were there. From time to time headlights played over the long, swaying grass and low shrubs where his men hid, but no one in the cars seemed to be paying any attention. This was an area you passed through and not one you stopped in. Esteban was watching the waterfront, and wasn’t aware of the approaching car until the new man tapped him on the shoulder. “Car coming in,” he whispered. “Older Mercedes.” “Must be the targets.” Raising his hand radio, Esteban hit the transmit button twice. Get ready but don’t move. The earphone connected to his small police scanner and tuned to the proper patrol frequency remained quiet. They had the place to themselves. Checking his watch, he smiled in the darkness as he saw the glowing numbers. They’re an hour early. Means they’re up to something. Raising the radio to his lips, he keyed it and whispered, “Hold positions.” Once again he was glad for the training the old men had put him through. Lying in the tall grass with mosquitoes was nothing compared to the hours they’d made combat group volunteers hunker in the swamps around Miami. They’d done it without question, knowing if they moved the old men would shoot at them with live rounds. ‘The price of freedom’ they’d called it, and Esteban believed it until he discovered it was all an illusion…a fantasy fed by infrequent arrivals of CIA money and the dreams of men grown old waiting for the promised day that would never come. Blinking, he pulled himself out of his dreams. Damn it. There’s time for that after. Now we must work. Turning his attention to the boat shed, he could see the yellow glow of weak bulbs through the dirty glass and occasional shadows as men moved around inside. An occasional burst of laughter echoed through the humid air, telling him Falcone and his men thought this would be just another simple rip-off. He could imagine them joking and probably drinking as they decided where they’d stand when they executed their plan. Odds were they’d done this before. This time he tapped the new man on the shoulder when he saw twin headlights swinging into view as a car turned off the main road. “Lupe is here. We move in.” Without raising the radio he broke squelch three times. Then he raised his Colt and flicked off the thumb safety, smiling as the new man did the same. The tall grass swished against his fatigue pants as he moved toward the shed. Lupe’s car was parked behind the Mercedes now, and the muffled sound of the engine ceased as he shut off the big Lincoln. The dome light glowed, and then the sound of slamming car doors reached Esteban’s ears followed by a thin voice he assumed belonged to Joaquin Falcone. “Hey! Amigos! Welcome to my little home away from home! You got the cash? Good! Come on in, have a beer, and I’ll show you my boat. Then we get going, yes?” Lupe’s response was measured. “Sure. You got these men you were talking about? I brought one of my boys, too, so I wouldn’t get lonely.” “Sure! They’re inside looking the boat over.” The door opened, and a long finger of light illuminated the ground in front of the shed. “Let me get the money.” Lupe turned back toward the Lincoln. “I’ll be right in.” Esteban locked eyes with the new man and raised his Colt. Lupe wouldn’t be going in, and he knew Hector would be getting out of the way as well. He triggered the radio one last time. “Take them.” Coming to his feet, Esteban shifted his Colt to a two-hand grip, keeping the muzzle down as he moved. He heard a shout from the doorway, followed by the quick pop of a 9mm as either Falcone or one of the cousins got off a shot. He muttered a low curse as he closed with the shed. This should have been silent. Doesn’t matter, though. There’s no one out here to hear. A dark shape left the doorway moving toward the cars, and Esteban fired once. The Colt coughed, and a body tumbled away as the single heavy bullet shattered a skull. He sensed rather than saw the rest of the team closing from the other side, and thought he heard muffled shots before the men inside started shooting blindly. Coming around the corner of the building, he snuck a quick look around the doorway. “Cease fire,” he said in a voice just loud enough to carry a few yards. Two bodies sprawled near the long boat, their heads shattered and blood running down the dock and into the water. Hector appeared from the darkness near the Mercedes, his hand covering a long gash on his upper arm. “Sorry about that, jefe. I didn’t expect…” “None of us did. If there’s fault, it lies with me.” Lowering his pistol, Estaban looked around until he spotted the crew leader. “See to the boat. We’ll leave the bodies where they are.” “And the car?” Lupe came into the wan light, the satchel of money in one hand and his own pistol in the other. “We’ll take it with us. Maybe burn it later. But no self-respecting crew from Little Havana would leave a Mercedes sitting around, would they?” He chuckled at his own words. “Let’s get moving. I want to be clear of the area in five minutes. Check the shed before you burn the boat. It’s possible they kept cash or product here.” He turned and spat toward the headless body of Joaquin Falcone. “These boys didn’t seem too bright.” I should have considered they’d have their guns ready. Damn it! Flicking the safety on his Colt, he holstered the pistol and headed for the Lincoln. “I’ll ride back with you and Hector. The team can take the Mercedes.” Lupe nodded. “Shall we go now?” “Wait.” Esteban stood until there was a muffled explosion inside the shed and yellow flames started sending their own jagged light into the night air. “Now we can go.” The next morning, Miguel Mendoza smiled as he scanned the Herald while having his morning coffee. “Can you believe the violence in this city?” he asked Enrique. “Looks like another turf war down by the old docks.” “I saw that.” Ricky chuckled and set down his coffee cup. “Looks like Joaquin Falcone pissed off the wrong crew from Little Havana. At least that’s what the morning shows said.” “You’d think he’d know better than to stick his nose into the Cubans’ business. That never ends well.” Miguel suspected Esteban had called in the ‘anonymous tip’ everyone was quoting about Cuban gang involvement in the killing and arson. He knew the Cubans wouldn’t complain…it added to their reputation without them having to do a thing, and it eliminated someone who’d been meddling in his affairs. And more to the point, he knew the other smugglers would understand the message of a single .45 to the head. “Now maybe we can focus on our business with Santos.” “I hope so. And with Falcone’s cousin out of the way we can open the market in Brickell.” Nodding again, Miguel only half-listened to his brother’s plans. Esteban, he knew, was stretched thin. They’d make the Brickell move, then maybe slow down a bit so their security could catch up and the relationship with Blade could solidify. If they were bringing in more money, they needed someplace for it to go. It was all interconnected now, and his job was to make sure all the balls stayed in the air. At least the police seemed clueless about their operation. That was something.

“So he didn’t connect the Mendozas to Blade?” Rico shook his head. “Not directly, lieutenant. But Newton also doesn’t move much product. At least he didn’t used to.” Sonny sighed. “And he knew something about Stokes’s death. Cagey bastard wouldn’t commit, but you could see it in his eyes. And he changed the subject right after I mentioned his name. I’ve been working Newton Blade off and on for over three years, lieutenant. He’s careful. Never gets too close to the product he moves and sells.” Castillo nodded. “Stay on it. We need to know if the Mendozas are in the game again. Trudy, welcome back. Check with the Coast Guard and see what they have on Newton Blade’s yacht. Recent movements.” Trudy Joplin smiled. “You got it, lieutenant. And it’s good to be back. Gina and I also did some background work on the Mendoza family. The uncle’s company comes up clean. He’s been running fishing charters around Florida, the Keys, and farther out for years. The father’s pretty much retired to the family estate out in the Keys. His wife died about ten years ago, and the two boys don’t have much on them. The younger son, Enrique, has a few speeding tickets, but the older one is clean. Miguel Mendoza owns a small distribution company that supplies booze to high-end clubs and some stores.” Gina took up the story. “Enrique used to work for the uncle, but he seems to have gone his own way in the last couple of years. No real job unless you count moonlighting for both his brother and his uncle. Small stuff, like taking a boatload of tourists out or lining up some distribution contracts.” Castillo nodded, then turned to Larry and Stan. Larry looked at his notes. “The club’s still pretty much shut down, lieutenant. It looks like they’re trying to reopen, but with a new name on the title and liquor license.” Stan raised his hand. “And before you ask, no, it ain’t anyone we know. We checked records, and the guy owns a couple of smaller clubs in Downtown. Nothing fancy.” “Good.” Castillo paused for a moment. “Crockett, Tubbs. Stay on Blade. At least for the time being. I want to know what he’s doing back in Miami. Work fast. There are more cases coming to us every day.” Castillo waited until the team left the conference room to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The headache was settling in again, and he closed his eyes in an effort to will the pain away. He didn’t have time for it. Not now. The reaction of Metro-Dade’s command staff to the spike in organized crime and narcotics activity had been predictable: create a new unit, dump all existing cases on it, and say they had fixed the problem. Overnight Vice had transformed into the Organized Crime Bureau; taking on many more cases without any increase in manpower, support, or funding. Castillo outlined all the challenges in a memo which was promptly ignored, then shrugged and got on with the job. He’d been in command for a bit over a year now, coming over from Homicide to replace the unit’s old commander who’d been killed by a sniper hired by Esteban Calderone. The unit was good, if a bit uneven. He knew that. But he also knew the increased caseload was straining them all. Getting up, he walked back to his office and the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. He knew each of them intimately: cases either pending or in progress. He’d handed as many as he could off to Narcotics or Homicide, but it wasn’t enough to shrink the stack. The deaths of the Revillas had created a vacuum, like the death of Calderone before them, and Castillo knew the streets hated a vacuum. Sitting down, he rubbed his temples again. Soon he’d lose Switek and Zito to one of the periodic pawn shop stings the command staff liked to use so they could claim they were cracking down on theft in the city. And he wasn’t sure how long he could keep Calabrese and Joplin off the hooker decoy detail. There were increasing reports of at least two pimps aggressively expanding their stables, and beating girls who wouldn’t go with them. He wanted them off the streets, but to do that he’d have to redeploy two of his better detectives. Still, after having to testify to the grand jury about her ex-boyfriend Joplin was still a bit unsteady. He knew it was better to give her something else to focus on, and taking down a pimp who liked to beat up his girls seemed to fit the bill. Crockett and Tubbs posed problems of their own. He’d managed to deflect any fallout from the New York City operation, and IA was finally convinced Crockett had known nothing about his friend Robbie Cann’s real background. And the Hank Weldon episode was behind both of them. But Crockett also liked to go his own way…chasing leads that were important to him but might not related to any case. Like the killings of Jaime Benequez and Chuckie Stokes. Castillo wasn’t sure if the Mendozas were connected in any way, but looking at the stack of folders he knew they didn’t really have time to find out. Tubbs, he knew, was still half in New York. The trip had been harder on him than he’d wanted to admit, but Castillo needed him focused. Crockett had an effective enough cover, but its usefulness at least doubled when combined with any of Tubbs’s cover identities. At least two of the cases in the stack would require both of them, and they had to be at the top of their game. I’ll give them a week. If nothing transpires, I’ll have to pull them off it. OCB just doesn’t have the manpower for long-term investigations. Closing his eyes for one last moment of quiet, Castillo reached over and picked up the folder on the top of the stack. Maybe he’d get lucky and it would be something they could pass off. “Excellent work with the Haitians.” Miguel Mendoza stood with his hands on the wooden rail, looking out toward the boat shed and docks. He could feel the wind in his hair, and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining he was standing on the deck of an old sailing ship. Esteban Morales nodded. “Thank you, jefe. There were some issues, but nothing that can be traced back to us. I have my men in training to correct the problems.” “And I have no doubt it will be successful.” Miguel nodded, more to himself than Esteban. “And this Newton Blade?” “He’s exactly what he appears. A club owner, concert promoter, and mid-range dealer. My sources say he mostly keeps his own hands clean. The government sniffs around him from time to time, but more in relation to his taxes and money moving through his clubs.” Esteban paused. “My sources say he can be trusted, so long as you don’t expect miracles from him.” “Good. We don’t need miracles. Just a washing service.” Miguel took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. “Anything else?” “I’m picking up rumors about your cousin, jefe. Gustavo.” “Gustavo. Of course. Aunt Ellena’s wayward second son.” And a pain in my ass. Always wanting to get into the ‘family business.’ As if I would let a moron like him in just because we share blood. “Yes. His name keeps coming up in connection with a small group of car stereo thieves.” Esteban chuckled. “They seem to be successful, if that’s worth anything.” “So long as he’s not throwing the family name around it’s not our concern. But keep an eye on him, Esteban. Sooner or later he will show up at our doorstep looking for work, and I will need to know the real version of what he’s been up to…not what he tells me.” He turned away from the rail. “And you’re sure the Haitians got the message?” “I believe so. My men have reported nothing new from any of our docks or boat sheds.” “Good. If they do stick their heads up again, blow them off.” Miguel’s eyes went dark. “We’re at a critical point, and nothing can distract us from our goals.” Turning back to the rail, he could see men easing one of their new Cigarette boats out of the shed and into open water. The boom of the twin V-8s echoed across the calm water to his ears, and he smiled in spite of himself. If Ricky was right, this new generation was faster than what they’d used before, and capable of carrying more product. Worth the price if they worked as advertised. Dismissing Esteban with a nod, Miguel took the steps down to the dock and headed for the boat shed. Ricky would be there, no doubt anxious to take his new toy out for a spin, and Miguel wanted to talk to him first. “Aren’t they amazing? Just listen to those engines purr!” Ricky’s grin was almost wide enough to split his face, and his light hair was tousled enough to tell Miguel he’d already been on at least one test ride. “And with the compartments we can combine two loads into one.” “And we’ll be needing that.” Miguel put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and guided him to the back of the shed, away from both the boats and prying ears. “I head from Santos late last night. He said he will have a major load for us in the next week. Over two hundred kilos.” Ricky’s eyes went wide. “Two hundred? That’s almost twice…” “I know. Which is why I’m glad to hear about the new boats. I suspect he’ll want to transfer from one of those damned Panama-registered tramp steamers they love so dearly, and I’d be happier if we could manage it all in one boat instead of two or more. Can that be done?” “With the new boat, yes. It might be a stretch, but we can make it work.” Ricky paused. “But can we handle…” “Have you heard anything from that man of yours? The one with the Brickell connections?” “Yes, and it’s promising. I have some of the boys following up to make sure he’s not blowing smoke, but if it checks out he has contacts in two of the larger clubs there. One is pretty new, so it’s popular with the rich crowd.” Ricky chuckled. “The ones who like to powder their noses with top-grade powder and can pay for it.” “Let me know as soon as you hear.” And I’ll have Esteban check it out as well. Better to have two sets of eyes. “I don’t want to move until we have the product in hand, but we’ll need a way to move it to make our profit. Do you have the ability to store that much?” He looked around. “Someplace other than here.” “Si, but we might need to acquire some more storage property. I know of a warehouse or two…” “No. We need property that doesn’t look like storage. Houses, perhaps. Or a small shop.” Miguel smiled. “The police always look for warehouses. They don’t look for a stash in the back of a coffee shop or corner store.” He shook his head. “But that’s for later, brother. For now why don’t you take me out in one of those racehorses of yours? I want to see how they compare to the older boats.” They were almost three miles out before Ricky eased back on the throttles and the nose of the big boat touched water again. Sitting next to his brother, Miguel grinned like a child. “I can see why you like these. This thing has more horsepower than four of father’s boats put together.” “It does. And that’s not all.” Ricky pointed above his head to the disk on the overhead spoiler. “We’re got radar. Not a big set, but it’ll pick up things within a couple of miles. Good for evading people who might try to cut in on our business.” “And the compartments?” “Two sets. One forward and one aft. They’re set up so you split the load no matter the size. That way nothing gets out of trim.” Miguel was about to ask another question when the booming of motors reached his ears. Turning, he snatched up the binoculars dangling by their chord around his neck and focused. “We’ve got another boat coming our way. From the west. And fast.” He sensed rather than saw Ricky nod. “Nothing friendly over that way, brother. We’re heading back. If they get too close, there’s a little something in the forward cabin that might be useful.” Miguel braced himself as the boat lunged forward, spray arcing through the air as Ricky cut the helm over, sending them racing back toward the dock. With effort he found the other boat again through the magnification, and could see two men. One driving, the other starting to… The pop of the first shots reached his ears just after three bullets hit the water to the left of the boat. He didn’t anticipate Ricky’s turn. I can’t hope he makes the same mistake again. I need to do something. Dropping the glasses, Miguel braced himself against the rails as he ducked down and found what Ricky had been talking about: a stainless steel Mini-14 held by two clips just inside the gangway and a bag of thirty-round magazines dangling next to it. Hauling himself back up to the passenger’s seat, he racked the bolt and fed a glittering 5.56mm shell into the rifle’s breech. Shouldering the weapon, he found the other boat through their peacock’s tail of spray. The shuddering made aiming almost impossible, so he braced himself against the seat and starting triggering off shots. “I know that boat!” Ricky shouted over the booming engines and the quick pops of Miguel’s rifle. “What color is she?” “Red!” Miguel shouted twice, unsure of his own voice over the ringing in his ears from shooting. He triggered off four more quick shots, grinning as the pursuing boat broke hard right before fighting its way back into line. “With a wide blue streak down the hull!” “Damn the man!’ Ricky slammed his hand hard against the wheel before taking a firm grip again. “He’s got some balls!” Miguel knew better than to ask right now. There was a time for talking, and this wasn’t it. He emptied the magazine, then dumped it and slammed a full one home in the smoking rifle. Sending another fifteen quick shots downrange, he had no way of knowing if he’d actually hit anything. But the red and blue boat broke away, heeling hard to the right before accelerating back the way it had come. Only then did he turn and see two more boats moving at speed from the dock. His dock. Lowering the hot Ruger, he turned to Ricky. “Call them back. I won’t risk anyone right now. Those assholes could be trying to lead us into a trap. I don’t think I hit them, but there’s no way to be sure.” He waited until Ricky slowed the boat and made the call, still holding the rifle in his hands. “You said you know who that was.” He watched as Ricky made a close check of the boat’s instrument panel, the gauges and dials backlit an odd yellow-red. “I think so,” his brother finally said slowly. Like he was weighing each word. “There’s no mistaking that exhaust, and the paint job is the same. That was Joaquin Falcone’s boat.” Looking down, Miguel kicked at one of the glittering shell casings rolling on the cabin deck. We’ll need to detail this boat throughly before it’s used he thought, his brain districting him from what had just happened. “And who is Falcone?” “He’s nobody. A mid-level runner who’s trying to move up in the game. Usually he contracts out, and I’ve heard he’s interested in making inroads with the Columbians.” “And what better way to do that than by taking us out?” Miguel gave up with the casing rolled into a gap under the seat. The ringing in his ears was finally clearing, and he noticed with satisfaction Ricky was almost to the dock. The other two boats had turned back as well, coming along side in a show of respect. “I want you to lay low for a couple of days. Run any scheduled shipments, but don’t take on anything new. Maybe have that man of yours work the Brickell clubs to line up some customers.” “What will you be doing?” He turned and glared out at the open water. “Sending a message. No one shoots at Mendoza boats.