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Miami, early 1983 “You’re the senior detective now, Crockett. With Wheeler gone, you get to train the new guy.” Lou Rodriguez drew on his cigar, the tip glowing cherry red before disappearing in the inevitable cloud of smoke. Sonny Crockett started to protest, but thought better of it. Deep down he knew Lou was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. In the two months since Wheeler’s departure, he’d been making good progress establishing Sonny Burnett. He’d even made a couple of small runs…nothing big, but enough to start building his name on the street. There was even a manufactured bust with dismissed charges on his sheet if anyone bribed someone to take a look. “I know what you’re thinking, Crockett. You don’t have time to train someone. Your cover’s just taking off. Don’t bother. I’ve heard it all before.” Lou leaned forward. “But did you ever consider what another body brings to the table? You have a buyer now. Someone you can introduce to people higher up the food chain.” “Give me a break, Lou. I know all that. So yeah, I’ll train this kid. What’s his name? Freddy?” “Eddie. Detective Eddie Rivera. He’s done some undercover work with Patrol, and had a short stint with your old pal John Malone before Scotty turned Fed on us.” “You can’t blame him. Better pay and better insurance. His kid…” “Oh, I don’t blame him, Crockett. But I can still bust his balls about it.” Picking up the phone, Lou hit an extension button. “Send him in.” Damn! I must have looked like that when I walked through that door back in ’78. Sonny turned in his chair to get a good look at his new partner. Green as grass and full of fire and ambition. Ok, maybe not as green…the Corps and Nam saw to that…but the rest… “Sonny Crockett,” he said, getting to his feet. They shook hands. “Eddie Rivera. John Malone says hello.” “Does he now? How is the old son of a bitch?” “Better now that you’re gone.” Eddie grinned and shifted. “At least that’s what he told me to tell you when you asked.” “That’s John, alright.” Sonny chuckled. “The lieutenant says we’re working together, so I’d better give you the tour. All the important stuff like where the john is.” “Bring him back when you’re done, Crockett. We need to start setting up his cover.” Back in the squad room, Sonny made quick introductions and then walked Eddie to the locker room. “Just take one without a name on it and claim it as your own. You’ll use it more than you think.” “So I hear.” Eddie looked around, his eyes still new-kid wide. “I’m just glad to have made it to Vice.” “Don’t be too sure. You married, Eddie?” “Yeah. Her name’s Maria.” “Better memorize her face. We work long hours here, and going home ain’t always on the menu when a case takes off.” Sonny felt his eyes losing focus for a moment. “This unit can be damned hard on a marriage.” “Maria’s father was a cop. She knows the drill.” “You’re a lucky man, then. Still, take the time with her you can when you can. The way things are heating up, we’re only gonna get busier. And busts make careers around here.” “John already tried to scare me out of transferring with that line. He also said if I want to get sent back to Robbery I should just call you James.” “Only person who calls me that is my mother, and if she does you can bet I’m runnin’ the other way.” Sonny grinned to hide his annoyance. Leave it to John. “That and my cover’s Sonny, so just stick with that. Makes life easier.” He checked his watch. “And I’d better get you back to the lieutenant before he has a heart attack. Once he’s got your cover sorted, I’ll give you the run down on what I’ve been workin’ on.” He slapped Eddie on the back. “If you wanted to stay busy, you came to the right place.” “And you’re sure of this information, Esteban?” “Si.” The Cuban nodded but kept his place in the corner of the room. “There can be no mistake? No misunderstanding?” “No. Jaime is selling our routes to the Columbians. One in particular.” Esteban’s voice became a sneer. “The one called Calderone.” “Then it’s good the little bitch only knows the routes we wish him to know. And not the best ones.” Miguel Mendoza turned in his chair so he could make out the tall shadow of his unofficial head of security. “We must deal with him. Tonight, I think.” “Directly?” “No. It must not be seen to come from us. Not yet. And my brother cannot know.” “Still trying to protect him?” Miguel smiled. “No. Protecting us. Enrique is many things, but discrete isn’t one of them. If he knows, he might say the wrong thing in the wrong company. Perhaps he will learn, but for now he should remain in the dark.” “It will be done.” Miguel wasn’t sure when Esteban left. His attention was focused on the wide window, or more correctly the view from that window. From here he could see the ocean, rolling blue with white caps marking the waves. It had been the source of his family’s income going back generations…to the first Mendoza who cast a fishing net from his simple boat. At least that was the family myth, and Miguel enjoyed a good myth as much as the next person. The decision to kill Jaime hadn’t been easy. He’d known the flamboyant boat pilot for years, going back to the ‘70s and their first forays into high-volume cigar smuggling. But the kid had always had two problems: his mouth and his ambition. Problems he’d never learned to control on his own and now never would. “Miguel. We need to talk.” “Of course, Ricky.” Deep in thought, Miguel hadn’t heard his brother come in. “I’ve been thinking. If we’re going to keep adding routes, we will need more boats. At least two. Using the same ones over and over…even the Coast Guard will notice that.” He chuckled. “As will our rivals. Good thinking. Do you have makes and models in mind?” Ricky nodded and dropped a small stack of brochures on the desk. But Miguel only listened with half his mind. Ricky knew boats, and anything he picked would be fine as far as performance went. It would be up to him to control costs. After a time, talk of horsepower stopped. “So you’ve told me of the boats. What else did you want to say, little brother?” Ricky grinned. “I can never hide anything from you, can I, Miguel? I don’t know about the others, but I’ve been crossing paths with strange boats out there. And before you yell, yes…I’ve been making some runs. It does the boys good to see the family out working with them. And it keeps me aware of what’s going on. Like this new situation.” “What kind of boats?” “At first I thought it might be the Coast Guard trying something new. But it’s not. These are fast boats, like the Scarabs I want to buy. Low to the water and hard to spot. But they use their radios more than we do. Much more. I’ve heard them more than once, and from their accents I’d say they’re mostly Columbian. Not an accent I’ve heard before on our routes.” “You say they’re using our routes?” Ricky nodded. “It looks that way. Not often, but enough for me to notice. I asked one or two of the others…only men who’ve been with us for some time. They say the same thing.” “Stop using those routes. At once. Meet with Jesus and plan some new ones.” He raised his hand. “I know he’s busy with his new charter service. But still…” “He knows those waters better than any man alive. I’ll call him as soon as we’re done. To tell the truth, I think he misses some of this.” Ricky paused, lines appearing on his forehead. “But how did they…” “You stay focused on the routes. Shifting our boats to new ones once they’re charted. I’ll deal with how the Columbians got their hands on those routes.” “And that’s why Jesus brought you on two years ago, isn’t it? To carry the weight of those decisions.” “Someone must. The product the Columbians move earns far more than cigars ever could, my brother. And as we expand our portfolio as the Gringos say, we need to protect our business. Those routes are key to it. With them we can move product, even their cocaine, faster and with more security than anyone else.” He looked at the stack of boat brochures. “Get me some quotes on those Scarabs. We may be needing some quite soon.” Gina Calabrese looked up from her typewriter and smiled. “So you’re the new hotshot come to keep Sonny Crockett in line?” Eddie nodded, his cheeks going red, and Sonny chuckled. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t scare the kid off while he’s still wet behind the ears. Eddie, you’ll get used to Gina’s sense of humor. She and Trudy over there are workin’ to keep the streets of Miami free of pimps.” “And that’s a fight we’ll never win.” Trudy Joplin smiled. “But if we can save some girls from them I count it as a win.” Sonny stepped back, letting the two women talk with Eddie a bit. It also gave him a chance to admire Gina’s figure one more time. Since he’d gotten the boat he spent less and less time at home, which seemed to suit Caroline just fine. Billy was harder to read, but he’d gotten used to his dad being gone. Maybe too used to it. Still, they couldn’t linger too long. Lou had done a hell of a job getting Eddie a cover on short notice. It was pretty flexible…Eddie was a buyer from out of town, sometimes the West Coast other times from the Panhandle or someplace like Lauderdale. A guy looking to score who had just enough money for a medium-sized deal and needed