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “No one does that and lives.” Esteban Morales stood within three feet of Miguel. He could read his boss’s body language well enough after all these years, and he knew Miguel was angry. “…and this asshole…this puto has the balls to shoot at us. To try to kill us.” “Do you want it quiet or loud?” “I want an unmistakable message.” “You’ll get one, jefe. What’s the target’s name?” “Joaquin Falcone.” Miguel spit it like a curse. “I’ve heard the name. Fast boat, small brain. Or so they say. Not one I would have expected to take a run at us.” “Greed makes men stupid, and stupid men reckless.” Miguel leaned on the rail, a pose he used when he was thinking something over. “Maybe you could have a talk with this asshole first. Find out what he hoped to gain. Then send a message.” “It might prove difficult. He knows he missed, so he’ll be on his guard. Even this Falcone isn’t dumb enough to think you’ll just ignore what he did.” “Are you saying you can’t do this?” The question stung. “No. I’m saying it might take longer than usual. It’s hard to talk to someone after you’d fed them a shotgun.” Miguel started to speak, then caught himself and nodded. “You’re right, Esteban. My apologies. It’s just…” “Being shot at will make any man angry, jefe.” Especially when it’s your first time under fire. So far we’ve been very fortunate in that regard. But as you get bigger, you become a target. “But we need to expect this from now on. Especially if we start working with that Bolivian.” “I know. Big operations become big targets. Especially for the hungry ones at the bottom.” Miguel shook his head. “I don’t think I hit anyone in the boat. We were moving too fast. But I might have hit the boat itself. Ricky thought it sounded off when it turned to run.” He shrugged. “To me it was just another fast boat, but you know how he is…” Esteban nodded. “But that gives us a place to start. I also know Falcone’s boat. He’s fussy about it like it was a woman…only lets certain mechanics work on it. If you did any damage, he’ll run to one of them. And my men will find him if he’s there.” Back in the apartment he maintained as a sort of office, Esteban sat behind his heavy desk and starting outlining his operation on a legal pad. It was something the old men had taught him, something they said they’d learned from the CIA. At first he’d laughed at them, but then he did it and never laughed again. Miguel was moving fast, perhaps too fast. Esteban knew that, but also knew not to say it. What happened on the boat side was Enrique’s problem…what happened on the security side was his. And he was running out of trained men. To deal with this, he’d have to pull two men off one of the boat sheds. It won’t be a problem. Not this time, at least. Maybe it’s time to talk to Miguel about having Enrique provide some of his own security. It wasn’t a conversation Esteban was looking forward to, but it was a necessary one. Manpower was allocated. Now he needed to assign tasks. At least Falcone was a creature of habit when it came to his precious boat. Aside from that he didn’t know enough about the man. He reached for the phone and dialed a number. That was about to change. Sonny Crockett was almost asleep, his eyes heavy as he tried to focus on the file in front of him. He blinked, his head dipped again, and he heard Gina giggle. “You’d better go home and get some sleep, Sonny.” “Yeah. You drool on that file, ain’t no way I’m retyping it.” Rico chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “I’m kinda beat myself.” “Yeah, yeah.” It pained Sonny to admit it, but they were right. Staring at the thin file on Newton Blade wasn’t going to make new information appear. “Did you ever hear back from the Coast Guard, Gina?” “I did. They said Blade’s yacht is scheduled to dock at Pelican’s Nest tomorrow.” She waved her note pad. “Seems old Newton likes to keep them informed of his movements.” “Yeah. Until he doesn’t. Still, that motor boat of his is big enough it’s got its own ZIP code. Makes sense he’d file the right paperwork. He doesn’t like to attract the wrong kind of attention.” “I’m starving,” Rico announced as he got up from his desk. “Anyone wanna grab a bite?” “I got an idea. Let’s hit Pelican’s Nest. Use some more of that membership fee money.” Sonny pulled on his cream blazer as he got to his feet. “And maybe run into Otis in the bargain. Besides, I hear the club kitchen does a mean steak.” “Let’s take the Caddy. Gotta let Cooper be seen styling and profiling.” The sun was a long red shadow on the horizon when Rico handed the keys to the valet at Pelican’s Nest and they headed into the club. Sonny chuckled at the dim lighting the place used to cast shadows up the white stucco walls. “Man, you’d think the place was a mortuary or something.” “Maybe it is, partner.” “In some ways it is, I guess. Place is built on lots of bodies. They say that’s why the grass is so green.” It was quiet enough in the outer courtyard Sonny could hear the gravel crunching under his slip-ons as they walked to the massive main doors. “Let’s get a drink first and see if Otis is lurking in the bar.” They found Otis Forsythe talking animatedly with the bartender, pointing down the long oak bar with a thin finger. “…and you are not to serve those two any more, you hear? They’re drunk enough as it is.” He turned, and his voice changed in an instant. “Sonny! Mr. Cooper! How good of you to drop by. Jake, get these two men drinks, you hear? I won’t be a moment.” Sonny looked at Rico and raised his eyebrows as Otis headed into the lobby. Seconds later he returned with two of the sides of beef who worked as club security and sent them in the direction he’d pointed. Accepting his bourbon from the bartender, Sonny chuckled. “Cleaning house so early?” “Those two are nothing but trash. Rich trash, but trash just the same.” He gave one his his combination giggle-chuckles as the two bouncers manhandled two pasty men in expensive houndstooth suits toward the door. “And don’t come back until you learn to conduct yourselves like gentlemen, hear?” “What did they do?” “Dues may get you in the door, Mr. Cooper, but they do not give you the right to pinch the backsides of our waitresses or throw drinks at the staff.” Otis tugged at the lapels of his suit coat and seemed to puff out his chest. “Beaumont might have tolerated that sort of conduct, but I do not.” Then he smiled. “But where are my manners? Come, we must dine. I’m particularly famished, and I have some good news for you, Mr. Cooper.” “Please. Call me Rico.” “Of course. Rico it is.” Otis collected his own glass of scotch and extended his arm toward the dining room. “I’m told the t-bone is especially good tonight.” “So Newton’s going to be in town tomorrow?” Sonny leaned back a bit in the comfortable armchair. Otis wasn’t kidding about the t-bone. Or the rest of it. Place has upped its game. “So I’m told. By him, actually. He’s got one of those ship-to-shore telephones and he’s like a child with a new toy.” “Solid.” Rico grinned. “So, do I book an appointment through you?” Otis laughed. “No, Rico. Nothing that formal, at least if I have anything to say about it. Newton normally ties up around noon, so drop by any time after that. He likes afternoon drinks and usually has some kind of God-awful party on that thing into the wee hours. Of course he has to leave the dock for that, so anytime between one and five should be just about right.” Sonny nodded. He knew the drill, and soon Rico would be asking what kind of cut Otis needed to make the deal happen. Odds are there won’t really be one. Otis just does things sometimes. “I might let you boys handle this one solo. Unless you think ol’ Newton might be needing my boat tomorrow.” “I doubt it, Sonny, but come along just the same.” Otis looked around and lowered his voice. “I might some work for you if you’re interested.” “Count on it, Otis.” Sonny glanced at his watch and locked eyes with Rico. “I think we got time for one more drink and then we’d better blow this pop stand. Unless you cancelled that call and didn’t tell me.” Rico nodded. “Thanks for reminding me, Burnett.” He gave Otis an apologetic smile. “My associates like updates. I think they’re afraid I’ll go native if I spend too much time in Miami.” “Don’t let me keep you, then.” Otis raised a long finger and a waiter appeared as if from thin air. “Bring us one more round, Isaac, and then I think we’re done for the evening. And charge all this to my account, yes?” He flashed a bright smile once the waiter left. “Maybe things will get back to normal now that the Revillas are gone. Between them and that swine Calderone, Miami was becoming almost unbearable.” He raised his glass. “To better times.” Sonny raised his own glass and grinned. “I’ll drink to that, Otis. To better times.”

“…and that’s what the desk clerk said, lieutenant.” Stan Switek looked down at his notes. “They were at the Hilton for three days. Didn’t have any visitors except some girls from a call-out service. But they did spend a lot of time away from the hotel.” Gina Calabrese nodded. “We talked to some of those girls, lieutenant. And the ones who work the hotel bar. They said the older one liked to slap them around, but he tipped well. Trudy might have more, but she’s testifying for the grand jury…” “I know.” Martin Castillo’s voice was low, and he rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “The timing is poor, but we’ll get by. Crockett and Tubbs?” Sonny grimaced when Rico shook his head. “Guess I’m elected. Rico’s source is in Broward lockup, and I don’t have any that run in the same league as Santos would. We did get something, though. Don’t know if it’s related or not, but my gut says it might be. Word on the street is Chuckie Stokes was taken out by a Mendoza. Supposed to be an old-school family, but I haven’t heard the name for years.” “Why do you think it’s connected?” “Word is these Mendozas are trying to move up in the world. And Chuckie was taken out not long before Santos and his pals flew in.” Plus there was an old case itching in the back of his mind. Jaime Benequez. Never did find out who he worked for, but word was he used old routes, too. And whoever killed him was sending a message, too. “Don’t waste too much time on Stokes.” Nodding, Sonny looked across the table. “Gina, darlin’, could you call Homicide and see if they turned up anything on the Stokes case? They said they’d keep us in the loop, but I don’t know how many of those guys can actually write. And maybe Jaime Benequez, too. We passed him off back…back when Lou was still alive.” “I’ll do it as soon as I get the chance. Two of those girls got worked over pretty bad by the Bolivians, and I want to go to the hospital. See if one of them can identify…” Sonny nodded. He’d stopped listening as soon as she’d started talking about the girls. He was already sure Homicide hadn’t turned up anything new. In fact, he doubted they’d done much more than throw the folders on a stack of other folders in a dark corner of their squad room. Chasing down people who killed dealers and runners didn’t score many points for a promotion board. “We stay on this.” Castillo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Those men were here for a reason, and we don’t stop until we know what it was.” Rico was already behind his desk by the time Sonny got through the conference room door. “You don’t think those chumps in Homicide have squat, do you?” “No, Rico, I don’t. But I want to see what holes they poked around in so we don’t have to.” He sat down with a sigh. Benequez was before your time. Kid with a fast boat who took a .45 to the face and was burned in his boat. Word was he was trying to cozy up to Calderone, but we never found out one way or the other.” “A .45 to the head? That’s old school.” “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” Sonny thought back to the blackened hull and the charred remains still partly upright in the pilot’s seat. “Hell of a message, whoever did it.” “Who’d he work for?” “We never found out. Of course we didn’t chase it too hard. Calderone was still whacking dealers back then, and I was hell-bent on finding my mystery Columbian.” He paused, the memories turning darker. “And it wasn’t long after that Eddie got killed and you landed in my lap.” “So what do we know about these Mendozas?” “Not a damned thing, partner.” Sonny scratched the stubble on his chin. “I think the grandfather might have been a bootlegger back in the ‘20s. Lots of booze came through Miami and South Florida back then.” “Cubans?” “No. Puerto Ricans, I think. Suppose we’d better start digging before Castillo asks and we come up empty.” “Yeah, especially since you can bet he already knows everything there is to know about them.” Rico clapped his hands and got to his feet. “We’ll take the Caddy. I feel like some leg room for a change.” “Central records?” “Naw, man. The library. You know…that place with books. Some of ‘em even have pictures from what I hear.” “Very funny, Tubbs.” Sonny got to his feet with a grin. “Makes sense, though. Get some names and dates from the papers and then hit central records. That way we ain’t sitting there for six hours while they try to figure out if C comes before or after D.” “Joo got it, meng.” Enrique Mendoza stared at his brother. “And that’s all we have to do?” “Yes. The money can pass through Jesus to this Blade and then from him to us. He takes his cut, and it comes back to us as a return on a legitimate, if untraceable, asset.” Miguel smiled. “Clubs and concerts tend to deal in a lot of cash, after all.” Ricky nodded, working it out in his head. “And if Otis vouches for him he must know what he’s doing.” “My thought exactly. Otis Forsythe is many things, but a fool with business is not one of them.” “Speaking of fools and business, those idiots from Little Haiti are sniffing around the docks again.” “Which ones?” “The ones who call themselves the Bulls. One of the smaller gangs trying to get into our business.” Miguel nodded, and Ricky knew what was coming. “I’ll take care of it, brother. You focus on keeping the boats moving. There’s a chance we might pick up some business from Blade and I don’t want to be short any transport.” “Of course.” But it grated. Does Miguel not trust me to take care of this? Or does he not want me to know how he’s dealing with it? The older Mendoza smiled. “You have nothing to worry about, Enrique. I trust you. It’s just better for us both if we keep these things separate. I don’t care to know details about the boats…only how many are operational and if you need more. And you…” “Yeah. I don’t need to know how the work gets done. As long as it’s done.” “Exactly. But soon we may need to recruit some more dealers. People to move product. If our friend Santos increases his end as much as he claimed, we may have a problem moving it with our current network.” “And the last thing we need is product sitting in stash houses or warehouses waiting to move.” Ricky nodded. “I won’t ask Pasqual about this, but I do have a man who might be of assistance. He used to work for the Columbians.” He raised his hand. “Not Calderone, but one of the smaller fish. He claims to have a pipeline into the clubs in Brickell.” He thought back to what the man had said. “I think he was bragging to impress me, but there was also some truth there. If he can move even half of what he claimed it would help absorb Santos’s product.” “And give Newton Blade more to do. Speak with him, but be careful.” “Of course.” I’m always careful. Especially with snakes like the Columbians. Ricky managed to keep his temper in check until he was in the Corvette. Then he slammed his hand on the steering wheel. In theory he understood why Miguel kept him in the dark about some parts of the operation. He did the same thing. But he wondered where the men came from who did the dirty work. If anything happened to Miguel, he’d be left standing with no support. It was a fair drive from the family home to the docks where Ricky kept part of his growing fleet. But that was by design; something they’d learned from their grandfather. Separation creates deniability when the Federales come calling. Parking the car in the shade of a palm tree, Ricky headed for the long boathouse, his shoes crunching in the gravel covering the parking area. The yard looked like it was about to fall in on itself…again by design. A casual observer fooled by the fading paint and warping wood would have fainted dead away if they saw the modern workshops and well-tuned boats hiding behind the facade of decay. Pasqual looked up from the Mercury engine he’d been working on. “Let me guess…he said he’ll take care of it.” “Yes. As always.” Ricky shut the door and looked around the workspace. “How many boats are out of service?” “Two, counting the one this engine came out of. Not enough to slow our operations.” “Good. Look, Miguel told me we might be picking up some new trade soon. So we might need some more people on the street. What do you think of Hector?” “Columbian, isn’t he?” Pasqual spat into a pile of greasy rags near the engine stand. “That’s about how far I trust them. But he’s done well since he joined up. Maybe he’s the exception.” “He ever talk about the clubs in Brickell?” “When doesn’t he talk about those damned clubs? Shit, it’s all ‘I saw this girl’ and I grabbed that girl’s tit’ any time he’s talking with the boys. What I want to know is how much he pays those girls so he can look at their tits.” Ricky nodded. Sometimes Pasqual needed more direct questions. “Does he ever talk about drugs in those clubs?” “Oh, sorry. I get it now. Yeah. He does. Said when he was on his own he bought his first fast boat with money he got from selling party powder to those girls and their men. Claims a couple of his old pals are still in the game over there and making good money.” “I may have a talk with the idiot.” Ricky shook his head, then changed the subject. “Those Bulls been by lately?” “Kiki said he saw them sniffing around last night. Three of them. Same place as before, and they kept their distance. But that’s three days in a row. Something’s up.” “Not for long.” Esteban Morales checked his heavy .45 Colt one last time, testing the balance of the pistol with its long suppressor. The other two men with him went through the same ritual…one they’d learned in the swamps from men who’d learned their trade from the CIA. Old men who still cherished dreams of feeding Castro his own balls when they took back Cuba. Esteban smiled at the memory. He had no such dreams. Not any more, at least. There’d been a time when he had, of course. Back when he was part of Combat Group 1170, training with the sons of other old men to fulfill their fading dreams. But he’d seen the light eventually, leaving the Group with others who felt the same. The future wasn’t in Cuba; it was in Miami using their training to make more money than their fathers had ever imagined. Their own version of the American Dream. “You’re sure about where these assholes wait?” “Si, commandante.” Half of his men still used the old Group ranks from habit. “Always they’re in the brush to the north of the boathouse. We watched them for three days. Never less than two, but never more than four. Always watching. They have pistols…hell, every ape in Little Haiti has a pistol. But no rifles.” “Good. Stick to the plan.” All Miguel had said was ‘send a message.’ Esteban knew exactly how to do that. “Don’t start the truck until we return with the cargo. And be sure the plastic sheeting is in place. Clear? Good. Let’s go.” They moved through the darkness like shadows cast by the sliver of moon. Thankful for the training they’d gotten from those bitter old men, Esteban locked eyes with each of his boys in turn and pulled up his dark bandanna. It was always best to be prepared, even though they intended to leave no one alive. They had almost reached the edge of the line of shrubs when Esteban heard them. Then the slight breeze shifted and the acrid smell of tobacco reached his nose. Careless. Very careless. Not worth the cost of a bullet, but we have our orders. He could feel the cloth brass catcher attached to his Colt brush against his hand as he moved. They’d leave no trace of themselves behind. “I don’t know why we just don’t go down there and cut those PR bastards.” The speaker had a thin, mean voice. “Take what’s ours.” “Because the boss said no. Not yet, anyhow. So keep that damned pig-sticker of yours in its sheath, Louis.” “Jean Paul, you talk like a fool. The boss, he can’t see how they parade around. And no security. It would be an easy thing…” Now Esteban could see them, darker shadows against the dark shrubs. Three shadows. By agreement he’d take the one in the middle, while his boys took the other two. Still, he found he couldn’t resist. “You’re right,” he said softly, “it is an easy thing.” “What? Who said…Fuck!” The one he guessed was Louis scrabbled for something at his waist, and then Esteban’s Colt gave a low cough. Two more coughs came from his right and left, and then there was nothing. One of the dark shapes on the ground moaned, and Esteban shook his head as he put another round into the man. Someone’s getting sloppy. Ah, well. More training in the swamps, I suppose. “Idiots.” Esteban flicked on his Colt’s safety and lowered the weapon. “Let’s get them moved.” “Does Homicide have anything new on those bodies, lieutenant?” Ricardo Tubbs shot a pointed look at the front page of the early edition Herald and its blaring headline. “No. Just that there doesn’t appear to be any narcotics or organized crime connection.” Martin Castillo looked around the table. “They suspect some kind of gang conflict.” Sonny Crockett nodded. “So they’ll keep it until they hit a dead end or the press gets bored. Then it’ll land on Gangs or maybe Narcotics.” “We stick to our case. What do we have on the Mendoza family?” Sonny shook his head. “Officially, not much. But Tubbs and I did something crazy and went to the library. Yeah, Stan, I can actually read books that don’t come with crayons. But your mom still likes reading me bedtime stories.” He waited for the obligatory chuckles before continuing. “But they were something back in the ‘20s. Newspapers from back then called him Miami’s Capone.” Rico nodded. “Yeah, an’ his main cargo was rum. Jamaican and Puerto Rican. Turns out the family’s from some village near San Juan, so he had easy access to quality product.” “What happened to them?” “That’s where it gets tough, lieutenant. The papers lost interest when Prohibition was repealed. Metro-Dade’s files don’t have squat. Near as we can tell they faded back into regular life. With a nice nest egg.” Sonny grinned. “They come up in DMV records, and there’s an uncle or something who runs a charter fishing service, but that’s it. The grandfather died a few years back, and the father seems to split his time between here and Arizona. My source claimed they might be trying to move up in the world, but I can’t find any damned indication they’re even in the game. If they are, we don’t know a damned thing about it.” “We might be able to find out some more if we sniff around Pelican’s Nest.” Rico leaned forward and checked his notes. “Seems the old man was one of the charter members.” “Now that’s a hell of a thing.” Stan chuckled. “Bet that Klan member who used to run the place would have a fit if he knew.” “Yeah, but Otis Forsythe wouldn’t. The Forsythes have always had their hand in the cookie jar on the shady side of life, but they’re also careful enough to stay on just this side of the law. If the Mendozas are back in the game, he’s about the only one outside of their family who’d know.” “What’s the link between them and Stokes?” “We think it’s the routes, lieutenant.” Sonny chose his words carefully. It was more his gut saying it was the routes, and he knew Castillo preferred facts to what might just be indigestion. “Chuckie had a thing for the old ways. He used older boats, and really got into knowing how the old guys moved their product. Maybe he stumbled into one of the old Mendoza routes, and if they’re still active…they had a reputation for protecting their turf. Violently.” Gina cleared her throat. “I checked with Homicide. They don’t have any new leads on Stokes, and they stuck Benequez in a drawer. According to them the case is cold.” Sonny started to nod, then froze. He stared at the paper again, then looked around the room. “Those Haitians were killed with .45s, right?” “Yes.” Castillo’s single word filled the room. “Benequez was also killed by a .45. A single shot to the head. What about…” “Two were single shots to the head. The third had one wound in the upper chest that would’t have been immediately fatal, but the second shot to his head was.” Castillo paused. “They kept this out of the papers, but the bodies were also placed outside the front door of a bar favored by a local gang called the Bulls. Lined up in a neat row.” “This isn’t a gang thing. It’s another message. Someone stuck their nose where it wasn’t wanted and got it blown off. We all know the gangs over in Little Haiti prefer 9mm or even .22. The .45 just ain’t their thing. And they like using lots of ammo. This is too damned precise for them.” Castillo stared at Sonny for a time. “You think it was the Mendozas.” It wasn’t a question. “I don’t know who it was, lieutenant, and that’s what bothers me. We saw how Calderone and the Revillas conducted business. The last thing we need is another turf war.” “Check out the yacht club. See if the Mendoza family is still conducting business. Gina, once Trudy’s back from testifying I want you to check public records. See if the Mendozas have any holdings we should look into. Switek, Zito, I’d like you to check that club you helped raid this past Christmas. See if anyone’s trying to move in now that it’s open territory. We need to know what’s going on.” Rico didn’t ask the question until they were back at their desks, but Sonny knew it was coming. “You think we’re blown with this Forsythe cat after that thing with Margaret and the FBI?” “Naw. I don’t think so. Hell, he was just glad to see them haul Beaumont off in cuffs. Now that he’s back in charge, I bet he’s more concerned with rebuilding the club and bringing back some of its former glory. You know…illegal card games, some nose candy, maybe a few classy ladies for hire to entertain the old boys who drop in. Good ol’ Southern hospitality.” “Problem is, I never did bring that motor yacht down.” “Yeah, but he’s still got your membership deposit. We can always drop in to see if the heat’s off. He’d expect something like that from a player like Cooper.” “Solid.” Pelican’s Nest hadn’t changed since their last visit, and Sonny guessed the place hadn’t really changed since the late 1930s when the last of the big palms went in. It was one of those quiet bastions of old Miami money, mostly ill-gotten, and some that had made its way ashore when Castro took over. They had the same big security guys as last time, and the same porter greeted them after checking the membership list. “Mr. Cooper and guest. Of course. Your dues are in good standing, and with a legacy vouching for you I can see no problems. Please, have a drink at the bar and I’ll let Mr. Forsythe know you’re here.” “Looks like Cooper’s still solid,” Rico whispered as they waded through the thick carpet to the bar. “Yeah, and they got rid of the damned flag behind the coat check counter.” Sonny chuckled. “Looks like the days of Beaumont are dead and gone.” The blonde tending bar had bright eyes and a brighter figure. “Scotch, pretty lady,” Rico said, turning on the blinding Cooper charm. “And whatever my friend wants. Charge it to Rico Cooper.” “You’ll do no such thing, Tammy. Put those drinks on my personal account.” Otis Forsythe’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s been too long, Mr. Cooper. We missed your yacht. And Sonny! I’ve told you never to be a stranger.” Sonny grinned. “Well, you know, Otis, it did get kinda hot the last time we were here. All those goons in tan Fords.” “Oh, that. I do apologize for that. But one can’t control idiots, can one? And it’s worse when they’re idiots with badges. But I suppose I can’t complain too much. They did rid me of that jackass Beaumont.” Otis waited until they had their drinks, then motioned with his long fingers. “Come. Let’s have a chat and catch up.” “So yes, my associates are still looking to make some moves in the Miami market.” Sonny sipped at his Jack Daniel’s and only half-listened to Rico spinning his story about why he hadn’t been back to Pelican’s Nest until now. He wasn’t worried…anything Rico came up with would hold water. He didn’t have anything to explain. Sonny Burnett was a cash and carry guy pure and simple. He didn’t make social calls, and Otis knew that. “Well I must say you’re catching us at a pretty awkward time, Rico. Things are…unsettled. Wouldn’t you agree, Sonny?” “Sure. From where I sit, there’s still cargo needing to be delivered. I hear it’s a bit rough on the street, but that’s not my end of things.” “My associates see that as an opportunity. A time to step in and help stabilize a market. Maybe open some new avenues for those with ambition.” “Now you sound like my grandfather. Old grandpappy Forsythe was an ambitious cuss. But most of them were back then, I suppose. Him, Walter Bicknell, Guillermo Mendoza. All men with great dreams. Then that traitor Roosevelt repealed the Volstead Act.” Otis sighed. “I suppose his heart was in the right place, but it put paid to a number of business ventures.” Sonny took another drink to cover his excitement. “Mendoza? That’s a new one.” “You really should learn the history of your chosen profession, Sonny. I do declare.” Otis chuckled, a dry sound in the room. “Those men could teach you a thing or two about moving cargo.” “Maybe. But times have changed.” “Not as much as you’d suppose.” “Guess you’re right about that.” Sonny laughed and decided to drop a test line. “Hell, I hear ol’ Chuckie Stokes liked the old ways. Slow but steady is what I heard.” “Yes.” Otis shifted in his chair. “But we should look to the future. Or so my daddy used to say. With law enforcement so focused on the Cannatta organization there are new opportunities.” Wonder what he knows? “Yeah. You’re right about that.” He turned to Rico. “Any idea when those associates of yours are gonna start needing my boat?” “Soon.” Rico narrowed his eyes. “But they also need to know there will be product to move and places for it to go.” “All in good time, Rico.” Otis smiled. “You aren’t the only one from up north looking to do some business in our fair city.” “I didn’t think I was. But from what I hear product is coming up faster than the local market can absorb it. I’d guess someone would be interested in another route north.” Otis nodded, pursing his thin lips. “I have another friend who shares that view. Perhaps you know him? Newton Blade.” Sonny laughed. “Newton an’ I go back a bit. Did some business with him a year or so ago, and more before that. Way I heard it he was on an extended tour of the Caribbean after the Revillas went up in smoke and the IRS started sniffing around his tax returns.” “Colorful as ever, Sonny. That’s what I adore about you. But Newton is back from his little vacation and looking to do business.” Otis turned to Rico. “Maybe you two should meet. I can arrange it. He’s supposed to be tying up here in the next week or so.” Rico looked at Sonny for a moment before grinning. “I’d appreciate that, Otis. And yeah, I’ve run into Newton a time or two. Be good to catch up and see if we can help each other.” Sonny listened as Rico and Otis worked out some small details, but his thoughts were racing. Hell, we didn’t know Blade was back in the game, let alone in Miami. And he doesn’t move much product. He’s a money man. Something’s up, and we gotta find out what. And if the Mendozas are involved.

QUICK PROGRAM NOTE: For those of you who might be following this tale, these will update a bit slower now that I'm in the meat of the seasons. Placing the actual episodes in a functional timeline and then working events here (and in my other stories) around them is proving to be quite a chore. Obviously air date is pretty much useless, so I have to use other clues to make things work. And sometimes I just stick an episode where it MIGHT fall to make the timeline work. Miami Three weeks after Buddies “I still can’t believe he stuck him in the wall.” Stan Switek cast a quick look at the recording levels before turing back to Larry Zito. “I mean that’s right out of one of those Vincent Price movies.” “Yeah. Kinda wish we would have been there to see it, though.” Larry lowered his binoculars for a moment and rubbed his eyes. “You think these guys are ever gonna move?” “Doesn’t sound like it.” Stan slipped on the headphones again. “Yep. They’re still talking football.” He adjusted two knobs on the reel-to-reel recorder. “At least we finally got some good equipment in the old girl.” “Thank God for seizure revenue. That crap we had before was old enough Elvis could have recorded his first demo on it.” “Come on, Lar. Don’t get me thinking that. I might want to get it back.” Stan grinned and launched into the first two lines of “Heartbreak Hotel” before settling down again. Larry knows I’m kidding. There’s no way in hell I’d want that crap back in the bug van. Setup was so old I’m surprised we weren’t using wax disks to record. “At least now we can monitor more than three lines at one time. Maybe if we play with it a bit…” “Heads up, Stan. Looks like they’re about to have company.” Zito shifted, tracking movement with the glasses. “Looks like…oh, crap.” “What do you mean…” Stan’s question died in his throat as the parabolic microphone started picking up the new voice. “Gennlemen…joo look like men of disinfection. Rare appreciationals. Men who can see art in motion an’ have the visionaries to want if for themselves.” “Who the hell let Izzy out of his cage?” “Don’t ask me.” Larry lowered the glasses for a moment. “Wasn’t my day to watch him. But it does kinda prove those guys aren’t part of the Cannatta sports book racket.” “Yeah. They’d have apes around to run goofballs like Izzy off.” “I think you were right, Stan. Those are just old guys for Jersey who like football and are about to become the proud owners of shoes worn by Richard Grere himself.” Stan listened for a few more seconds before shutting off the recorder. “Yeah. They’re falling for his whole routine. Including the ‘Emingway’s bulls’ line. If I ever get that stupid, Lar, promise me you’ll shoot me.” “I’ll call it in.” Larry reached for the radio. “It’s a bust, lieutenant. The tip was wrong. No one here except for some old football junkies who just fell for Moreno’s shoes.” Castillo’s dry voice was slightly distorted by the radio. “Return to OCB.” “Copy that.” Larry shut off the radio. “You heard the man, Stan. Let’s head for home.” Sonny Crockett stared at the phone on his desk, one part of him wanting to make the call and the other wanting to forget he’d ever had the idea. I should check on Robbie. Make sure he’s ok. Then he thought about the nightmares. They’d been coming back strong since the shooting, transporting him back to a hard-baked road in Vietnam and the crack-bark of AK-47s. And the last time he’d seen Robbie shot. David Conner’s blood soaking into the dry ground. And a rail-thin man in a rusty trailer years later show dead by an asshole from SWAT for the crime of being a vet. “Earth to Sonny.” Rico’s voice cut through the fog of memory. “You ok? Castillo wants us in the conference room like yesterday.” “Yeah, yeah. On my way.” Getting to his feet, Sonny pushed the memories deep back in a dark corner of his mind. I’ll make the call later he told himself, knowing he wouldn’t. “We don’t have anything new to tell him about Chuckie, though.” Chuckie Stokes. The name was like an itch in the center of his back he couldn’t reach. First they’d been pulled off for what turned into Hank Weldon’s blast from the past and some very uncomfortable revelations for both Metro-Dade and the DA’s office, then Trudy’s old boyfriend landed in their laps, and finally the whole mess with Robbie Cann. And each time they’d wrapped up one of those cases the chances of solving Chuckie’s murder shrank a little more. It had supposedly gone to Homicide, but they’d stuck in on a back burner somewhere and forgotten about it. “You hear anything about that buddy of yours?” “Not yet. Been meaning to call, but…” Sonny shrugged. “You know how it is around here.” “Yeah. And it looks like it’s about to get worse.” The conference room whiteboard had three photos taped to it with names scrawled under them with a dry erase marker. Gina and Trudy were already there, sitting with their backs to the board and going over what looked like case notes. Walking around the table, Sonny sat down and flashed a quick smile. “Any progress on the Walker case?” Gina shook her head. “No. We got called in just like you two.” “And the lieutenant pulled Switek and Zito off surveillance. They should be here any time now.” Trudy looked at her watch. “Sounded like it was a bust anyhow, so they’re probably just glad to be getting out of the heart.” Nodding, Sonny looked at the board and its pictures. One older man and two younger ones. And those aren’t names…unless they’re related and someone named them Subject 1, 2 and 3. Now he was getting interested. This wasn’t a case review. “You know how you know when you’re watching the wrong target? When Izzy freakin’ Moreno shows up trying to sell them shoes. And they’re interested.” Stan sank into one of the chairs on Gina and Trudy’s side of the table. “Yeah. Little goofball was halfway into his ‘bull sweat’ line or something when those guys started pulling out their wallets.” Larry echoed Stan’s laugh. “No way they’re Cannatta bookies. Just some old guys from Jersey who like football.” Rico nodded. “Sounds like a bad tip I’d bet it didn’t come from the records we seized or you would have been tripping over tan Fords.” Lowering his eyes, Sonny started tuning out the conversation. He still didn’t like thinking about how his old friend from college and Nam had actually been part of the Cannatta crime family. Well…I guess I gotta be fair. He didn’t have a choice. His father ran the damned thing. And he did change his name to get away from them. And in the end he came through for that girl and her kid. “All your other cases are on hold as of now.” As usual, Sonny hadn’t heard Castillo come in. The man seemed to appear out of thin air. “Hand off any active leads to Gorman or Dibble.” “Any word from Homicide on…” “We have nothing new on the Stokes case. It’s not our problem now.” Castillo looked up, his eyes dark. “These men are.” “Who are those cats, lieutenant? I sure don’t recognize ‘em from any Christmas cards.” “About a month ago these men were in Miami.” Castillo slid folders down the table, three for each detective. “They seem to have stayed for three days, and then departed. “We need to verify that information.” “So why didn’t Metro-Dade…” “This didn’t come from them. It came from DEA, and not through normal channels.” Sonny nodded, still looking at the photos. “A little bird whispered in your ear.” Castillo gave one of his small smiles. “Yes. I’m not sure why the information wasn’t passed on. We may never know. DEA doesn’t know why they were here, or who they were visiting. But we need to find out.” Gina turned from studying the pictures. “Who are they, lieutenant? And if they were here that long ago…” “This isn’t a replay of the Revillas, is it?” Sonny looked hard at Castillo, remembering Gina in the hospital after the shooting. Another trip down memory lane I do NOT need. “No. DEA is not moving on these men. The intelligence was generated because one of the names is on an Interpol watch list.” Castillo nodded to the folders. “What they have is in there.” Sonny opened the first folder and snorted. “Two pages? And one of them an Interpol watch notice? That ain’t squat.” “No.” Castillo let the word hang in the air. “The older man is Cristobal Santos, a former commander in the Bolivian National Police Corps. He was active in La Paz during the Garcia Meza regime, and was fired as part of the regime’s fall in 1981. He managed to evade arrest, and has been active in narcotics trade ever since. The other two are also former Bolivian police officers. DEA suspects they were acting as his bodyguards.” “So how the hell did he get into the country? Guy’s gotta be on a dozen watch lists.” “Likely under a false name. And no, I don’t know how DEA spotted him.” “Maybe when he was leaving the country.” Sonny was scanning the first page of his folder as he spoke. “There’s a note here about someone spotting him at the airport at a departure gate.” “Convenient how the Feds only manage to spot him after he’s done whatever he came here to do.” Rico snorted. “Guess their tan Fords musta been in the shop.” “It doesn’t matter. This is what we have to work with. And make no mistake. Santos is a dangerous and connected man. He may not have the biggest narcotics operation in Bolivia, but it is among the best-organized. We need to find out what he was doing in Miami and who he was seeing.” Trudy nodded. “Do we know where he stayed?” “No. Switek and Zito will be working that. Concentrate on the high end hotels close to downtown. Santos sees himself as a man of taste.” “Once we get that, Gina and I will check out the working girls. I haven’t seen one of these guys yet who didn’t want a girl or two for company. Even if it’s just for the two goons.” “Crockett, Tubbs. Check with your CIs. I want to know if there’s any word about a Bolivian making moves in Miami. Or someone who might have been meeting with one.” “You got it, lieutenant.” Sonny got to his feet. “Come on, Rico. Let’s go poke around in some dark alleys.” “You weren’t serious about alleys, were you?” Rico waited until they were back in the squad room to comment. “No way I can meet that dry cleaning bill.” “Depends on where your CIs like to hang out.” Sonny dropped the folders into a drawer in his desk. “I don’t think I have any who’d have enough status to be meeting with a Bolivian heavy hitter. I take that back. One or maybe two, but they’d be burning up the phone lines trying to work off their deal. And I don’t have any messages.” Nodding, Rico stopped at his own desk to secure his folders. “I might know a guy. But I’d rather know where these chumps went first. Might save us some shoe leather.” “Yeah, but Castillo isn’t gonna want to see us sitting around eating donuts. Let’s go shake a tree or two and see if anything falls out. Maybe by then Stan and Larry will have a fix on where they stayed.” Enrique Mendoza sighed, looking out across the dock. “Man, I’m glad that’s over and done with. Fucking Bolivians were even bigger pigs than I thought.” The offshore breeze was fresh, creating small waves to slap against the dock and move the go-fast boats ever so