transportation. Burnett could provide the latter, but not the product. Now he just had to see if the kid had the chops to pull it off. “If you’re about done makin’ nice with the ladies, we’re got work to do.” He flashed his wide receiver smile at the two detectives. “See you around.” They were halfway to the black Daytona when Eddie spoke. “They seem nice enough.” “Yeah, and they’re good cops. We don’t work with ‘em much, but when we do it’s always a good bust.” He fired up the car, a smile flashing across his face as the engine boomed. “Come on. I’ll show you the boats and introduce you to Elvis. You’re gonna love him.” “Nice ride you got.” “Yeah. It’s seized properly like everything but my underwear and socks.” Sonny chuckled as he whipped the car into traffic. “Had a Porsche back when I was in Robbery, but they made me turn it in when I transferred. And my first partner here had a thing for those Ford sedans. Might have been part of the reason he ended up jumping to the DEA.” “I think Lieutenant Malone sent me out in that Porsche a couple of times. I know I got some dirty looks…” “Yeah. I rattled a few cages before I left.” Sonny upshifted, feeling the car settle into its comfort zone. “Once we’re done with the tour we can grab some lunch.” Eddie’s eyes were still wide when they pulled into the diner parking lot after leaving the marina. “Why didn’t you tell me Elvis was a gator?” “University of Florida Gator, actually.” Sonny was still grinning, remembering the scream Eddie had let out when Elvis stuck his snout around the cabin of the boat. “I played ball for them back in my late, unlamented college days. Seems this incarnation took a snap at a Georgia free safety. They were gonna turn him into a pair of shoes until I stepped in. He’s a hell of a conversation piece, ain’t he? I’m workin’ on training him to sniff out drugs, too.” “They weren’t kidding about you back in Robbery.” “Probably not.” Sonny didn’t really care what they’d said about him. He got results, and at the end of the day that was what mattered. Nodding to the girl at the register, he headed for one of the booths back near the kitchen. “Not as quiet back here, but more private. If we’re gonna partner up, you need to know the score. This ain’t Robbery. In Vice you can’t tell the players without a program, and it changes damned near every day.” Sonny sat down, feeling his SIG in the shoulder rig tap his ribs. “I’ve got three active cases right now. One of ‘em’s small time, but the other two…” Miguel parked his car and shut off the engine, listing to the block tick as it cooled. Esteban had picked just the spot for this little message: a disused dock rumored to be favored by at least one of the Columbian gangs springing up like weeds. There was no way they could miss it, or the intent. He found Jaime just where Esteban said he’d be - tied to the controls of his boat. The sleek craft bobbed with the light current, still tied to the long, crumbling dock so it wouldn’t float away. Jaime’s eyes were wide, and he strained at the gag Esteban had stuffed in his mouth. “What? Did you think I wouldn’t learn of your little gambit? Selling our routes to the Columbians was a foolish move, Jaime. Even for you. And word moves fast in our business. Even Ricky knows they’re using our routes now.” He took a step closer to the edge of the dock, looking deep into Jaime’s wide eyes. “And even Enrique can’t save you now.” Esteban appeared from the darkness of the small shed near the far end of the dock. “You don’t need to be the one…” “Yes, I do, Esteban. My brother had a good point earlier. Sometimes the family should be seen out working with the men. And how can I ask someone to do what I won’t do myself? Even you.” Miguel pulled the .45 from his waistband, the grips warm from his skin. The Colt was old, a gift from his grandfather, but it would do the job. The slide racking was loud in the silence by the water. Miguel watched as Jaime’s eyes got even wider and muffled squeals came from behind the rag in his mouth. “No, Jaime. There’s no turning back now. Just try to die like a man, ok?” The single gunshot crashed over the water, starting some birds from their night nesting spots. Flicking on the safety, Miguel nodded to Esteban. “You can burn it now.” The call came just after one in the morning, jarring Sonny Crockett awake. It took him a moment to recognize the slight motion and remember he was on the boat. Reaching out, he snatched up the cordless receiver. “Yeah? This better be good.” “We got something you need to see.” He recognized the gravel tones of Whitman from Homicide. “You know that old fishing dock out by Fowler’s Point?” “The one a certain class likes to frequent? Yeah, I do.” “Good. I’ll be waiting.” Snarling a curse, Sonny hit the disconnect button then punched in numbers. “Eddie? Yeah, it’s me. Look, we got something. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes.” Eddie was still scrubbing sleep from his eyes as Sonny turned onto the dirt road leading down to the water. “How do you even know about this place?” “Name of the game, Eddie. I’m a boat guy of questionable means, remember? Means I have to know how those questionable means make it to the streets.” Sonny chuckled, slowing down as they rounded a corner and saw three squad cars, an unmarked, and a coroner’s wagon painting the landscape red and blue. “And it looks like we missed at least some of the party.” Detective Whitman had a face to match his gravelly voice, and he didn’t waste time or words. “Got a call about a boat on fire. When we got here the evidence destruction crew was already done and packing their shit. We’re getting what we can, but it don’t look good.” “Let me guess. This ain’t just a sloppy kid playing with matches?” Sonny noticed Whitman’s raised eyebrow. “Sorry…this is my new partner Eddie Rivera. Eddie, meet Jack Whitman. A legend in Homicide, or so I’m told.” Whitman grunted. “Only believe half of what this guy tells you and you’ll make it home every night. Anyhow, we ran the boat and found it was flagged by Vice. You heard of Jaime Belequez?” Sonny felt his skin go cold. “Jaime? Yeah, I heard the name.” “He’s the crispy critter. Except he didn’t die in the fire. Someone put a large caliber bullet through his head before they dropped the matches and gasoline.” “Shit.” Sonny looked down toward the water, seeing the low, dark shape of a burned-out boat. “Yeah, that looks like his outfit. Kid had a thing for those stupid spoilers.” “I’ll keep you looped in once we get the autopsy report back.” Whitman shrugged and lit a Marlboro from the one already dangling from his lips. “Don’t expect much else, though. These guys don’t talk, especially if there’s a turf war in the making.” “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we dig anything up. Right now, though, I can’t think of anyone who’d go to the trouble over Jaime.” Sonny waited until Whitman headed back down the dock before turning to Eddie. “And there goes my small-time case.” “Was he a CI?” “Naw. Jaime was strictly small time…a guy with a fast boat who knew the routs better than most. He used to pilot for Jesus Estevez.” “Now that name I know. Sports fishing guy, right?” “You got it. Been doing that and charter runs for a couple of decades now. Never been dirty as far as we know, but Jaime used to skipper for him. And you don’t skipper for ol’ Jesus unless you know everything there is to know about the Keys and areas south.” “And Jaime got greedy.” Sonny nodded. “Near as I can figure. I ran into him when I was building up the Burnett cover. Drank at the same bars with him, but hadn’t gotten an introduction yet. Word was he was on the way up. Started off smuggling cigars and pot, but was looking to move into coke. Good ol’ Peruvian Marching Powder. I did hear him brag one night that he was about to move his first load for the Columbian.” “Which Columbian?” “That’s what got me hooked. He didn’t say ‘a Columbian’ or ‘the Columbians.’ Just ‘the Columbian,’ like everyone was supposed to know who that was.” Sonny looked off toward the water. “And the funny thing is I think most of ‘em did. They acted like he’d been drafted by the Dolphins right out of high school or something.” “And now he’s dead.” “You’re learning, kid. Learning fast. A hit like this is either a message or payback in this world. Maybe both. But it sure as hell ain’t random. What Jaime knew was valuable. You don’t snuff that out without a damned good reason.” “Maybe Jesus…” “Naw. He either fired the kid or let him go. Jesus is strictly legit. Something like this would be bad for business if it tied back to him. We’ll let Whitman’s boys tromp around for a bit, but my money’s on either this mystery Columbian or whoever Jaime was working for. A lot of these guys get a bit upset when someone tries to walk away.” Digging into his blazer pocket for his Lucky Strikes, Sonny sighed. “Yeah…the smart money’s on whoever he tried to quit. Trouble is, I don’t know who the hell that was.” The morning sun was washing over the dining room table when Enrique Mendoza burst into the room. “Did you hear? Someone killed Jaime! Burned his boat and everything!” Miguel set down his copy of the Miami Herald and looked up. “Did they? It’s a sad day, then.” “I’ve had four calls already. Guys wanting to know if it’s still safe to make runs.” “Oh, I’d say it is. You know Jaime, brother. He may have screwed the wrong man’s woman or pissed someone off he shouldn’t have.” Ricky started to say something, but his mouth froze in mid-word. Then he started laughing. “It was you, wasn’t it?” “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Ricky. And perhaps it was this Calderone. Maybe he didn’t like what Jaime was selling him.” “So it was Jaime who gave up our routes? Bastard.” “Only some. He never knew the good ones. The ones Jesus kept back for himself and the family.” Taking a sip of coffee, Miguel debated just how much Ricky needed to know. “Just be sure the boys know our routes are our own and no one else’s. And I want you to handle some of them personally.” “Of course.” Miguel nodded. “Thank you. And you might reach out to whoever Jaime was in contact with before his passing. The Columbians, I mean. Maybe even this Calderone. We might be willing to contract with them for transport. Provided the price is right and our methods remain our own.” “They might not like that.” “Then we will do business with others. I know they aren’t the only game in town when it comes to product. There are Bolivians, Peruvians, and others who would be willing to pay a reasonable price to have their goods reach Miami.” Miguel decided it was time. “Ricky, have some coffee and sit down.” “Sure, but I don’t…” “I’ve been thinking about this. Fifty pounds of pot doesn’t net us much in the way of profit and is bulky to move. The same weight of cocaine is easy to hide and turns a far greater profit. We can use smaller, faster boats to move the same weight and make at least ten times the profit from one run. Just one.” “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that, too. The downside is if you get caught…” “Of course there is risk. There always is when the rewards are great. The question is, brother, do you feel we’re up to the task? If not, I’ll drop the idea and we can carry on as before.” “No…it makes sense. We’re already running risks, and getting caught with a load of cigars is almost as bad as cocaine with the crazy laws they have.” Ricky snorted. “And I like the idea of being able to move faster and make more money with each run. We would need protection…” “Leave that to me.” Miguel smiled, thinking of Esteban and his men. “I have an idea or two along those lines. But you’re right. The men from South America are a violent bunch, and with this much money in play you can always expect violence to follow close behind.” “I say do it.” “Good. Buy your boats. How many did you say you needed to start with?” “Three. One for me and one for our other top pilots.” “See to it. And Ricky…I only want you to use the routes of Jesus Estevez. No one else can know about them. Are we clear?” “Of course. What is family should stay family.” Ricky finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I’ll get the orders placed and let you know when we’re ready to proceed. And I’ll put some feelers out. See if we can find Jaime’s contacts.” Once the younger man was gone, Miguel left the table and walked over to an ornate end table. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number. “Esteban? He’s going for it. Yes, get your men. I think we’ll need four to start with. I don’t want the Columbians or anyone else to think they can push us around. Draw what money you need.” Turning, he looked back out the wide window at the ocean. It had been some time coming, this move. Making the jump from cigars and grass to something bigger. Maybe even something bigger than rum had been for his grandfather during Prohibition. He’d grown up on the old man’s stories…tales of a time when the Mendoza family was a power to be reckoned with among the families in Miami’s underworld. They’d slipped since then, going from the top to a shadow of their former glory. Maybe this was when things turned around. Sitting in the open rear cockpit, Sonny Crockett figured he was starting to get used to this marina bum lifestyle his cover demanded. Up in the bow Elvis was crunching away on a tuna he’d caught the day before, and he was soaking up the last of the afternoon sun with a cold beer and nothing better to do. At least that’s how he wanted it to look. But behind the dark Ray-Bans his mind was racing a mile a minute. The autopsy showed Jaime had been punched out with a .45 ACP. Most of the recent narcotics-related murders in Miami involved 9mms, so this was something different. Cubans, maybe? They’re all about tradition, and a lot of them still have .45s from the Bay of Pigs. He took a swallow of beer and shook his head, discarding his own theory almost