slightly. Pasqual Benitez pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead and gave the boats a quick look. “Yeah, but we pulled it off. Didn’t you say they committed to more weight?” “Yes. But as Miguel said, there’s a danger there. They can cut back on supply and demand more once we ramp up to deal with the increased flow.” “He’s a sharp one, your brother.” “Yes.” Ricky nodded. Yeah, Miguel’s got it all figured out. The money’s flowing in, and he seems to have found another way to wash it. Smart of him to wait and see before going all-in with that ass Santos. “I think we’ll come out of this ahead.” Just down the coast, Pelican’s Nest hid from the sun behind its manicured shrubs and under tall palms. Miguel Mendoza sat in one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs in a private club room, a glass of rum on a low table just within reach. Like Ricky, he was glad they’d survived the visit of the Bolivians. But unlike Ricky he still had to face this meeting. Otis Forsythe checked his heavy gold pocket watch one more time. “He should be here any minute, Miguel. And I do apologize again. Promptness is not one of this fellow’s virtues.” “It’s not your fault, Otis. You cannot be responsible for what you cannot control.” Miguel smiled. He appreciated Otis’s embarrassment, and knew the man would find a way to either make things right or make someone pay. He also knew it was a point of honor with the Forsythe clan, and had been going back three generations. Otis continued fidgeting in his chair, and was about to stand when one of the porters knocked on the closed door. “Your guest has arrived, Mr. Forsythe.” “Send him in.” Otis didn’t get to his feet, a sure sign of disapproval. “We expected you half an hour ago, Newton. I trust you have some kind of foolish explanation.” Newton Blade was a big man, with a mane of jet back hair and narrow, penetrating eyes. “Otis. I am sorry for being late. There was this girl…” “Oh, shut up and sit down. This is Miguel Mendoza, the man I told you about. Miguel, Newton Blade.” “The pleasure’s all mine, Miguel.” Blade had a firm handshake, the kind Miguel knew men of his kind used to cover a multitude of weaknesses and vanities. “And I am sorry about being delayed. There WAS indeed a girl. But I won’t waste your time with stories.” Nodding, Miguel sat back down. “I understand you’re a bit of a club promoter, Mr. Blade. In addition to some other enterprises.” “Please, call me Newton. And yes, clubs are a hobby of mine. As are shows, certain bands, and even a racehorse or two. All are fantastic investment opportunities, especially for men with cash looking for a home.” Blade leaned back in his club chair. “Of course, Miami isn’t the most hospitable location. Look at the late and unlamented Revillas and…” Miguel raised his hand. “Let me stop you there. Both the Revillas and Calderone, who I’m sure you were about to mention, both came to our streets from up north. They did not know our ways, our standards, and did not care to learn. Not the best way to do business. You might point to the Lombard and Cannatta organizations, but I think we can both agree we do not, shall we say, work in their fields.” Blade inclined his head a hair. “You make excellent points, Miguel. I am impressed. And from what Otis tells me, your family is uniquely equipped to understand the local ways.” Otis snickered. “The Mendozas have been in the business as long as the Forsythe family if that tells you anything. And having made introductions, I’ll leave you two fine gentlemen to talk business. Don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.” Once the door closed with a firm click, Newton Blade let out a deep laugh. “Otis is a hell of a character, isn’t he? But he’s damned good at what he does. Always has been. And like he said, now we can get down to business.” “Yes. The business I’m in makes a fair amount of money. All in cash. The kind that doesn’t easily deposit in U.S. banks.” “And you’d rather not deal with those pirates in the offshore institutions. I understand completely. But there are challenges…” “I also have local means of dealing with much of the cash. But we do have…shall we say…overflow. From time to time, of course. Overflow I could invest in clubs, shows…” “And the receipts from those clubs and shows would find their way back to you as an investor.” Blade nodded again, tapping his long fingers on his knee. “With an appropriate handling fee, of course.” “Of course. Depending on what you consider appropriate. And the money would move through another source. A charter company.” “I like you, Miguel. And Otis likes you, which means more down here. Let’s say ten percent to start with. Unless you’re talking large amounts, then my own costs go up. And I don’t care where the money comes from, so long as I know where to send your returns.” “That sounds reasonable.” “Good. I pass through Miami every couple of weeks. I can let Otis know, and he can let you know.” Blade started to get to his feet, then stopped. “Your line is transportation, isn’t it?” “Among other things.” “There are times when I need certain cargo moved quickly and discretely. Would you be willing to…” “Of course. Depending on our own schedules, of course.” “Excellent.” Blade held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miguel. We’ll work out the fine details later.” Otis came back in seconds after Blade left. “He’s a bit much,” he said with a slight grin, “but he is good at what he does. Which most days seems to be chugging around in that monstrosity of his.” He pointed out the window at a huge motor yacht tied up at the end of the club dock. “But he has a way with money. He’s also a reliable customer for certain party favors.” “So he’s another one from up north?” “Oh, I suppose he is. But he doesn’t try to cut in on anyone down here. Newton is quite content to let things continue working the way they always have. So long as he can make money from it.” “Now that was a complete waste of an afternoon.” Sonny Crockett stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. “You ask me, too much perspiration and not enough inspiration.” Ricardo Tubbs sipped at a club soda with lime and dabbed at his forehead with a napkin snatched from a stack on the bar. "Somethin' like that, Rico.” The ice cubes hit his teeth as Sonny drained his glass. “Another Black Jack,” he said when the bartended ambled by. “And this time hold the ice, ok, pal?” “Man, I knew Falco was a flake, but I never expected to hear he’d ended up in the Broward County lockup.” Rico shook his head. “An’ now my only lead is trying not to be someone’s Saturday night date.” “At least you had a lead. Me? Half my CIs aren’t gonna go anywhere near a Bolivian. Not after the Revillas. And with the Cannatta family goin’ up in smoke the other half have gone to ground. And there’s no way in hell I’m talking to Moreno.” “You think Noogie…” “Not a chance in hell. That’s your answer to both do I think he knows anything and do I want to meet with him.” “Fair enough, partner.” Rico waited for the bartender to drop off Sonny’s drink and wander back down the bar. “You still workin’ on that Stokes thing?” “Yeah.” Sonny took a sip of bourbon. “I just can’t get it out of my head, Rico. Why was that goofball using old rum-runner routes? I get he’s got more time to smoke the product on the way in, but those routes are tricky as hell. Lots of shallow water and currents that will screw up your boat but good if you don’t know ‘em exactly.” He traced lines in the condensation circles on the bar with his index finger. “And more to the point, who the hell else is using them?” “Yeah.” There was another long pause. “You called that buddy of yours yet?” “Robbie? Yeah…I tried last night.” Sonny thought back to the call. “When I tried the hospital they said he’d been moved, and I couldn’t find out where.” He shook his head. “Probably witness protection. The way the Cannattas are falling apart they might have thought someone would try taking a shot at him.” “Hell, they would. Boss’s kid or not.” Rico signaled for another club soda. “Seen plenty of those mob things back in New York. Once the blood gets flowin’ they don’t care who they take out. And he saved the girl, so some of ‘em will think he’s a traitor no matter what. Doin’ the right thing don’t mean squat to them.” Sonny nodded, thinking back to Barbara. “No, you sure as hell are right about that, Rico. And when it comes back on ‘em, the bosses can always say they didn’t know.” He chuckled. “Guess that’s one thing we can say about clowns like the Revillas. They never denied killing anyone. Hell, they we proud of it. Makes it a hell of a lot easier if you get ‘em in court.” “So why do you think this Bolivian was in town? Checkin’ out the latest in bikini fashion?” “If I had to guess, I’d say he was here to check on transportation issues. He can have all the product in the world, but it doesn’t do him any good if he can’t get it to the streets of Miami.” “So we’re talkin' a former cop. Connections from here to La Paz. Who does he talk to if he wants to move that much weight?” “Hard to say. That mess with Adonis shows just how out of whack things are with the Revillas out of the picture. Too many people scrambling to fill the holes.” Sonny took another drink, feeling the bourbon trace a warm path down his throat. “Thing is, for a guy like that he’d have to find someone who can move quantity and is reliable. Not much of that goin’ around.” “So who might be trying to move up?” “Hell, it’s a shorter list of who’s NOT trying to move up. I’d say anyone with a Scarab is trying to get in the game now. But they’d be too small time for Mr. Santos. Stokes and his crew might have been able to swing it, but he was the one who knew the routes and with him scattered all over the bay…” “The rest scattered, too. Only difference is they’re still breathing. You think it might be worth tryin’ to run a couple of them down?” “Could be. If we can figure out who took out Stokes, we might be able to get a line on who Santos was meeting with. Unless Switek and Zito already ran that down.” Draining his glass, Sonny left a twenty on the bar. “Come on. Let’s blow this pop stand. I got an idea where we might find Gus Walker.” “Who the hell is Gus Walker?” “The guy who usually sold whatever Chuckie brought in.” Sonny grinned. “Let’s go, Rico. Time’s a’wastin’.” “Why am I not surprised someone named Gus likes to hang out in Bomber’s?” Ricardo Tubbs wrinkled his nose like he was downwind of a sewage treatment plant. “Place gives me a rash.” “Be glad he doesn’t like Rizzo’s.” Sonny grinned as he shut off the Ferrari. “Don’t remind me. Then I’d have a rash AND need shots.” Rico sighed. “Let’s get it over with.” One good thing about Bomber’s is it never changes. Not the smell, not the burned-out lights over the bar, and not the nickel and dime dealers always looking to move up to quarters and half-dollars. The bartender looked up from his heavy job of wiping the same spot on the bar with the same dirty rag and nodded in recognition. “Afternoon, Sonny. The usual?” “Naw.” Sonny jerked his head toward Rico. “Business today. Gus been around?” “Yeah. He’s back by the far pool table with a pitcher.” The bartender leaned forward. “Good timing you got, too. His driver got blown the hell up a while back, an’ I hear he’s still lookin’ for someone to move his product.” Nodding, Sonny moved away from the bar and headed toward the back of the bar, where the smell of stale urine from the chamber of horrors Bomber’s called its restrooms almost overpowered the stale beer. Gus Walker wasn’t hard to miss…a man about Switek’s size sitting alone with a half-empty pitcher of beer in front of him with no glass. Taking a long drink from the pitcher, he looked Sonny up and down. “I know you,” he said in a slurred voice. “You I don’t.” “He’s cool, Gus. Guy I know from up north who’s looking for some Miami produce. Produce I don’t usually handle. So I thought of you and Chuckie and decided to send some business your way.” Hooking a chair, Sonny sat down, sensing rather than seeing Rico moving to watch the front door. “Fat guy behind the bar told me about Chuckie. Sorry to hear that. He was a hell of a boat guy.” “Yeah. An’ without him there ain’t no produce to sell. So I guess you wasted your time.” “Yeah, I guess so.” Sonny acted like he was about to get up. “How did it happen? Chuckie was always so damned careful.” “But not as careful as you, right, Burnett?” Gus took another long drink. “Naw, I don’t mean it like that. We were startin’ to move up. Getting into new product. You know how it is. And Chuckie…well…you know him an’ his old routes. Those things he claimed he learned from his father and wouldn’t share with anyone? Yeah, he was on one of those when he got his shit blown all to hell.” “Who did it? I thought Chuckie was the only one who ran that way.” Gus looked around and lowered his voice. “You’d best be careful out there, Burnett. There ain’t much word out, but the bits I have heard keep mentioning the Mendozas.” “Who?” “The Mendozas. Before your time, man. Mine, too. But Chuckie’s dad knew ‘em, I guess. Heard they keep a low profile, but you do not want to stick your nose in their business. I guess Chuckie did, even if he didn’t mean to.”

Miami, 1985 After the events in All I Want for Christmas and Rotten to the Core “You know what day it is, partner?” Sonny Crockett lowered his binoculars and looked over at Ricardo Tubbs sprawled in the Ferrari’s passenger seat. “The day all that Florida sun finally baked your New York brain?” “Nothing that drastic. Though I gotta say it’s playing hell with my dry cleaning bill. Sweat an’ Armani do not mix.” Rico chuckled. “Come on. You don’t remember?” Sonny shook his head. It hasn’t been that long since Lou was killed, or since Castillo took over. “No clue, Rico.” He raised the glasses again. “Kinda like ol’ Chuckie out there ain’t got no clue what he’s doing with that boat.” “It’s been a year…to the day…since the Rojas cousins tried to rip us off.” “Hell, that’s all? I thought it was something serious. I can’t track of every two-bit dealer who tries to rip us off or fill us full of holes.” He paused. “I am damned glad Lou made us take Bluto and Lee Harvey Oswald, though. And those two cars of uniforms.” The memory started coming back now…he’d managed to drop one of the big guys with the Rojas cousins, but when three more appeared from behind the bar he’d thought they were screwed. Until Stan Switek came charging through the door like an overweight Rambo with a shotgun. “Gave the chief his bust.” Rico chuckled again. “Don’t think he was all that happy about a shootout in Little San Juan, though.” “Screw him.” Sonny’s words were more of a snort. “He can make his own damned showboat arrests, then. And speaking of showboats, I think this whole thing’s a bust. Call it in and see if we can pack up and go home.” Nodding, Rico reached for the hand radio. “This must be one of the seventy-five percent of Izzy’s tips that are total crap. “No dice, lieutenant.” Martin Castillo’s even voice sounded a touch tinny through the radio speaker. “Stay on it.” “Did you do something to piss him off?” Sonny shook his head. “Not me, partner. I even made the morning briefing on time. Maybe he’s still pissed about that little show with the FBI at the yacht club.” “Or Margaret. He ain’t exactly that lady’s number one fan.” Rico lowered the radio and checked the side mirror. “Whatever it is, we gotta figure it out and undo it. I can’t take many more stakeouts.” “You and me both.” Sonny shifted in the driver’s seat, tracking the boat’s movement. Chuckie was a tiny cog in an even smaller machine…four goofballs who’d never managed to move more than five kilos of low-grade coke in their entire miserable lives. Why the hell that idiot Moreno thought these were big-time guys is beyond me. Maybe he’s huffing the paint he puts on those damned shoes. “It’s not like Chuckie and his guys are gonna lead us anywhere.” “Maybe we can…” “Hang on.” Sonny shifted, bringing the binoculars into tighter focus. “There’s a second boat coming into view. Bigger. Looks like a Scarab, but I can’t tell what model from this distance.” “They doing an exchange?” Rico raised his own glasses, moving so he could see where Sonny was looking. “Don’t look like it. The Scarab’s hauling ass. Trying to close the distance. He’s maybe fifty yards away from Chuckie.” “Hell, Chuckie’s trying to run.” “Waste of time.” Sonny watched as something arced from the bigger boat into Chuckie’s converted fishing rig. “Holy shit…they’re…” The white and yellow flash of the explosion blotted out the other boat, and the boom reached the shore a second or two later. “And you have no idea who they were meeting?” Martin Castillo sat at the head of the table, his black suit untouched by the day’s heat. “No, lieutenant. No clue.” Sonny shook his head. “Hell, Moreno’s tip didn’t mention any kind of meeting. Just that a shipment was coming in at that dock and a rough time.” “What do we know about these men?” “Chuckie was small time. Very small time. He and his three buddies mostly moved weed. They used to go to the University of Miami, and sold almost exclusively to that crowd. Word on the street is they’d starting mixing in some coke, but very small quantities. Never more than a key or two.” Sonny looked up from his notes. “They were basically just gettin’ by gettin’ by. No ambition as far as anyone could tell.” “Stay on it. No one blows up a boat like that without a reason. And I want to know the reason.” Back in the squad room, Sonny looked at Rico and shook his head. “I can think of at least three meatballs who’d blow up a boat for no reason, and another three who’d do it just to watch the explosion.” “You wanna tell Castillo that?” “Hell, no.” Sonny was emphatic. Lou used to scream and shout, but you could wear him down. Castillo just stared at you, and Sonny didn’t think it was possible to wear him down. You either convinced him or you didn’t. End of story. “Maybe those meatheads blundered into something.” It had been a good year. Miguel Mendoza looked at Enrique Mendoza and smiled. “We’ve done well, brother.” “Yeah. Once the cops took out Calderone for real an’ those two crazy Indians, things opened up.” Enrique swallowed the last of his rum and poured another from the bottle on the table. “And you were right to stay above it all.” “Let them kill each other and move in to pick up the pieces.” Miguel smiled again. It had worked with the Rojas. Let them rot in prison while we take what was rightfully ours. “And fill in gaps left by others.” “I think our friend from Bolivia is going to want to meet you. He keeps making noise about wanting to have a drink with the Miami end of the pipeline.” Miguel nodded. He’d been anticipating the request. “I take it he wants to come to Miami.” “Yes. Though I think it’s more for the women.” “Good. We’ll show him a good time. Within limits, of course. Say a three day visit. I’ll meet him on the first day while he’s still reasonably sober.” Enrique laughed. “Are you sure you haven’t met him already?” “Let’s say I know the type. Maybe send him out on one of Jesus’s boats for some fishing. Nowhere near our routes, of course.” “I’ll see to it.” Enrique started to turn, then his face darkened. “About that other business…” “It had to be done. Those idiots came too close to one of our routes one time too many. Once is an accident, but after that it becomes a problem. Don’t worry, Ricky. The boat was stolen from the Borrascos and should be burning off the coast by now. There’s no way it can be tied back to us.” Miguel sipped his own rum. “We never kill without purpose, but we will also defend what is ours.” “I know. I’m not complaining. I just wish I would have known sooner.” “Next time you will, brother. This was a situation where we had to move quickly.” The lie rolled easily off Miguel’s tongue. He had no intention of keeping Ricky informed about this side of the business unless there was no other way. What he doesn’t know he can’t tell one of his friends. Or his women. He’s incredibly useful, my brother, but you have to keep his limits in mind. As always, Esteban Morales timed his appearance to perfection. “The boat is a cinder twenty miles off the coast,” he said as he poured himself a drink. “We think only their pilot was on the target boat, but he should be enough. He was the one who kept wandering into our lanes.” “And the others will be contend to keep smoking their product and maybe screwing some college girls who are too poor to pay for their drugs any other way.” Miguel nodded. “Excellent work. Be sure the crew gets a bonus.” “We may need to bring some more men on board. It’s been heating up since the Revillas were taken out. Some of their former people are quick to shoot, and they upset the balance.” “Like the Rojas before them.” Miguel walked over to the window. “Where do you think our next threat lies, Esteban?” “Our suppliers. We control our end quite well, using only distributors we trust or Ricky knows.” He shrugged. “But the other end…” “The Bolivian wants to meet with me. I told Ricky to arrange it.” “I’ll have my best men close. You can bet that ape will be traveling with at least four security men. Maybe more.” “You don’t like him, do you?” “Never trust a turncoat, jefe. Not unless you have a gun to his head. And even then you must be careful.” “I am curious to see what he wants. I expect he might try to raise his price, but he’d be hard-pressed to find another group as reliable as we are. We’ve lost how many boats in the last two years? Three? And two of those were to weather. No one else even comes close. I may have to remind him of that.” He stood for a moment. “And what of Metro-Dade?” “Their Vice unit has a new commander, as you know. My sources tell me he’s a Cubano who