as soon as it formed. Naw. Wrong part of town. And I don’t think they’d burn the boat. Waste not, want not an’ all that. When they’d talked to Lou, he told them to leave it mostly with Homicide. “Let them do the legwork. We don’t have the manpower or the time. If there’s any Vice link they’ll let us know and you can run with it.” He’d glared at Sonny through the inevitable cloud of cigar smoke. “Are we clear on that, Crockett?” “Crystal, lieutenant,” he’d said with one of his ‘you got it’ smiles that meant anything but that. It was starting to look like another night at smelly bars down along the shore. He needed to get a hint of who Jaime was running for before he could move forward. Draining the last of his beer, he looked at the empty bottle for a moment before tossing it on the cushion next to him. He was about to start down the gangplank when he pulled up short. Shit! Heading back, he picked up the phone and dialed. “Caroline? Yeah, it’s me. Look…you know that body they found? It’s tied to a case and I…Yes, I know he has Little League tonight. I know what I said, but I don’t have a choice here. There’s no…look…I’m not selling used cars. It’s a lead and I…” He stared at the buzzing receiver for a moment before slamming it back in the charging cradle. Driving let him work out some of his anger, slamming through the gears and sending the Ferrari zipping through the early evening traffic. The top was down, and the wind whipped at his hair as he drove, his attention focused on the road in front of him. But his mind…that was a different story. It wasn’t always like this. Back when I was on Patrol we were good. At least I thought we were. Robbery was ok, too, more or less. She used to bitch about me being late for dinner sometimes, but you can’t help it. Then Vice came along and I had to take it. Hell, it’s a cop’s dream if you don’t want to spend your days elbow-deep in dead bodies. Let those freaks take Homicide. Vice has the chase. Even partnered with Wheeler he’d sensed rather than seen things starting to come apart. Maybe he’d fooled himself into thinking he and Caroline were just like Scotty and Debby. Wheeler’s wife got what he did, and made allowances for it because she knew it was important work. He’d thought Caroline felt the same way. Or maybe he’d just convinced himself she did. He saw the flickering neon up ahead and forced Caroline and Billy to the back of his mind. It was time to go to work. A favorite with the boat crowd, The Rusty Anchor tried and failed to look like an old English pub. Instead it looked cheap, with cracked plastic chairs and ‘brass’ ornaments turning green from the humidity and lack of attention. Still, it was popular with the up and coming segment of Miami’s smugglers. Sonny always guessed it was because of the dim lights and long hours. But the drinks were cheap and talk tended to flow as freely as it ever did in this crowd, especially after one in the morning. He could feel rather than see the place looking him over as he came in, and a voice floated up from one of the tables back by the pool table. “Burnett! Bout damned you showed!” Sonny forced a smile on his face. “Business, Gary. You know how it is.” “Yeah. We all do. Get a beer an’ come on back.” Gary was a small-time hustler who ran with other small-time hustlers, but his crowd seemed to know everything that went on in their ten mile stretch of coast. So Sonny got a bottle of Bud from the skinny bartended and headed back. It was already looking like a long night. He’d managed one swallow before Gary started talking again, his bad teeth hidden by the bar’s gloom. “Shame about Jaime. You heard, right? Got capped an’ burned in his own boat. Who does that?” “Good question.” Sonny took another drink, trying to keep his voice marginally bored. “Someone I don’t want to move loads for, that’s for sure.” “Coulda been the Columbians.” Jocko was an old-time speed cooker who’d gotten into the land side of transportation after his last cook lab blew up. “They’re ruthless bastards from what I hear.” “Good think they ain’t into your product, then.” Gary laughed. “Hard t’ tell who Jaime was haulin’ for. The kid never talked much about that. But yeah, it’s the kind of thing the Columbians would do. They’re nasty bastards, especially if you try crossin’ them.” Sighing inside, Sonny drained his beer and headed back to the bad for another. It was going to be a long night.

Ok, so the bug bit again in a big way... Genesis is a novel based throughout the series...starting just before my story Rear View and finishing after Freefall when Sonny and Rico have both left the force. It may post slower than normal, because I'm working its events around both my stories and actual series episodes (so there's some event syncing to do, and I tend to write in real time...posting once something's done). When I can, I'll provide either links to my stories or notes about episodes so you can "fill in the blanks" if you want while you read. This novel covers the rise and fall of the Mendoza brothers, who I've mentioned in a few of my stories already. It also covers the rise, fall, and eventual rebirth of the Vice unit. It's ambitious, but it's also something I've been wanting to try for a while now. Hope you enjoy (or at least don't throw things)! Miami, 1982 The moon was a silver reflection on the calm water just offshore, with a handful of thin clouds sliding across the sky. A light breeze carried the faint sound of a motor over the sand, but the street noises killed it before it drew any attention. At least any official attention. Miguel Mendoza lowered the bulky night binoculars and handed them to the taller man standing just to his right. “He looks to be on time.” He’d picked out the low shape of the high-powered speedboat easily enough in the flat seas. Esteban Morales took the glasses with a shrug. “It’s his job to be on time, jefe.” “So it is, my friend. But sometimes it’s good to make sure people do their jobs. And to let them know you saw them doing it.” He chuckled, showing even, white teeth. “Besides, we have paying customers waiting for those cigars.” “And to line the pockets of that pig Castro.” “Now, Esteban. The only pockets getting lined are those of a poor customs official back in Cuba who only wants to feed his family. And in turn helping line our pockets so we can feed our families.” “I know. It’s just…” “Difficult. Yes, I know.” Miguel clapped the taller man on the shoulder. At one time Esteban had been a member of one of the anti-Castro combat groups dotting the landscape of Florida’s Cuban expat community. If he wasn’t so damned good at his job, I’d let him go. But you can’t let good CIA training go to waste. “My family suffered also. So now we take what we can. Let’s go down and meet him. See what Jaime has for us tonight.” At one time the small dock had been home to a fisherman of some kind. There was no way to tell now, of course. Miguel knew of it because his father and grandfather had both smuggled rum from the islands into Florida this way. Prohibition had been good to the Mendoza clan, and they’d been trying ever since to reclaim some of that luster. Cigars were a small start in that direction, pot a step up the ladder. The boat idled up to the dock and the pilot cut the motor, making the sound of water slapping against the fiberglass hull louder than it really was. A figure detached itself from the low cockpit and jumped across with a line, making the boat fast before the actual pilot stood up. Miguel and Esteban had been waiting in the shadows, and stepped out into the moonlight as soon as the pilot was on the dock. Jaime was a skinny kid with more balls than brains. But he knew two routes between Cuba and Miami like the back of his hand, and wasn’t afraid to make the run in any weather. It made him valuable. Now he was grinning, showing teeth ruined by too many cigarettes. “Hey! Miguel! Didn’t expect to see you tonight, mano! And we’re right on time, yes?” Miguel made a show of looking at his watch. “To the minute, my friend. You earned your commission for sure. The usual cargo?” “Yeah. Havana’s hand-wrapped finest. The usual quantity. And I picked up a bale of grass to go with it. Pad the margin a bit.” “The cigars we have buyers for. The other…” “Relax, boss. It’s not a big load. I’m sure I can find a buyer if you don’t have one lined up. It’s only fifty pounds.” Miguel nodded, feeling Esteban’s anger beside him. “You need to clear these things first, Jaime. We stay in business because we’re careful, and this wasn’t careful.” “See…that’s the thing.” Jaime took a step closer, and Miguel could see his eyes were wide with excitement. “Guy I got this from said he had a line on some other product, too. Tried to get me to take some, but I said I had to check with my jefe first.” “So who is this guy?” “He goes by the name Flaco, but that ain’t what matters. What matters is who’s behind him. A Columbian. Cat called Calderone.” Calderone. That is a name I know. “So why should this Columbian be interested in us?” “That I don’t know, jefe. Flaco didn’t say. Hell, I doubt if Flaco knows. He just does what he’s told. Like me.” Sure you do, Jaime. Esteban might be right about you. “See to the cigars, Jaime. And keep the other as your commission. I’ll let you know if we will do business with