used to be DEA.” Esteban stared into his glass. “He’s been very effective, even in the short time he’s been here.” “He led the operation against the Revillas, didn’t he? And shut down Lao Li? I’d say effective is a bit of an understatement. But his unit’s small, and stretched thin. So long as he stays focused on the bigger rats, the smaller mice can play to their hearts’ content. The secret for us, my friend, is to continue to look like a mouse as we grow to be a lion.” “Joo know this messes with my excretorial enterprizations, right?” Sonny looked down though his sunglasses at Izzy Moreno, resplendent in a tuxedo he must have stolen from a prom rental shop in the process of going out of business. Back in 1979. “Look, Moreno, Tubbs and I ain’t got all day. Just like those shoes over there ain’t got all day. Looks like the paint’s starting to melt.” Izzy let out a small shriek. “Joo know that those choose…” “Yeah, yeah…made from the finest bull testicles to enhance your manhood.” Izzy’s eyes went wide. “Joo are brilliant! I must use that line…” “The hell you must. Now you’ve gone and made Rico cranky.” “Yeah.” Rico leaned in, his Versaci suit a strong counterpoint to the confection Izzy sported. “And when I get cranky…” “Ok, ok. Joo win. I only tell joo what I hear. Chuckie an’ his compadres stuck their enterprizationing noses in places they shouldn’t have been. In forbidden fruit. So they got those noses cut off.” Izzy made a chopping motion with his hand. “Whack! Joo ain’t got no nose.” “So who did the whacking?” “No one is talking.” Izzy folded his arms across his thin chest. “Even with the Revillas gone, they cast a long shadow. Joo know…like the grimy reaper.” “You hear anything, you let us know. Get it?” Sonny jabbed him once in the chest with his index finger. “You don’t want me lookin’ for you, Moreno.” They were back in the Ferrari before Rico spoke. “You believe the little worm?” “Yeah, I think I do.” Letting out on the clutch, Sonny cut off a cab and shot into traffic. “He’s not scared enough to be holding something back.” “And after the Revillas, I can see why no one would be talking. That and Izzy hasn’t been same since those kids went nuts.” Rico nodded slowly. “So you think Chuckie and his merry band just stumbled into someone’s route and got whacked?” “Yeah. The big question is whose route? And why kill a dumbass like Chuckie to keep it under wraps?” Sonny eased the Ferrari around a station wagon hauling a Little League team’s worth of kids, glad Rico hadn’t mentioned Brenda when he brought up those kids. He still missed her some days, but the memory of Rico standing beaten and bruised in her doorway always won out. “You know where Chuckie usually ran?” “No. He and Burnett move in different circles. Very different circles.” Sonny downshifted and changed lanes. “But I might have an idea about who would know…” Half an hour later Sonny turned down a dirt road and slowed the Ferrari to almost a crawl. “Been a bit since I’ve been out this way,” he said, pushing his Ray Bans up on his nose. “Not even sure if he’s still here to be honest. Or if he’ll be glad to see me if he is.” The light onshore breeze was enough to keep a weatherbeaten sign proclaiming ‘boat repairs’ swaying. It projected out from a shop almost as faded as the sign and looking like it had been slapped together with scrap lumber salvaged from the last hurricane to pass through. But Sonny knew looks could be deceiving, especially in his line of work. Shutting off the Daytona, he got out and looked around. “Earl! Where you hidin’ yourself? I know you’re here. That damned old Ford of yours is a dead giveaway.” He nodded toward a pickup parked along the side of the building. Whatever color it might have been had disappeared under a patina of rust and mud. “Keep it down, would ya?” A rail-thin figure detached itself from the thick shadows to the rear of the building. “I got a reputation to maintain.” “When the hell did that happen?” Earl fit his name, right down to the long face, thinning hair, and wad of tobacco stuffed under his lower lip. “I thought we were square, Crockett. What the hell you doin’ bothering me?” “Just had a quick question about someone you might know. An’ I really don’t want to go poking around that workshop. Or the boat shed.” Earl sent a thick steam of tobacco juice into the weeds by the side of the building, and Sonny hid a smile as he saw Rico wince. “I’ll gave ya one. For old time’s sake.” “Just keep telling yourself that. You know a guy named Chuckie Stokes? Any idea what routes he favors?” “That’s two. But it’s all good. I got a two for one special goin’ today. Yeah, I know Chuckie. Guess I should say ‘knew,’ though, since he got his shit blown up.” Earl grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Yeah. Good news travels fast. Anyhow, I never worked with him but I always heard he liked to use the old routes. You know, the things them old rum-runners used to take. Always ran ‘em alone, too. Guess it worked ok for that damned weed he liked so much.” “Obviously not too well, though.” Sonny glanced toward the water. “Musta pissed someone off.” “Chuckie had the personality of a pit bull. Ain’t surprised he pissed someone off.” Earl spat again. “We done here?” “Yeah. And that didn’t hurt so much, did it?” Back in the car, Rico let out a long sigh. “They send that chump over from hillbilly central casting?” “Yeah.” Sonny gunned the Ferrari down the dirt road, wanting to get away from a place that reminded him just a bit too much of where he’d come from and what he might have become with a few different choices. “He’s the last of a breed. Hell of a boat mechanic. One of the best you never heard of.” “So how…” “Receiving stolen goods. I pinched him back when I was with Robbery and cut him some slack. He doesn’t move product himself, but just about every small-time boat guy and quite a few of the older ones have their boats tuned by him.” “Don’t see that we learned much.” Rico leaned back in the passenger seat. “That’s where you’re wrong, partner.” Sonny grinned as he turned back onto pavement and floored it. “Those old run-runners were damned particular about their routes. And there aren’t that many still around who know where they are. They charted those babies for stealth and concealment, not a quick run to the beach from a boat in international waters. Harder than hell for the Coast Guard to find, let alone interdict.” “And you think Chuckie stumbled on one someone’s still using?” “Yeah. And judging from the boom they’re using it for more than rum, Cuban cigars, and weed.” Before Rico could reply, the car phone buzzed. He answered, his face knitting into a frown as he listened. Then he killed the connection without a word. “What the hell was that about?” “Castillo wants us back. Like yesterday. Sounds like something just broke open.” Grinning, Sonny floored the Ferrari. “Guess Chuckie will just have to wait.” The rest of the team was already in the conference room when Sonny and Rico got there. Martin Castillo sat at the head of the table looking down at an open file folder in front of him. No one spoke. Stan and Larry looked tired, and Gina shook her head when Sonny made eye contact and thought about saying something. This does not look good. “Crockett. Tubbs. I’m pulling you off the Stokes case.” “So they’re ok with someone getting blown all over the coast?” The words came out before Sonny’s brain engaged, and he shook his head as he sat down. “Sorry, lieutenant. I know it’s not your call.” Castillo didn’t move a muscle. “We’re not abandoning the Stokes investigation. This is temporary. They need more resources on a priority assignment. Calabrese and Joplin can’t be pulled in, and Switek and Zito are supporting them. And Dibble and Gorman are in court on the Escalante case. So that leaves the two of you. The mayor wants to clean up the beaches, but he doesn’t want additional uniforms. ” “No reason to scare off the tourists, right lieutenant?” Stan chuckled and elbowed Larry in the ribs. “Just don’t go wearing that Speedo you got stashed away, Switek.” Rico grinned. “I don’t think his honor would appreciate a bunch of heart attacks.” “Enough.” Castillo’s flat word brought the banter to a halt. “We do our jobs. There have been complaints about a dealer on roller skates.” “Manuel ‘Skates’ Santino.” Sonny yawned. “He’s a nickel and dime operation at best. I’ve puled him in a time or two, and he’s always back on the streets in a couple of hours.” “It seems he almost ran down an old woman last week. Who happens to be related to the mayor’s chief of staff.” “So we stake him out and take him down. Got it. I know where he usually does his little roller disco number, so it shouldn’t be too hard.” Sonny got to his feet. “Come on, Rico. Let’s go pay Skates a visit.” “Do it by the book. It’s possible Santino has connections further up the chain. We might be able to turn him.” “Guys? Just don’t let him get blown up, ok?” “Blow it out your ear, Zito.” Sonny grinned just enough to show he knew Larry was joking. “Let’s get down to his usual beat and see what we can scare up. I don’t want to spend too much time on this, though. We still got to follow up on Chuckie.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I still wonder what that moron was doing using old routes.” OCB shifts to Out Where the Busses Don’t Run “It’s confirmed, Miguel. Our friend will arrive in three days. I have him booked in the Hilton for three days, and then he’s heading back to Bolivia.” “Good work, Ricky. Hopefully we can keep him out of trouble while he’s here.” For once they were meeting outside the family home…in a yacht club his grandfather had been a charter member of. Pelican’s Nest. A stupid name, but one the old boys love. The small club rooms were both private and graced with fantastic views of the ocean. A good place to conduct business on more neutral ground. “I understand there was a bit of excitement out near one of Jesus’s routes.” “One of the little fish was getting too close to it. Chuckie Stokes.” “I remember him.” Miguel nodded slowly. “Doesn’t he usually move marijuana?” “Yes, but his crew has been moving into more portable commodities.” Ricky shook his head. “Chuckie was good with a boat, not so good with his head. It was too much of a risk to have him operating so near one of our routes.” “I agree. But it might have been handled in a more quiet way.” “There is value in a message.” Miguel smiled. “I recognize my own words, brother. And you’re right. There is value in a message.” “I’ve already planned to shift our traffic away from that area for a time. Let the Coast Guard sniff around and convince themselves there’s nothing there. It might also serve to draw attention away from our visitor. He does have a bit of a reputation.” “If he’s arrogant enough to travel under his own name.” “He is. He says only women hide.” “Of course he does.” Miguel shook his head. “How these people stay in business…” “Often they don’t, brother. But it we’re in place, we just work with next asshole who grabs the reins.” Miguel changed the subject. “How are the new boats working?” “Very well. We can get a few more knots out of them, and they’re low enough profile the Coast Guard has trouble picking them up on radar. I’ve had Pasquale try them on one of the coastal routes, and they’re maneuverable enough to handle close-in work. I thing we’d do well to replace any losses with the newer models.” Miguel ran the numbers in his head. The new boats cost more, but each run was also making them more. Enough that Jesus was having trouble laundering the cash through his business. ‘It only works if they’re chartering the Love Boat,’ the older man had chuckled when Miguel brought him the last footlocker of cash. ‘And I don’t have the Love Boat, nephew.’ “Do it.” Looking around at the oak panel walls of the club room, Miguel smiled. There were other ways to clean money… “I still can’t believe grandfather was a member of this place.” “A charter member,” Miguel said. “Never forget that part. It comes in handy when dealing with some of the idiots here.” “You mean the ghost?” “No. Otis Forsythe is quite progressive in spite of his looks. The only color he sees is green. I think grandfather knew his grandfather back in the old days. Maybe even screwed the same women. I understand the Forsythe family has always had an eye to the future.” Miguel nodded to himself. Yes. Perhaps I should talk to Otis again soon. I’d sure he could find profitable homes for our money. Or at least know someone who could. “I should get back. One of Pasquale’s right hands is bringing in a load for the Dominicans tonight and I want to make sure everything goes well.” “Do you need men?” Ricky started to shake his head, then paused. “Another couple of guns might be a good idea. Just to show the Dominicans they can’t push us around.” “I’ll make the call. Should they meet you at the normal place?” “Yes. I’ll call you afterwards. Let you know how it went.” Once he was alone, Miguel made a quick call to Esteban. “Make sure they’re your best men,” he finished. “No problem, jefe. I have just the boys for this job.” “Good. And have a few on call for the next week. For our guest.” “Of course.” Hanging up the phone, Miguel savored the quiet of the room. With thick walls and solid doors, the club rooms were almost soundproof…cut off from every other noise in the place. He wasn’t really surprised, given the club’s roots as a haven for Prohibition rum-runners and gamblers waiting for boats to Havana. From his grandfather he knew at least some of the secrets lurking behind the place’s well-cultivated gentile facade. “The porter told me you were here, Miguel. I do hope I’m not intruding.” Setting down his drink, Miguel turned with a smile. “Of course not, Otis. Just lost in thought is all.” Otis Forsythe earned the nickname ghost with his pale skin and thin blonde hair, but lurking behind the weak appearance was a steel mind and generations of Miami money and privilege. “These rooms can do that to a man. I know they do it to me. It’s been a spell since we’ve seen you. I hope things are well.” “They are. And you?” “Quite well, thank you. Now that we’re finally rid of that racist asshole Beaumont and his distasteful cronies I can get on with returning the Nest to its former glory. Don’t you agree?” “I heard something about that. An FBI raid, wasn’t it?” “Something about drug money on one of the yachts tied up here. Or so they said. I try to keep clear of such things, you know.” “Of course. Especially when they’re poorly managed.” “Yes. Our grandfathers would never tolerate such sloppy dealings. Don’t you agree?” “No. They would not.” Miguel waved Otis to a chair. “Sit and have a drink. We can talk some more.” Otis nodded his thanks and poured a generous measure of rum into one of the Nest’s cut crystal glasses. “I hear your business has been successful. Something of a return to the old days from what I understand.” “You’re well-informed.” “Of course, Miguel. One doesn’t survive long in this city without being well-informed. And the Forsythes have had generations to perfect their sources of information. As has the Mendoza family. Don’t you agree?” “Otis, let’s be frank with each other. What is it you want?” “Oh, it’s not what I want.” Otis let out one of his laughs that fell somewhere between a giggle and a chuckle. “It’s more what you need and I might be able to provide, dear boy. Something similar to what our families used to do in the old days, yes?” Miguel nodded. His grandfather had mentioned they’d worked with the Forsythe clan back in the ‘20s, and that it had been profitable for both sides. “Uncle Jesus’s charter business…” “Can only handle so much custom. I understand completely. And burning family is not something either of our bloodlines do, is it? No, Miguel, I think we can find a more elegant solution for you. One that helps us all, in fact.” It’s easy to forget Otis has a degree from the Harvard School of Business. Especially when he’s doing that fake fruit act. “I’m listening.” “Of course you are. Now I may be able to put you in touch with a gentleman who’s heavily invested in both nightclubs and artist promotion both in South Florida and those miserable climates to the north. He’s always looking for seed money, and I understand his ventures are profitable.” Miguel scratched his chin. It made sense. Nightclubs and concerts were fantastic ways to clean cash. He didn’t like depending on an outsider, but time has also a consideration. The Caribbean banks with their loose regulations had appeal, but Miguel wanted to try something different. “I’d want to meet him first.” “Of course you would. And he’d want to meet you.” Otis smiled. “He’ll be in town next week sometime, I believe. He has this obscene boat he uses to chug up and down the coast. Motor yacht of course. Ghastly thing.” “There is something about a sail yacht.” “I quite agree. The quiet. The grace. But I digress. Is the number in the membership records still good? Excellent. I’ll gave you a buzz if he agrees to a meeting and let you know when he’ll be arriving. He usually ties up at the Nest for a week or so.”

“Look, Lou. We’re as sure as we can be. Hector did call Tubbs, didn’t he?” Sonny Crockett looked down at his scribbled notes. “They want to deal, and we need money to make the deal. The only question is how much weight do you want to bust them with?” “And keep our covers intact.” Ricardo Tubbs, kitted out in full glory by Armani, looked bored. “This Cooper cat’s a good fit for what we’re doing. I don’t want to blow him all over South Florida.” To Sonny’s surprise, Stan spoke up. “We hung around a bit after Sonny and Rico left, lieutenant. The Rojas boys left about five minutes later, and they looked excited.” Larry nodded. “Yeah. Like they’d just won an all-access pass to the South Florida Golden Dildo awards. I think they took the bait.” “That was not an image I needed in my head, Zito. But you made your point.” Lou looked down at the file in front of him and Sonny hid a smile as he heard giggles from Gina and Trudy. “Do either of the Rojas cousins have phones we could tap? I’d like more information before we walk into something.” “I’ll do some checking an’ let you know, lieutenant.” Stan shot Sonny a look. “Unless Sonny knows something.” “Naw. I usually ran into Ernesto in bars. And today’s the longest I’ve been within a mile of Hector. They used to live in some of those new apartments on the edge of Edgewater, but now that they’re makin’ moves I don’t know.” “Switek, you and Zito track them down. Let me know once you do, and I’ll put in for a warrant on their phones.” Lou made a note on his pad. “It’s a good start, but we need more before we agree to a meet.” “We can’t stall them too long, lieutenant.” Sonny locked eyes with Lou. “They ain’t the most stable, and Hector in particular might get skittish. Ernesto thinks he knows Burnett, an’ he’s greedy on top of it. Cooper looks good to him. But Hector…” “Yeah. Hector will try to make calls. Might have already for all we know.” Rico leaned back a bit in his chair. “I know Cooper’s backstopped pretty well, but we start draggin’ our feet now it won’t look right.” “Fine. I’ll put in for the buy money. But I want those taps first. And you will have backup for that buy. End of discussion, Crockett, so don’t give me that look. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong, especially if this Hector Rojas is as unstable as you say.” Back in the squad room, Sonny turned to Rico. “You that confident about the Cooper cover?” “Yeah.” His partner did a little dance. “He’s movin’ an’ groovin’. Hell, I put the background together myself and then looked over the shoulder of the Metro-Dade guy puttin’ it in the system. He’ll come up sold gold and ready to deal if they pay someone off to run it.” “And you can bet they will. Well…Hector anyhow. I don’t think Ernesto knows anything about computers but where to put the quarter when he wants to play Pac Man.” Sonny dropped his notes on his cluttered desk, knowing there was work to do but not really feeling it. Since the divorce had been finalized he’d felt himself drifting, and staring at paperwork only made the feeling worse. And finding Arthur Lawson in that bathroom brought some other things into focus. “You ok, partner?” “Yeah, Rico. Just feelin’ a little tired is all.” He flopped down in his desk chair with a sigh. “We get these guys wrapped up for the chief with a pretty bow I might take a day and go catch some fish for Elvis. You ever been out…” “Man, the swordfish steak at Demario’s is as close as I want to get to fishing.” Rico ran his hands over his suit. “Salt water does not agree with these threads or this smooth complexion. You dig?” “Yeah, I dig.” Sonny leaned back, his brain running through its own index of places tourists didn’t want to go in Miami. Then he shook his head. “I was thinking maybe we should go kick over some rocks an’ see what the Rojas cousins have been up to, but word would get back too damned fast and they’d start askin' questions. Especially Hector.” “Yeah, I had the same thought. All the way down to them gettin’ all suspicious and tellin’ us to pound sand.” Rico shook his head. “Like it or not, partner, all we can do is wait. For the warrants and the money.” “And I don’t like sittin’ on my hands. It’s like one of those old Westerns my dad used to watch…it’s too damned quiet out there.” “You’re sure this Burnett only moves product?” Miguel Mendoza looked over at Esteban Morales from his club chair. “Si, jefe. He only moves product. He seems to be fairly good at it, but the word I get is he’s a man of little ambition and quick temper. Not any kind of threat to us. He does bring in buyers from time to time, usually from outside Miami.” “And we already know about the Rojas cousins and their idiots. Your plan is good, Esteban. Let the police chase them while we continue to grow.” Miguel paused. “I’ve been hearing about rip-offs down around Little Haiti.” “It seems to be a localized problem. None of them have taken place near our shipments. I have added men to Enrique’s deals just in case. Do you want me to…” “No. What you’ve done is perfect.” Miguel nodded, thinking back to the run he’d made with Ricky. He’s good with that side of the business. And he was right about my needing to get out and be seen by the boys. I think I’ll do it once a month. To stay sharp. “What have you learned about the Hermanos organization?” “They seem to be following our lead. Shifting from other products to cocaine. They may be ahead of us on the supply end.” Esteban smiled. “One of them has a cousin who’s part of a Columbian operation and the Hermanos are focusing on their product exclusively. But…” “That makes them vulnerable. If anything happens to that one source they have to scramble to find another.” Miguel nodded, his brain processing the information. “Let them play with their relatives. I hear they’re good at that, anyhow. Ricky’s man Pasqual has made contact with two organizations in Columbia and one in Bolivia, so our supply is secure if one is interrupted. And Ricky’s making good progress on the Miami side as well.” He got to his feet. “Keep an eye on the Rojas. We may have to slap them down if they forget their place. But I am more concerned about the Hermanos and their people. They think with more than their balls. At least some of the time.” Once Esteban left, Miguel allowed himself the luxury of a drink. The rip-offs still worried him, but so long as they avoided his product he was content to let them serve as another distraction. Sooner or later word would reach the police, probably when they occurred in the wrong neighborhood, and resources which could be used against him would go there. The idea of Metro-Dade eliminating his enemies for him brought a smile to Miguel’s face. It was always better to have a fool do your dirty work for you, especially when they didn’t know they were doing it. Drawn to the big window, he walked over and looked out, catching a glimpse of his own reflection as he moved. Ricky’s right…I do look like one of those old pirates from the right angle. It had been their joke ever since junior high, and Miguel had always denied it. But now…why not embrace it? Just as Jesus Estevez had embraced his “old fisherman” look while building his profitable fleet and their own father had played the ignorant peasant while restoring some of the glory his grandfather had built for the family. Still, it was a different time, and Miguel recognized that. Running rum might have been illegal, but the majority of the people didn’t care. It was all about volume. But the violence remained the same. He knew his grandfather had to protect trucks from hijacking crews, and his boats were occasionally burned by rival gangs. He also was sure his grandfather had contributed his share of meat to the gators in the swamps around Miami. Turning away from the window, he walked back to the desk and dialed a number. “Get Ricky for me. Yes, it’s Miguel. The purchase we were speaking of? Do it.” Adding another two boats had been Ricky’s idea, and a good one. They had reliable people to pilot them, and it just increased their options for breaking down larger loads. But it also gave their opponents more targets. Soon, he knew, he’d need to send another message. Jaime had been effective in that role, but the crews in Miami had short memories. Sonny Crockett stared at the briefing room through narrowed eyes, his hand just touching his third cup of coffee since coming in. Rico gave him a sidelong look and chuckled. “Long night, partner?” “Let’s just say I’ve made better choices in my life.” Sonny smiled in spite of himself. “And it wasn’t a long night so much as it’s a rough morning.” I’m just glad I didn’t call Gina. At least I don’t think I did. I know I didn’t call Caroline. That I’d remember. Lou’s voice was louder than usual as he came into the conference room, and Sonny winced. “Good morning everyone. The warrant came through late yesterday afternoon, and Switek and Zito were able to work their black magic in what must be record time. We have taps on the main phones used by the Rojas cousins. That’s the apartment phone, the pay phone in the back of Aces, and a phone attached to a boathouse down by the water.” He looked over at Switek and Zito, who looked like they’d been up all night. “What do we have?” Larry Zito opened with a jaw-splitting yawn. “Well, we know Hector has a thing for phone sex. And I mean a major thing. He made like twenty calls last night, and at ninety-nine cents a minute…they must move a lot of coke to keep up with his audio habit.” Lou shook his head. “Is there…” Stan jumped in before Larry could start describing exactly which lines Hector was calling and what he asked for. “The interesting one is Ernesto, lieutenant. He made his calls from Aces, and later from their boathouse. He was lookin’ into both Burnett and Cooper.” “Who’d he call?” Sonny shook off the lingering fuzziness of his hangover. Things were getting interesting now. “Sounded like a couple of his boys for Burnett.” Stan flipped through his surveillance log. “Guys called ‘Pancho,’ ‘Gears,’…you get the idea. Four of ‘em all told, and they all had nothing bad to say.” “What about Cooper?” Stan shot Larry a glance. “That’s where it gets interesting. From the number of dimes he dropped it was outside Miami. We’ve got Ma Bell workin’ it now, but that takes a bit of time.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe some day we’ll be able to see all that crap in real time. Anyhow, call got shuffled to someone he called Fritz. That guy said he’d check and get back to him. Call came back fifteen minutes later with a clear.” Rico leaned forward, nodding. “And you got no idea who Fritz is?” “No. But Larry and I have a hunch. We think he’s a cop.” Now it was Lou’s turn to lean forward, and Sonny could see some heat in his eyes. “What makes you say that, Switek?” “The way he talked. I had Larry listen to the tape and he agrees with me, lieutenant.” Stan looked at his notes. “First off, when this goof called he asked for Fritz and said ‘tell him it’s Ernie’ when the person who answered the phone said there wasn’t a Fritz there. Sounds like a CI code to me, or at least he wants to pass as a CI. Then once he gets to Fritz all he said is he’s got a name for him. Fritz says he’ll run it and get back to him. Not he’ll look into it or check it out, but that he’ll run it.” “Sounds like a cop to me.” Sonny looked up at Lou. “It sure as hell wasn’t the operator.” “We have to have proof before it goes outside this room.” Lou looked around. “Everyone’s a bit…sensitive after the Wheeler and Lawson things.” “Not to mention Calderone buying his way out of custody.” Rico’s voice was hot. “Yeah, I bet they’re damned sensitive.” “That’s enough, Tubbs. Switek, put a rush on that number and let me know as soon as it comes through. I’ll work it personally.” He looked around the table. “The operation is still on. It sounds like Cooper and Burnett are still viable, and we need to take the Rojas’s off the streets. You’ll have your buy money, Tubbs. By this afternoon, even if I have to go over there myself and sign it out.” “Where do you want us, lieutenant?” “Gina, you and Trudy keep trying to gather intel on these guys. I can’t afford to pull you off your current assignment, but if you can work this in around that…” Trudy nodded. “You got it, lieutenant. There’s some overlap anyhow, since good old Jasper’s trying to expand his stable into Wynwood.” “I gotta ask. What kinda pimp uses the street name Jasper?” “One who’s not very smart, Rico.” Gina smiled, and then her face turned serious. “He’s a nasty customer, though. Likes to cut his girls if they hold out on him.” “But we’re getting closer to being able to bust him good.” Trudy tapped the table. “One of his girls said he’s looking at getting into drugs now. Might be why his girls are showing up close to the Rojas.” Sonny turned to Lou. “Does that mean we string ‘em along a bit, Lou? Go for a package deal?” “No. The chief wants a head on a pike, and the Rojas have been elected to provide a couple. If we can get Jasper at the same time, great, but the Rojas have priority when it comes to an arrest.” He turned to Gina and Trudy. “Sorry, but…” “I know, lieutenant.” Gina’s voice held a hint of bitterness. “Politics.” Back in the squad room, Sonny stopped beside Gina’s desk. “We’ll do what we can to get ‘em both, darlin’. If we can.” “I appreciate it, Sonny.” “No problem.” He paused. “Feel like getting a drink later?” “I…I’d like that, Sonny. Give me a call?” “I’ll do that. Not sure when this thing with the Rojas will kick off, though. The ball’s kinda in their court.” Rico shook his head as Sonny walked back to their desks. “I’d ask if you wanted to go hit the clubs tonight, partner, but it looks like you got other plans.” “Yeah, yeah. Odds are we’ll be trading shots of bad tequila with the Rojas cousins tonight, anyhow. Bozos like that always like bad tequila.” “Yeah. They seem to. Up north it was always nasty-ass brandy.” Rico paused a moment. “Be careful, though. Been down that road an’ it didn’t end well.” Sonny started to snap a reply, then thought better of it and settled for a nod before sitting down behind his desk. Hell, Rico’s just tryin’ to look out for me. Guess someone has to…I sure don’t do a good job of it myself. He looked over at Gina and Trudy reviewing their notes before heading off to change and hit the streets. Yeah, I know it’s a mistake. It was a mistake before the divorce went through. But some mistakes just feel too damned good. “You gonna call Hector back?” “Not until the lieutenant shows me the money. Last thing I want to do is set up a meet and then have to back out like a chump. No, Cooper don’t call until he’s ready to deal and has the cash in his hand.” “And if he calls you…” “I tell him my associates need some more reassurance but we’re close. Hell, Calderone flying the coop upset business both here and in New York. Even those two chumps gotta know that. New York money’s gonna be skittish about coming down here until things settle down.” “Yeah, I guess.” Sonny shrugged. “I just pick up and deliver. Hell of a lot easier.” The buy money came through just before three, about the same time Stan got his report back from the phone company. “I had to request a priority flag, lieutenant,” he said, handing the paper to Lou. “Someone was trying to hide the number. But it tracks back to the Narcotics squad at Tampa PD, and the call was forwarded to a phone linked to one of their detectives. I can’t get any deeper than that without some serious juice, though.” “Thanks, Switek. I’ll have to turn this over to IA so they can follow up with Tampa PD.” Sonny watched as Lou stared at the number. “I don’t believe it.” “Believe it, lieutenant.” Rico’s voice was flat. “These chumps spend more on lunch than we make in a week. That much green floatin' around is one hell of a temptation. Especially if you’re a cop with kids and college to pay for.” “If they can buy off Feds, it shouldn’t surprise anyone they can pay off someone in Tampa PD. Even small-timers like the Rojas cousins.” Sonny held Lou’s gaze for a moment before turning back to Rico. “You still wanna go through with it? It was your cover he was checking.” “Yeah. Cooper’s solid. He said so on the tap, and I had them backstop the hell out of this cover. No, I think we’re good. And they didn’t look too hard at Burnett.” “I’ve been tryin’ to keep him kinda low profile. More of a redneck with a fast boat than a major player. Makes just enough to keep himself in fancy clothes and flashy toys, but not enough to draw attention.” Lou nodded. “Make the call, Tubbs. I’d rather get this done sooner than later. Just in case our friend here” - he gestured to the paper - “gets some ideas or talks to the wrong person.” “Solid.” Rico reached for the phone. “Sooner we clear our desks of these chumps the better I’ll feel. And we’re givin’ the chief a dirty cop in the bargain. Should score us a couple of points.” “Yes, but I don’t feel good about it.” Lou looked down to hide the pain Sonny knew was in his eyes. “Any time a cop goes bad…” “Yeah. But let’s get this tied up and be damned glad he’s not our problem.” Sonny watched as Rico started dialing. “We just do what we can.” Enrique Mendoza gave the boats a final look before turning to the broker. He couldn’t stand the man’s sweaty face, or the stench of Old Spice rolling off his body. Guy must use a whole damned bottle every morning. But he smiled just the same. For now the smelly bastard was a necessary evil. “You won’t regret these two beauties. Stingers are the fastest boat around, and comfortable enough you can take the little woman out on the water without her feeling like she’s jammed into a fiberglass race boat.” The broken grinned again. “And you can bet…” “You can drop the sales pitch. I already bought the boats, remember?” Enrique’s smile changed to something less accommodating as he opened his briefcase and pulled out banded stacks of bills. “The price as agreed. With the cash discount.” “You bet. Always happy to deal in cash.” The man looked around. “You gonna need any more of these? I can always…” “You’ll know when I do. My uncle prefers to grow his charter service slowly. It’s how he’s stayed in business all these years.” Nodding, the broker stuffed the bundles into the side pockets of his check suit coat. “Yeah. Sometimes that’s the best way. You want these delivered?” “No. We’ll take them now.” Rickey looked over at Pasqual and nodded. “Have Louis take the car back. We’ll try these babies on for size now.” The wind whipped through Ricky’s hair as he opened the throttles wide on the Stinger, hearing the twin V-8s boom as the boat jumped through the water. He’d have to cut the power once they left the small bay and the chop increased, but for now he wanted to see what the boat could do. He knew Pasqual was doing the same. When he felt the hull starting to shudder he cut back to half power and let the boat plow through the waves. He knew the Stingers had legs, but that wasn’t what he wanted them for. They weren’t running product from island to island…just from a small freighter out in international waters into one of the many inlets and waterways dotting the coast near Miami. The same little places his family had been using for three generations. He didn’t need range…he needed short burst speed. So far it had worked. The one boat they’d lost had been to mechanical failure and not Coast Guard interception. Or an attack from a rival organization. He smiled as he adjusted the boat’s course. Let the Columbians shoot the shit out of each other. We will find our own way. As we always have. At first he’d been impatient with Miguel’s plan, but now he saw the sense in it. Sometimes it was better to avoid than to charge. Take the Rojas cousins. They were charging, maybe too fast. Making enemies faster than allies. They weren’t the biggest gang, or even the strongest. But they were the loudest, and bound to attract the wrong kind of attention. He figured it was only a matter of time… The marine band radio chirped. “You planning on running to Cuba, boss?” Ricky chucked and keyed the microphone. “No, Pasqual. Let’s take these in. I think they’ll do just fine.” Sonny shook his head. “I’m not crazy about going back to Aces, Rico. Any chance you can move ‘em out in the open somewhere?” “Nope. Hector was firm on that. It’s gotta be Aces or not at all.” Rico stared at the phone. “And I ain’t too damned thrilled about it, either. Place clashes with my vibe in a serious way. But if we want ‘em, we gotta take ‘em there.” Lou’s voice put an end to squad room chatter. “I want you wired, Tubbs. That’s not a question, by the way. If we’re only getting one shot at this, we need all the evidence we can get. Switek, get him fitted. Maybe Crockett, too.” “We got wires for both of ‘em, lieutenant.” Zito waved two bundles of electronic mystery parts. “Just say the word.” Sonny sighed. “Just don’t tear the shirt, ok? We should be fine so long as you two set up within a couple of minutes. Rico and I can hold ‘em off that long if things go south. And given the neighborhood I’d bet a couple of uniforms will be on patrol close by, too.” “I don’t expect them to raise a fuss for this small a deal.” Rico unbuttoned his suit coat and let Stan start attaching wires. “They want the pot of gold at the end of the New York rainbow, not Miami chump change.” “Never underestimate the greed of a stupid dealer, Rico. An’ the Rojas boys have pretty dim bulbs.” He shifted a bit when Zito finished. “Good job, Zito. Can’t even tell it’s there.” Then he turned to Lou. “You want to take ‘em down this time or string it out for a bigger deal?” “We stick with the plan, Crockett. Bring ‘em down now. I’ll be keeping a couple of marked units close enough to respond, and when you give the signal Switek and Zito will make the initial arrest.” He smiled. “Including you two, of course.” “Sure. Gotta keep the cover intact and the arrest numbers up.” Sonny turned to Rico. “You ready to roll?” Rico looked at Stan, who nodded. “Good as gold. Let’s go get these chumps.” They took the Caddy and rolled though streets painted a red gold by the setting sun. Sonny looked around, allowing himself a small smile. “Times like this you almost forget what we do.” “Yeah. Nice coat of paint makes just about anything look good.” It was that time between day and night when everything looked possible and the golden light glossed over the graffiti and broken buildings they rolled past on their way to Aces. The time of day when even despair could look pretty until you got really close. Still, there was no mistaking the gloom of Aces as Rico wheeled into a spot ten yards away from the front door. “Testing one two. Can you hear me in radio land?” Headlights blinked once on the other side of the street, and Rico grinned. “Solid. We’re going in.” Reaching back, he pulled a slim alligator leather briefcase off the floor. “And I got the green.” “Let’s hope they remembered the party favors.” Sonny reached inside his blazer, his fingers just touching the grips of the Bren 10. He already knew there was a round in the chamber. “Let’s do it.” If anything Aces was worse when it was busy. The music had changed from Santana to Cool & the Gang, and three couples were grinding on each other on the dance floor with moves Larry might have recognized from his porn award shows but had nothing to do with disco. Sonny looked at Rico and shook his head, deciding to keep his sunglasses on. “He said he’d be in the back again,” Rico said, raising his voice a hair to be heard above the music. “Lead on.” Moving slow, Sonny unbuttoned his blazer so he could get to the Bren 10 fast if things went south. The bartender didn’t give them a second look, and the dancers were too focused on each other to notice a damned thing. Can’t say as I blame the one guy…that girl is three kinds of hot. One or two of the people along the bar gave them a quick look, their eyes sliding away almost at once. Aces was the kind of place where holding eye contact equalled a challenge, and no one wanted to make that mistake. Hector and Ernesto were waiting in the same back booth, but instead of the girls there were just two bigger guys with them. Sonny made quick eye contact with Rico and raised an eyebrow. You wanna bail? Rico responded with a quick shake of his head. No, but play it cool. Rico took one of the chairs across from Hector. Sonny sat beside him, glad his partner hadn’t slipped into the booth. No room to move in there, and I think we might need to move soon. “Where’s the ladies, Hector?” Rico flashed his salesman grin. “Man can’t do business without some window dressing.” Hector looked at Ernesto. “They’re for later. Once we’re done.” His smile didn’t touch his eyes, and Sonny felt little spiders dancing on the back of his neck. Any time I got that feeling in Nam, bad things were about to happen. “You bring the green?” “You bring the white? Look, Hector, I ain’t got all day to dance with you. My associates want results…proof you can deliver what you claim.” He waved his hand. “And this shit ain’t delivering, my friend. This is stalling.” Hector nodded, and Ernesto pulled a gym bag from under the table. “As agreed. Now let me see the green.” Rico put the case on the table and popped the locks. “You can take the green, but not the case. That’s extra.” Sonny was watching the big guys while Hector and Rico did their dance, flipping bills and working a test kit respectively. In a way it didn’t surprise him the Rojas were comfortable doing all this in the open. Well, as open as Aces is, I guess. But the spiders were dancing again. He could see the big guys tensing up as Rico gave the test kit a final shake. “This some kind of joke, Hector? Or did you screw up and bring your mom’s baking soda? This is showing 60% pure at best.” “Oh, yeah. About that.” Hector’s eyes narrowed, and Ernesto started to duck. “Change of plans. We’re takin’ the cash. Call it a finder’s fee. You come back with real coin an’ we’ll do the deal.” He gave a slight nod. Sonny started to move, reaching under his jacket for the Bren 10 as he dove away from the table. “Rico! It’s a rip!” His shout was more for Stan and Larry’s benefit than anything else, since he could see his partner diving away and scrabbling for his own .38. But there wasn’t time to watch. One of the big guys hauled out what looked like a Beretta and started tracking him. Sonny had the big stainless steel .45 up as his shoulder hit the floor and the first muzzle flash bloomed yellow and orange from the guard’s 9mm.

Miami, 1984 After the events in Rear View, Brother’s Keeper, Partners, Bridges, and Heart of Darkness Ricardo Tubbs sat next to Sonny Crockett at the long conference table. From the corner of his eye he could see Sonny’s face twist into a snarl at some memory or another. Probably still thinkin’ about that FBI chump Lawson. Guess he saw too much of himself in that cat. He looked down at his hands. I can’t say too much, though. I always trusted Valerie, and she’s as far gone as that Fed. The door opened, and Lou Rodriguez came in with his habitual cigar. “Good work on the Kovics case. A shame about Arthur Lawson, but the Feds left him under too long.” “They should have done more.” Sonny’s voice was low, barely carrying to the head of the table. “I agree, but there’s nothing we can do about it. The case is closed, everyone’s happy, and life goes on in sunny Miami.” Lou dropped a stack of folders on the table. “And with Calderone out of the game business is picking up fast.” “Every chump on the block is scratchin’ for a piece of his action.” “That’s right, Tubbs.” Lou slid a folder to each member of the squad. “And here’s the latest dance card. Without Quintaro and Ordonez. Good work on those two, by the way. The chief wants to be seen making progress again.” “Wasn’t Kovacs enough for him?” “Only for the campaign against immorality.” Trudy Joplin smiled as she opened her folder. “You know, the once a year thing that always runs at the same time as the tourist season kicks off.” “That’s enough.” Lou’s voice was firm, and Rico had learned he meant business when it took on that tone. “All that’s above my pay grade. Yours, too, unless one of you got a promotion I didn’t hear about.” “We got this, lieutenant.” Rico wasn’t sure what they had exactly, but he knew the tone he had to hit. He’d been here before, back in the Bronx when Armed Robbery started squabbling with Homicide over cases. “Just let us know the score.” “Thank you, Tubbs. A voice of reason.” Lou sat down himself, sighing as he settled into the hard chair. “I’m open to suggestions.” Sonny looked up. “With Calderone’s boot off their necks, the locals are gonna run wild. It’ll be a free for all until they sort out turf.” He opened his folder. “I can see three or four names already that would be worth taking down. They ain’t much, but…” “It would make a splash with the papers and keep the chief happy.” Gina Calabrese smiled across at Sonny, and Rico filed the look away. Guess they must still be at it. “Who do you think is best, Sonny?” “Let’s talk about who ain’t worth the trouble first.” Sonny flipped through the pages. “Take the Mendozas, for example. From what I hear they’re transportation, and small time at best. Family’s been at it for years, but mostly Cuban cigars an’ some weed. They seem to have stayed clear of coke.” He grinned. “Stickin’ with what they know.” Stan Switek cleared his throat. “Same goes for the Hombres, lieutenant. Bikers keep themselves to themselves and deal mostly in weed and speed. These jokers are no exception.” Lary Zito nodded. “Yeah. Stan and I have worked some small busts against them. Takin’ them down would make the swamps safer, but I don’t think anyone else would notice much.” “So who do we have left? Taking down Quintaro and Ordonez was a good start, but we need more.” Rico let his mind wander as the rest of the team went back and forth over the list. Like Sonny had said early on, you can’t tell the players without a program, and he hadn’t heard of half the names on the list. What he knew were patterns and processes, and how gangs tried to move up when the top dog was taken down. Man, I bet New York is a shitshow with Calderone on the run. Damned glad I’m not with Narcotics up there trying to sort through this. “What’s your take, Detective Tubbs? I hear fresh eyes are a good thing.” Rico shook himself out of his thoughts. “It’s like this, lieutenant. Back in Armed Robbery we always saw a jump in heists after we took a big crew down. All the little guys flexin’ to see who was big enough to step in. I know the stakes here are way higher, but it’s the same little minds playin’ for the big pot. I say we slap down whoever’s makin’ the most noise and the biggest moves.” “That looks like the Rojas cousins.” Sonny jabbed the first sheet with his finger. “Ernesto and Hector Rojas. Miami residents by way of Cartagena and other Columbian locales. They’ve been climbing the ladder for a couple of years now, always in the marching dust trade. One of my CIs was whisperin’ they were about to score a major audience with Calderone himself before the big guy caught his flight to nowhere.” “So they’re chumps. And hungry chumps.” Rico grinned. “Sounds like good targets to me.” “We need to move fast on this.” Lou looked around the table. “Sonny, you and Tubbs have a plan to me by the end of the day. Gina, Trudy, hit the streets and see what you can pick up about these two. With all that playboy glitter someone’s gotta know something about them. Switek, Zito, check your sources, too. We need a way to them, and we need it fast.” “It’s still hard to believe he’s gone.” “Not really, Ricky.” Miguel Mendoza looked down at the dark rum in his glass. “He might have known New York City, but he was an amateur in Miami. Without his deep pockets he’d be rotting in a cell right now. Man like that doesn’t deserve respect.” Enrique laughed. “You got that right, brother. But now it’s a mess. All those other crews trying to fill the gap he left. Hell, even those idiot Rojas are making a play.” “Ernesto Rojas is lucky if he can find the brains to play with himself.” Miguel smiled. “I knew him back when I was helping papa with the boats. A nasty one, but not very bright. I hear his cousin isn’t much better.” “He’s not. But they’re moving fast, brother.” “And they will be caught just like their idol Calderone.” Miguel savored the rum on his tongue. “It’s time we started thinking about who buys what we move. It’s one thing to bring in twenty or thirty kilos of product…it’s another to find a home for it quickly and at the correct price point. Sitting on product just makes you a target, both for the police and morons like the Rojas.” “I didn’t think of that.” “No reason you should, Ricky. You focus on the boats and the men Pasqual hires to drive them. On the routes Jesus helps you plan. No, the buyers are on my side of things. It is I who missed this, so it’s on me to fix it.” Setting down the empty glass, he walked to the window. Looking out at the ocean always calmed him and made his thoughts flow like the tides. “We may need to slow things down again, but for no more than a week or two.” “But we have names…” “That came from Calderone or that fool Leon who worked for him. We need our own contacts, brother. Men who owe their trade to us and not the memory of another. But we’ll use them if I can’t come up with anything better.” He kept looking out. “Have you ever wondered how many times papa must have looked out like this while he was thinking about the business? Or grandfather?” “Or you?” Ricky came over, and Miguel felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder. “Come out with me on a run, brother. I think you need to feel the wind in your hair and the salt spray on your face.” “You might be right.” Miguel nodded, knowing it would both clear his head and remind him about the strength of his family: their knowledge of the waters around Miami. With that they would profit no matter what was being smuggled. “I’ll give you a call after my meeting.” Twenty minutes after Ricky left, Esteban Morales settled into the leather chair in front of the big desk Miguel’s grandfather had built with his own hands. Or had built, depending on who you asked and how much they’d had to drink when you asked. Declining a drink with a shake of his head, Esteban got down to business. “I’ve done as you asked.” He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “These are the men my people say meet your specifications.” “Good. How many of them worked for Calderone or Quintero?” “Less than half. Some of them cut back on their business during that time. Others went to Tampa or Fort Lauderdale.” The tall Cuban smiled. “Not everyone was eager to suckle at the Columbian tit.” “So tell me what you have.” “Heroin is still moving out of the Dominican neighborhoods. Never in quantity, and always high grade. Someone’s branded it Red Cross.” Esteban looked at his list. “I think we can ignore that. Heroin is a different supply chain, and a closed one. Too much work to get into with uncertain returns.” “I agree.” Miguel nodded. “Next.” “Cocaine is where Calderone focused his attention, so it’s the market most disturbed by his departure. There are two places we can try to enter: the source or sales. As you said, the source poses too many problems. With sales, we have the men on this list. The easiest way in is to reach out to the fools who jumped in bed with Calderone. They will need product, and they will likely be willing to pay any price for it. But…” “We can’t be sure we can trust them.” “True. But they may also be the easiest to replace with our own people. The men who didn’t work with Calderone or his monkey Quintero also need product, but they aren’t as vulnerable. They have their own sources.” “Let’s split the difference. I’ll give four names to Enrique: two who worked for Calderone and two who did not. Say this one who is now in Tampa and the other who cut back his sales.” He paused, his attention drawn to the window again. “We may need to expand security, too. We will need a place to hold product, and it must be guarded.” “I’ll see to it.” “Good. I’ll keep this list and give Enrique some prospects.” Rico was still getting used to his desk. And the lingering smell from the cheap cigars Gorman favored. At least the lieutenant smokes reasonably good ones. I don’t know what outhouse that bald chump raids to find his, though. And he was tired of staring at the desk calendar dated 1981. “You got any ideas about how to get in on these Rojas chumps, partner?” Sonny looked up from his notes. “Not yet, Rico. I’ve crossed paths with them a time or two, mainly Ernesto, and they always seemed like a couple of lightweight goofballs to me. Guys with a couple of boats they thought were fast.” He snorted. “Only reason the Coast Guard never picked ‘em up is they weren’t worth the cost of the diesel it would take to run ‘em down. Looks like they’ve moved up a bit since then, though.” “Moving into sales it looks like.” Rico had scanned the report twice. “Mostly in Model City it looks like. They tried to start in Riverside an’ got pushed out.” “Locals call it Liberty City, Tubbs. Even those idiots aren’t dumb enough to tangle with the Cubans on their home turf. Not for very long, anyhow.” Sonny leaned back in his desk chair. “They’ll get volume there, an’ most of the locals won’t care how much the product’s been cut. Makes me wonder how much they’re really bringin’ in and how good it is.” Rico nodded. He’d been through the area a few times, and it reminded him of a sunny version of some of the neighborhoods in Harlem. Lots of despair and not much else. “We might not want to go after ‘em there, then. I’m open to any brilliant ideas you might have, partner.” Sonny shook his head. “Thing is, I don’t have any. A lot of the old players just got out of Dodge once Calderone starting taking over. Atlas pushed out some of the others. Lauderdale, Tampa, you name it. Some of ‘em might just stay there.” He went quiet for a couple of minutes. “Thing is, those Rojas boys are mean. They might not move more volume than Calderone, but they could outdo him in body count. Looks like they’ve already killed four, maybe five corner dealers in Liberty City when they were settin’ up shop.” He ran a finger over the lines in his notebook. “Homicide put a couple of ‘em down as Calderone fallout, but they got Rojas fingerprints all over ‘em. The cousins have a thing for shotguns at close range.” “How big’s their crew?” “Used to just be them and another cousin name Louis. Louis got picked up with ten kilos of 70% pure and is a guest of the state up at Radford last I heard.” Sonny stared at the ceiling. “I think they’ve been bringing on locals since then. Columbians mostly, but also a handful of blacks to work the stuff in Liberty City. I don’t think there’s more than ten all told, but I could be wrong.” He shrugged. “They ain’t been on my radar for a year or so.” Rico looked at his new Rolex…new thanks to the property room and a Panamanian dealer who’d worn it until his luck ran out. “By my watch we got less than an hour to have something ready for the lieutenant. And I ain’t seeing much here that will make him happy.” “Rico, one thing you gotta learn about Lou is his bark is worse than his bite.” “I think we might have something for you boys.” Trudy’s voice cut through the low buzz of conversation in the squad room. “We just got done talking to a couple of girls who work the edges of Liberty City.” “Lay it on us, pretty lady.” In a different time and place, Rico knew he would have made a play for Trudy. But thanks to Valerie he’d learned a hard lesson: keep personal personal and business business. Still… “Seems the Rojas boys like to hold court in a club over in Wynwood. Close enough to keep an eye on things but not so close as to get LC stink on their new alligator shoes.” There was a sneer in her voice, and Rico remembered her mentioning she’d grown up in Overtown, another poor black neighborhood in Miami. “Yeah.” Gina came through the double doors just behind Trudy. Both women looked tired yet pleased with their work. The look of good cops. I’d know it anywhere. “We got two girls who say those assholes are there at least four nights a week. Drinking, talking big, slapping girls around.” Sonny shook his head. “I’m surprised the Puerto Ricans put up with it.” Trudy nodded. “Yeah, but Aces isn’t that deep in Little San Juan. It’s also only a couple of years old.” “Maybe they aren’t as dumb as they look. Naw…they gotta be as dumb as they look.” Rico cleared his throat. “So it sounds like the plan is to swing by this Aces an’ see if we can put eyes on the Rojas cousins. My monotone partner here will be Sonny Burnett, all around boat bum, and I’ll go as Rico Cooper down from unnamed places north of Florida with money to burn and in need of new connections now that Calderone has disappeared.” It still hurt to say the name. We should have just shot the bastard. I know it ain’t what cops are supposed to do, but what else can you do with someone like Calderone? “Yeah. An’ hope they don’t think you’re related to that Ricardo Taylor guy.” “Yeah…not one of my better covers.” Rico shook his head. “These chumps didn’t run with Ordonez, did they?” “Naw. Ordonez was too high on the food chain for them. At least until Quintero went down.” “An’ bet those two were too busy tryin’ to set up their new stuff to notice.” “Joo got it, meng.” Sonny grinned. “And no, I don’t want to look up that fruit Moreno. Izzy isn’t gonna know squat about this. It’s out of his regular turf.” Rico shrugged. “So you wanna let the lieutenant know the plan an’ then go have a look at Aces? They made me get all my shots before they gave me this fancy Metro-Dade badge, so I should be good.” Lieutenant Rodriguez heard them out with more patience than Rico had expected. “I’m not crazy about it, but it sounds like the best option we have right now. I want you to have Switek and Zito close in case you need backup.” Lou raised his hand as Sonny started to open his mouth. “It’s that or uniforms, Crockett. Your choice. But Liberty City isn’t exactly friendly ground these days, and it’s close enough to Wynwood I want the two of you covered. Am I clear?” “Yes, lieutenant.” Rico jumped in before Sonny could say something stupid. “I’ll handle it personally. They’ll be close enough to provide backup if we need it. But I don’t think we will. This is a fishing expedition.” Rico adjusted his sunglasses as Sonny swung the Ferrari into a parking place. “Man, I didn’t see this place in the tourist brochures at the airport.” Sonny chuckled as he shut off the car and checked the big Bren 10 under his arm. “And you wouldn’t, New York. Hell, the city would rather forget this place exists.” “Yeah. I know the drill. Come to New York! See Manhattan! Just stay the hell out of the Bronx or Harlem.” It was Rico’s turn to chuckle as he reached down to touch his own .38 Smith & Wesson in the familiar hip holster. “You think Switek and Zito are in position?” “See that exterminator van?” Sonny keyed the radio twice, and smiled when the headlights blinked twice. “Yeah, I’d say they’re there and awake.” He opened the car door. “Let’s get this party started.” Aces might have been a decent club if someone would have spent about twenty dollars to replace the burned out lights and bothered to clean the place more than once a year. There was no one on the door, and as they stepped inside Rico took in the long bar, a medium-sized dance floor complete with a low stage that might have been able to accomodate a four-piece or a few strippers, and booths along the back wall. What sounded like Santana was blaring from a juke box at the far end of the bar, and he counted maybe twenty people in the place. Ten or so at the bar and the rest scattered among the booths. The dance floor was empty. Sonny headed right to the bar. “Black Jack. Neat. And whatever my friend wants.” He waited a beat and laid a twenty on the bar. “Ernesto been in today?” “Who wants to know?” The bartender’s voice was bored, but Rico followed his eyes toward one of the bigger booths in the back. Gotcha, suckers. “Sonny Burnett. Got a business deal he might be interested in.” The drinks appeared, and the twenty disappeared. “We might have a friend in common. Cat named Leon.” “Well, I don’t know that I’d call him a friend, and since he’s dead I’d say he ain’t a friend to either of us now, is he?” Sonny grinned. “You gonna make the introduction?” “Back booth. They’re watching now.” The big man nodded. “Head on over. Just…” He paused. “Just don’t wast his time. Hector’s in a mood.” “Gotcha.” Sonny picked up his drink and led the way. “Ernesto’s the shorter one,” he said without moving his lips. “And I ain’t surprised about Hector. Word on the street is he’s got a temper.” There were four men and two women at the table. Naw, girls, really. And they’re scared. Eyes big as the headlights on my Caddy. Rico filed it away for later, staying in Sonny’s wake and keeping his sunglasses on. Rico Cooper. Man of money and mystery. They looked up as Sonny and Rico got closer, and the shorter one smiled around a thick mustache. “No…wait…don’t tell me. Fancy white guy… Man, it’s been a bit, Sonny. How you doin’?” “Oh, you know, Ernesto. Steady work.” He grinned. “Mind if we pull up a couple of chairs?” “Sure, but as a favor to you. Look, we don’t need no boats…” “Ernesto! That’s not why I’m here. Way I hear it, you and Hector are the men to see these days.” Sonny turned the chair around and rested his arms on the high back. “You know me, man., Strictly pick up and delivery. Movin’ stuff from point a to point b. Well, I just did some of that for my friend here, but he’s lookin’ for some more cargo.” Hector’s voice was flat and mean, and Rico picked up a slur coming from six drinks too many. “And just who is this friend? Ernesto might know you…” “Name’s Cooper. Rico Cooper.” Rico nodded at both men but didn’t smile. “And I’ve got some business to discuss.” Ernesto nodded. “You two go powder your damned noses or something.” Once the girls had scampered off, followed by one of the darker men who hadn’t said a word but seemed to see everything, Ernesto gave Rico a searching stare. “Ain’t heard of you.” “Just like I haven’t heard of you. But I guess you don’t get to New York much.” “I shoulda said. Mr. Cooper here’s down from New York City.” Sonny grinned. “Seems our product is better than what they can get up north.” Rico noticed Hector starting to lean in. “Come down to see how the other half lives?” “Naw. I don’t give a shit about that.” Now it was Rico’s turn to grin. “What I care about is makin’ money. And if my friends and I make money, you make money. And with a certain man out of the picture, traffic has jammed up a bit.” “See, that’s why I brought him here. I moved a bit of Mr. Cooper’s product before that well ran dry. Me? I don’t source products. I just deliver ‘em. But then I thought of you, Ernesto. From what I hear you and Hector have been movin’ up in the world. The men to talk to if you want to deal.” Rico suppressed a smile when he saw Hector puff up just a bit. “Yeah…we’re makin' the right moves. Got a solid pipeline to serious Bolivian product. Not that stepped-on crap comin’ out of Columbia these days. But we ain’t into small deals.” “Neither are my associates.” Rico leaned back in his chair. “You don’t waste our time, we don’t waste yours.” “How much are we talkin’ about?” “At least thirty kilos a month to start with.” Hector’s eyes went wide. “Thirty?” “At least. And a steady supply.” Rico crossed his arms. “That too rich for your blood?” Ernesto spoke up. “No, man. Not at all. Got a few things to work out is all. No one down here’s been movin’ that much since Calderone flew off into the wild blue. But how much per key?” “Thirty. If the product’s at least seventy percent pure. My associates can go up to forty if you can deliver at least eighty percent pure. On a regular basis, not just one or two keys out of the thirty.” Rico smiled. “Quality control.” The cousins leaned back in the booth, and Rico could just hear rapid-fire Spanish passing between the two. He knew enough of the language to get by, and get directions to the right bathroom, but all he could pick up was ‘cocaine.’ When they were done, it was Hector who spoke. “We’re interested, but we gotta know you can hold up your end.” “Just like me and my associates want to know you can hold up yours.” Rico paused. “Look at it this way…today New York, tomorrow maybe Detroit and beyond. My associates have reach.” He turned to Sonny. “Can you handle that much weight, Burnett?” Sonny made a show of wrinkling his forehead. “Yeah. Might be a stretch, but yeah. So long as we stick to our usual arrangement.” “Which is…” “None of your damned business, Ernesto.” Sonny’s smile was mean. “Do I ask you how you get your marching dust into position off the coast? No.” “He’s right, cousin. Professional courtesy.” Hector nodded. “We will need to check some things. And perhaps a smaller exchange is in order.” Rico pretended to think. “Yes. Then we can verify your product and you can see we can hold up our end.” He reached into his pocket, noticing the slight reaction on the part of the remaining guard. So their guns have some training, at least. Good to know. “I’m at this number until the end of the week.” He slid the hotel matchbook across the table. “Leave a message for Mr. Cooper with a number where I can call you. We’ll set up the particulars then.” They were back in the Ferrari before Rico spoke again. “Man, those two are serious chumps.” “Yeah, but dangerous ones, Rico. Especially Hector. You see his pupils?” Sonny clicked the radio twice, letting Stan and Larry know they were done for the night, and then pulled out into traffic. “He’d snorted enough of their product I’m surprised he didn’t shake the whole damned booth apart.” “You think they’ll try a rip?” “Naw. Maybe Hector if it was just him, but Ernesto’s a greedy little bastard. And his eyes lit up like a damned Christmas tree when you threw out those numbers.” Sonny shook his head. “Now all we gotta do is talk some buy money out of the lieutenant.” Esteban Morales sat in the back booth, listening as his man gave his report. He liked meeting his people in the Lame Bull, a bar in Little Havana popular with Cuban expats who still dreamed of seeing dear old Fidel dead or hanging in the town square. It both reminded him of where he’d come from and provided security he couldn’t find anywhere else in Miami. “And you’re sure of what you saw?” “Si, jefe. The idiot Rojas cousins met with a Gringo and a black man earlier tonight in Aces.” The man spat, careful to miss the table. “Why the damed Puerto Ricans don’t put bullets in the heads of those two putas…” “Isn’t our problem. Our problem is who they met with.” “The one I recognized. Sonny Burnett. He’s a small-time runner. Doesn’t deal and doesn’t seem to want to. The other…” The man shrugged. “Maybe a buyer. I have heard Burnett will sometimes connect people.” “But he’s not a dealer?” “No.” The man was emphatic. “Just transport.” After the man left, Esteban ordered another rum and sat for a time. Processing the information. To him it had all the hallmarks of the Rojas cousins trying to move up in the world. Maybe this new face was from Overtown, or maybe someplace outside of Miami. Burnett was insignificant. He’d heard of the man, too. Still, he decided to let Miguel know and cross Rojas off the list of potential dealers. They’d been causing enough trouble in Liberty City, but it would make a good distraction. Let the police look there while Miguel and Enrique made their moves. Smiling, he finished his rum and headed out into the night. It had been a good day.

Miami, early 1984 “What do you mean you got a dead body?” Sonny Crockett sat up in bed, feeling the boat roll with the tidal current as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Just relaying what got called in, detective.” The dispatcher’s voice was apologetic. “They said when they ran the name a Vice flag popped up.” “Thanks.” Swinging his legs out of bed, Sonny blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. It felt like he’d only drifted off ten minutes before the phone rang, and maybe he had. He and Eddie had been chasing leads for almost a year between cases, trying to figure out who had whacked Jaime Belequez. Even though Lou had told him to let Homicide take it, Sonny just couldn’t let go. Something about it just felt wrong. He was about to step into the boat’s small shower when the phone buzzed again. “Hey, Sonny. You get the call?” Eddie always sounded so damned chipper. Even when he’d been pulled out of a deep sleep in what had to be the wee hours of the morning. “Yeah. Gonna shower and I’ll drop by and pick you up in say fifteen?” “Sure. I wonder who got popped this time?” “Guess we’ll find out. Hope it’s actually connected to one of our cases this time.” The Daytona made good time on the almost-empty streets, and soon Sonny pulled up in front of Eddie’s place. Checking his watch he saw it was 3:45, and looking at the neat little place sent a quick stab through his heart. Being separated sucks. But it’s what she wanted, and maybe it is best for Billy. Hell, I’m not around enough to really be a dad. Eddie’s hair was still damp when he settled into the passenger seat. “All I can say is this better be worth it,” he said as Sonny pulled away. “Maria wasn’t happy getting woken up.” “Yeah. Elvis was a bit cranky, too.” “Sorry, Sonny. I…” “It’s cool, Eddie. Don’t worry about it.” Sonny waved his hand. “Dispatch didn’t say shit other than the body raised a flag when Patrol called it in. I just hope it ain’t one of Gina and Trudy’s cases. Last thing I want to deal with at four in the morning is a dead hooker.” They saw the glow from rotating red and blue lights before they actually saw the squad cars parking along a lonely stretch of road leading out of the city and toward the swamps. Sonny pulled in behind the last one and shut off the Daytona. “Crockett and Rivera. Vice,” he said, waving his badge in the general direction of the cop manning the perimeter. “Dispatch called us out.” “Yeah, detective. Homicide’s on the way, too. Guess you boys move a bit faster.” “Carlson, isn’t it? Been a couple of years…” “Yeah. How’s Vice treating you, Sonny?” “Life in the fast lane.” Sonny laughed, clapping the older cop on the shoulder. “So what do we have?” “ID says he was Kiki Caron. Hard to say for sure until the doc gets him on his table, though. Guy took one, maybe two rounds to the head. I had to guess, I’d say it was a 9mm. But don’t quote me on that to Homicide.” “You got it, Carlson. Let me know when they show up, ok?” Eddie had already moved over to the body. “Looks like Kiki’s shoes. Kid was always a flashy dresser when it came to footwear. He was the guy we had the meet with last week, right?” “Yeah.” Sonny was already tapping a smoke out of the small pack he kept in his blazer pocket. “Middleman mainly. He’d been bragging he’d come into twenty-five keys of Bolivia’s finest and needed someone to move it.” “Yeah. I also remember the fit the lieutenant threw when we tried to get the flash money.” “I thought he was gonna swallow that cigar whole.” Sonny grinned, more to cover his anger at the memory than anything else. It was setting up be a perfect bust, more so because Kiki claimed to have an in with the Columbians who were popping up all over the map now. And now his golden lead was dead. The big question was why? Who had Kiki pissed off? Carlson’s bass voice echoed from over by the patrol car. “Unmarked inbound, Crockett.” “Thanks, pal.” Sonny turned to Eddie. “Guess that’s our cue to blow this pop stand. You want me to drop you back at home? I’m just gonna head in and go over my notes. Rodriguez will have questions, and I’d like to have something ready that isn’t ‘how the hell should I know?’.” “No, I’ll just ride in with you. No point in going back, waking her up, and leaving again an hour later.” Lou Rodriguez looked up from his notes and glared at Sonny, then Eddie, and then back at Sonny. “What’s this about one of your leads getting shot in the head?” Stan Switek chuckled and elbowed Larry Zito in the ribs. “I heard Patrol talkin’ about that one, Lar. It was Kiki.” “Aw, man. I wanted tips on where he got his shoes. Like those gold bowling ones…” Larry gave an exaggerated sigh. “Imagine the looks we’d get on league night.” In spite of himself Sonny grinned. Sometimes it was hard not to when Bluto and Lee Harvey Oswald started in. And they weren’t wrong about Kiki. “I was tryin’ to set Eddie up with him as a buyer, lieutenant. That buy money request you torpedoed was for that meet. Kiki claimed to have a line on twenty-five kilos of Bolivian product he claimed was over eighty percent pure.” “Sonny’s right, lieutenant.” Eddie leaded forward, resting his elbows on the conference room table. “We met with him last week. He was squirrelly as hell, but he seemed like he was solid for the deal.” Larry cleared his throat. “I heard of this guy before, lieutenant. He was always a gram guy. Maybe a kilo or two at the most. We were setting him up for a pinch down by Bomber’s when he dropped off the face of Miami.” Stan nodded. “This was about four or five months back, so he coulda made a new connection.” Sonny kept his face still to hide his annoyance, but he was sure some of it leaked into his voice. “Sounds like he moved up fast, then. And that kinda movement’s gonna attract attention of the wrong kind.” “And if you’d turned in your contract reports before asking for the buy money you might have found out if he was telling the truth about his stash.” Lou glared around the table. “Cases are won on paperwork. I know it’s dull, and not as flashy as running around in sunglasses, but it’s how we close things out for the DA. Then it’s not our fault when he screws things up.” A very thin smile touched Lou’s lips. “It’s Homicide’s case, but keep your ears open. If someone’s making a move we need to know about it.” Sonny nodded, looking across the table at Larry. “What did you two know about Kiki? He only came up one my radar in the last couple of weeks.” Stan chuckled. “You forget how to pull files, Sonny?” “Come on, Stan. You know the only way I can read those is if your girlfriend reads them to me. In bed.” “Very funny, Crockett. Anyhow, Lar an’ I ran into him like he said. We were running a stakeout on some bikers down by Bomber’s, and Kiki was kinda their main coke guy. So we switched focus to him an’ started working him.” Larry nodded, his head bobbling loose on his neck. “We’d worked him from a couple of grams to an ounce or two and were aiming for bigger game when he just up and vanished. Bikers claimed he’d gone up to Lauderdale or something, but they were so hopped up on speed most of the time I’m surprised they didn’t claim aliens abducted him.” “No word what he was up to?” “Nope. But Kiki was always talking about wanting to up his game. Said the only thing he was missing was a steady supply.” Larry shrugged. “Maybe he thought he’d found one.” “Guess we’re back to square one.” Sonny shook his head and turned to Eddie. “You said you’d turned up something, partner…” “And you’re sure it was this Calderone?” Miguel Mendoza was looking out the wide window at the ocean. It was his favorite spot to think when thinking was needed. “Si.” Esteban nodded, his reflection visible in the clean glass. “He called this man out to a lonely stretch of highway and put two bullets in his head.” “What do we know about this Columbian?” Esteban scratched his chin, a sign he was collecting his thoughts. “His main organization is in New York City, but as you know the Gringos have shut down many of the ocean routes to the north. So he’s looking to open new routes. And from what my people say new markets as well.” “What’s the term the locals use? Yes…carpetbagger. Calderone is a carpetbagger.” Esteban chuckled. “You could say that. He started with just routes and boats, but the word now is he wants to control the middlemen as well. For volume, at least.” “So he kills the middlemen and what? Replaces them with his own people?” “Si. Mostly other carpetbaggers like himself. People he trusts from his organization in New York.” Esteban paused. “So far we have not attracted his notice. It seems he assumed Jaime was just the cost of doing business or some local dispute.” “And we won’t attract his notice. Not yet, at least.” He knew it was the right decision, but it still galled him to back down from this man. It wasn’t the Mendoza way. But there was a time and a place for wars, and this was neither. “I will talk to Enrique about this. In general terms, at least.” He looked at his Rolex. “He should be here in about ten minutes.” Esteban nodded and disappeared, knowing Miguel still preferred to keep the two halves of the business separate. Miguel used the last of the silence to order his thoughts. So far Calderone had killed at least four locals, but this was the first broker. The others had been smugglers who were foolish enough to try to hold out on him. A low body count by Columbian standards, but troubling because it was directed outside his group. Usually the Columbians were good for shooting the shit out of each other, clearing the way for more careful or ambitious people. This was targeted and done with purpose. And he thought he knew the purpose. Enrique’s tan was deeper than he remembered, the light hair bleached even lighter by constant exposure to sun and salt water. But the same mirth still glittered in his eyes, a stark contrast to Miguel’s own dark eyes and hair. “What’s this I hear about Golden Slippers getting killed?” “Who?” “Kiki Caron. The boys called him that because he had this pair of gold-colored bowling shoes…” Ricky waved his hand. “It’s a long story, and too dull for you, my brother. But he’s dead?” “Yes. By Calderone, or so I’m told.” “That puta is kill-crazy!” “Yes, but unlike so many of his countrymen he has both purpose and a plan.” Miguel smiled. “I don’t know what it is yet, but I can guess. His main organization is in New York, so he comes down here for better access and maybe a new market or two. And he’s the kind of man who wants to control everything.” “So he just starts shooting the deal-makers? That don’t seem too smart to me.” “It’s not, but it looks good in the short term. So we take the long view. Ricky, we need to pause all shipments above fifteen kilos. Maybe swing back to cigars for a time.” He raised his hand. “Yes, we’ll not make as much in the short term, but Calderone will piss off the wrong people and they’ll turn on him. Maybe the Cubans or even the Haitians. And when he does, we wait and move in to pick up the pieces.” “It makes sense. We’re good at what we do, brother. Damned good at what we do.” He grinned, a teenager again. “I wanted to tell you about that new guy. Pasqual Benitez.” “I know that name…” “He used to skipper the Morena for Uncle Jesus. Knows routes Jaime never even dreamed of. Anyhow, the Morena got torched by someone down on the docks an’ Pasqual comes to me with a recommendation. I want to give him a couple of other boats and see what he can do.” “You know the deal, Ricky. The boats are yours to manage as you will. Just be sure they know about the fifteen kilo limit. You see to that side, I see to the rest.” The younger man nodded. “I have enough work to keep them all busy, brother. Sometimes runs from outer islands, but also picking up from larger boats well off the coast. The Coast Guard has yet to stop one of my boys.” “I know. And I see the money coming in. Be sure to keep running some of it through Jesus. That way it looks better.” He grinned. “Now get back out there and test that new boat you were bragging about.” Once Enrique was gone, Miguel turned back to the window. They’d come far in the last year or so, moving from one or two boats to what amounted to a fleet now…six fast boats and an equal number of more stealthy craft he continued to use for cigars and other low-risk cargo. Hadn’t his mother always said not to put all the eggs in one basket? They’d all seen what had happened to the family when grandfather did that. Still, it hadn’t been the old man’s fault. Rum really was the only egg back then. Now it was easier. He could spread things around…keep making steady money with the traditional goods while testing the waters with cocaine. Calderone was a setback; one he hadn’t planned for but could work around. He reached into the desk drawer for one of the Cuban cigars and cut the tip. If what Esteban said was true, the Columbian would be focusing most of his attention to the north…where his real money was still made. Miguel figured that gave them an edge, at least for a time. Miami was an experiment, maybe a hobby, for this man. For the Mendozas it was their life. All they had to do was be patient. His attention would wander, or he’d make a mistake. Then they could step in and claim their rightful place. “Where’d you say you met this guy again?” Sonny Crockett lowered his Ray-Bans a quarter inch to scan the street before pushing them back up on his nose. “Club down by the water. A place called Mirror Image.” Eddie laughed. “Shitty name, I know. But it’s a magnet for the nose candy crowd. Still just disco enough to draw ‘em in but hip enough to keep ‘em coming back.” “And he said he could get you five keys?” “He said he could, but he didn’t have a way to move it.” Eddie grinned. “So I volunteered this guy I know called Burnett. He looked like he knew the name.” Nodding, Sonny reached down and keyed the radio. “Ok, everyone. This is strictly a meet and greet. No money, no dope. Just a firm handshake and all that crap.” “Read ya loud and clear.” Stan’s voice came back strong though the speaker. “Just holler if you need help.” “Like hell,” Sonny muttered for Eddie’s benefit. “Last time I called Bluto and Lee Harvey Oswald for backup, Scotty and I almost got shot to death.” He shifted in the Daytona’s seat. “Showtime, pal. I’ll hang back until you press the flesh.” “You got it. And tonight I’m Eddie Rivers over from Tampa.” Mirror Image was the corner unit in a block of storefronts that had seen better days back in the ‘60s. Still, the line at the door hinted there might be more to the place than met the eye. The big guy at the door might have gotten his tux from the wardrobe leftovers from Saturday Night Fever, but the bulge under his left armpit was pure ‘80s. He gave them both a quick look from behind cheap aviators before nodding and letting them through. Strobe lights glancing off the disco ball hanging from the exact center of the roof painted the faces of the handful of dancers in the colors of the rainbow. Donna Summer boomed through the sound system, and Sonny had to almost shout to make himself heard. “We get stuck in one of those time warps?” “It’s actually pretty cool.” Eddie grinned, his teeth going momentarily green as one of the lights played across his face. “And it’s a great place for meets. No one can hear a damned word you’re saying.” “Yeah. I guess. But we should get hazardous duty pay for this.” The crowd was thin enough he made it to the bar without any trouble. “Black Jack neat,” he shouted at the bartender. Leaving a five on the bar, he waited until Eddie had a drink before leaning close. “So where is this bozo?” “In the booth toward the back.” Eddie jerked his head, and Sonny caught a quick glimpse of a skinny guy in a badly-sitting suit just before a girl with big hair and boobs to match wearing a lime green jumpsuit cut in front of his view as she headed for the bar. “Let’s get this over with before I start getting a rash.” “I didn’t know you were so delicate, Sonny.” “Blow it out your ear, Eddie from Tampa.” Sonny grinned to show he was joking. Sort of, at least. The guy in the booth looked to have snorted half his product the way he was bouncing around. First he was tapping his long fingers on the table to what Sonny guessed was some kind of wardrum beat going in his head, and the next his knees were bouncing to a totally different beat. And neither of them matched the music coming through the big speakers. “Hey! Eddie, my man! This the cat you were telling me about?” Eddie slid into the booth, pinning the dealer in place. “Yep. Sonny, this is Kenny. The guy with the weight problem.” Kenny laughed, opening his mouth wide to show bad teeth. “I like that, man! Weight problem! Good t’ know you, Sonny. What kinda name is that, anyhow? Never mind…don’t matter. What does matter is that you can take my weight problem over to Eddie in Tampa. That’s what matters, my friend.” “Piece of cake. I can make the run in my sleep.” Sonny slid in across from Eddie, unbuttoning his blazer so he could get to the heavy SIG P220 if he had to. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but Scotty had taught him to plan for it. Especially when dealing with coke heads. “How much are we talkin’?” “Well, Eddie an’ I got to come to some kind of price understanding, but if all goes well plan on twenty to twenty five kilos.” Kenny grinned. “Can your rowboat handle that much, chief?” “Like I said, in my sleep. Only question I have is if your punk ass can really produce that much product.” Eddie raised his hand. “Easy, boys. We gotta agree on a price first. That’s you and me, Kenny. I already got that figured out with Sonny here.” Sonny tuned out of the conversation as the other two talked prices. He knew if he paid any attention, he’d likely slug Kenny right in his bad teeth and ruin the entire bust. Better to watch the girls on the dance floor. And some of ‘em ain’t bad at all. I remember when Caroline and I used to go dancing. Well…or when we talked about it. Never was much good at that, an’ we were always busy. Her with school and me with the Academy and all. And once Billy came along… He shook his head. One of the other things Scotty Wheeler had tried to beat into his head was the importance of keeping home and the cover separate. Course it was easy for him to say. He never had to live a cover. “Look.” Eddie’s voice had shifted from easygoing to firm. “Ain’t no way what you got is worth that much. If it’s 80% pure like you say, you gotta knock a couple of grand off the top. My people won’t cut it much past seventy, so it’s a what-you-see-is-what-you-get deal. No extra margin for us.” “Fine! Look, I just gotta move it is all.” Sonny slipped his Ray-Bans back on. He’d discovered the look made people like Kenny pay more attention to what he said. “How hot is this load you want me to move?” “It’s cold as the ice in Eddie’s drink, man. Trust me. I just don’t have the space for that much marching powder. Weed’s usually more my thing.” Something doesn’t feel right. But what the hell are we gonna do? He turned to face Eddie and gave a slight nod as he reached for his cigarettes. Might as well get it over with. Eddie got the signal. “Ok. If Sonny’s ok movin’ it we can get this deal done. I got things to do back in Tampa.” Sonny walked Tail-End Charlie as they left Mirror Image, with Freddy getting his freak on in front and Eddie somewhere between the two men in both position and demeanor. The pulsing beat of Rick James filled his ears, and it was hard to focus until they got past the glass door and into the thick night air. Picking up his pace, Sonny started to pull even with Eddie. “We both goin’ to check the product or…” The first two shots came in quick succession, following each other like twin claps of thunder. Sonny stared for a second, then dove to the right, his hand moving from reflex to the warm butt of his SIG. Eddie moved the other way, coming up with the Browning he favored. Freddy was still falling, blood arcing from two holes in his chest. Sonny could see the shock on his face, and then the body hit the ground with a thud. The shooter was just across the sidewalk, one foot on concrete and the other on the parking lot’s asphalt. “Drop it!” Sonny almost didn’t recognize his own voice through the ringing in his ears from the shots. “Drop it now!” The shooter started to turn, the black handgun tracking his way. Somewhere behind him he heard screams, and knew any wild shots would hit people trying to get the hell out of the club. The shooter’s eyes were wild, his light-colored shirt open almost to the waist. His pistol came up, and Sonny’s world vanished in two bright flashes from the muzzle of his SIG. “It was supposed to be a simple meet!” Lou’s voice was hot as they stood behind two marked patrol cars at the far end of the parking lot. Stan and Larry had made the call seconds after Freddy’s body fell, and the response time was good for the neighborhood. Still, Sonny felt like they’d been standing there for ages before the first ugly green and while unit rolled up. Eddie spoke quickly. “That’s all it was, lieutenant. We’d just agreed on a price, and Freddy was going to take us to get a sample. A little good faith money, and then we’d set up a time for the actual buy. He claimed the load was cold, and he just needed to move it to make room for his usual product. Guy is…I mean was…mostly into weed. Or so I heard.” “I suppose you have the same story, Crockett?” Sonny took a final drag on his Lucky Strike before tossing the sub away. “Yeah, Lou. There was no action, nothing going down in the club. The bozo I shot was waiting for Freddy outside. And he wasn’t after either of us. Not at first. Hell, I think he was surprised Freddy had company.” Lou looked from one man to the other, and Sonny could see the heat starting to leave his eyes. “Ok. But you’ll need to write it up. And IA will be along, too.” He held out his hand. “I’ll need your weapon, Sonny.” “Yeah. I know the drill.” Sonny pulled out the SIG and dropped the magazine before clearing the weapon, holding his hand to catch the ejected round. Then he handed everything to Lou. “I fired twice, so two rounds are missing from the magazine. Counting the one from the chamber there should be six there.” Nodding, Lou stuffed it all into a side pocket of his plaid sport coat. “Now we just need to figure out who wanted a nickel and dime dealer like Freddy dead. Just what we need.” Enrique Mendoza slowed his Corvette and looked at the club parking lot. “Who got whacked this time?” “I don’t know, boss.” Pasqual Benitez took a quick look out the passenger-side window before turning away. “That dump isn’t high on my to-do list.” Enrique laughed and slapped the steering wheel. “Mine either. Must have been someone, though, with all those cops hanging around. A turf war, maybe.” “Or another middle man being taken out.” Pasqual shook his head. “Lot of that going around these days.” “So I hear.” Enrique eased on the gas, and the red Corvette slid away into the night. Unlike some of his men, Ricky didn’t go in for glass packs or other noisemakers on his ride. No, better to slip in and slip out fast without being noticed than to announce your presence to the world. I save that for my boats. Where it really matters. “Best we keep a low profile for now. That’s Miguel’s thinking, too. Stick with what we know and keep the quantities down. He says our time will come, and I agree with him.” “True enough. Sooner or later the Columbians will wipe each other out.” “I expect so.” Ricky got on the gas some more, sending the car shooting up the on-ramp onto the Expressway. “And it can’t come too damned soon.”