this Flaco and whoever’s behind him. Am I clear?” The pilot nodded, his head bobbing in the dim light, before he turned and headed back to help his partner unload the boat. As soon as he was out of earshot, Esteban snorted. “You see?” “Yes, I do. But we don’t deal with him yet. What do you hear about this Columbian he mentioned?” “That he’s a pig. Like all Columbians. That he’s an ambitious pig who’s trying to push his way into Miami. And that he deals in cocaine.” “And let me guess…he has product but no reliable way to move it?” “So it would seem. I’m afraid I don’t know much about him.” “Find out, Esteban. By the end of the week if you can. There’s great deal of money to be made in this cocaine, but a lot of risk as well. I want to be sure before I make any changes.” “So you’re turning on us?” Sonny Crockett chuckled as he looked over at the driver’s seat of the unmarked Ford. “I wouldn’t call it that, Sonny.” Scotty Wheeler raised his binoculars again, looking in the direction of the boat shed. “What would you call it? I mean, I get it. DEA’s a step up, and they did ask for you. Hope it wasn’t something I said.” “Hell, don’t make it worse than it is. You know Donna and I love you and Caroline. How many family dinners did we have?” “Yeah, I get it. They pay more and the benefits are better. Hell, I’d do the same thing if I was in your shoes.” Sonny thought back to Wheeler’s son, stuck in that chair. Hell, I’d do exactly the same thing, and sooner than he did. “Wait…I know. It had to be Lou’s cigars.” “You got me there, partner. Just being in one briefing when he’s smoking those turds takes two years off your life.” He was about to continue, then paused and lowered the glasses. “We got movement down there. Looks like a pickup and three or four guys. Boat must have come in from the blind side.” “You sure your CI said it was here?” “Yep.” Wheeler set down the glasses and picked up a hand radio. “Move in. We’ve got ‘em.” The arrest team already had the small shed surrounded by the time Wheeler got the big Ford down the dirt road. It felt slow somehow…almost too slow…but then the rush of the arrest took hold and Sonny was out the door with his SIG in his hand. Then he heard Wheeler chuckle. “It’s not all glamor and bright lights in Vice, Sonny. Sometimes it’s just making the routine busts. Or reading punks their rights. Like now.” His own gun still holstered, Wheeler ambled over toward one of the cuffed men a uniform had leaning against his squad car. “Hey, Gusto. Good to see you again. You know the drill, right? You got the right to shut up and all that. Or you can tell me what you’ve got in that truck of yours and maybe we can make a deal.” Sonny stuffed his SIG back in his shoulder holster, glad it was dark so the uniforms couldn’t see the red on his cheeks. Coming over from Robbery, he’d imagined Vice was going to be all running and gunning, especially when you were going after dealers. But he was learning just how routine it could be…and what he’d have to do if he wanted to see action. He heard Wheeler laugh again and then his partner walked back to their car. “I’ve busted Gusto a couple of times,” he explained. “He’s a low-level driver and all-around hauler of other peoples’ goods. But those are the guys you need to get to the next link in the chain. Like tonight. He says he got a call to pick up a load of grass. Couple hundred pounds he says. A boat had already dropped the goods and gone, and the third guy was their guard.” He rubbed his chin. “Means the load is already bought and paid for.” “So we got all geared up for a pot bust?” “That’s the thing, Sonny. My CI only said a load was coming in tonight. Didn’t say what because he didn’t know what. We rolled the dice and came up lower than we hoped. But it wasn’t a dry hole, so that means my CI’s info was good.” “Yeah, yeah. Vice 101. Again.” Sonny shook his head as he tapped a Lucky Strike out of the pack and lit it with his battered Ronson lighter. “At least you get to explain it to Lou.” “Rodriguez will understand. He’s been in the game a long time, Sonny. And not too long back a couple of hundred pounds of pot would have been a first-class bust.” Wheeler turned away, and Sonny guessed he was looking out over the water. “But things change.” “Yeah.” Sonny took a deep drag on the cigarette, not wanting to think about the last pot bust he’d been on. He’d been deep enough in thought Wheeler’s voice almost made him jump. “You hear back on that SWAT guy you decked?” “Slap on the wrist. IA called it a clean shoot.” Sonny closed his eyes, trying to forget the image of the bullet hitting Jimmie McStatten. And the grin on the SWAT guy’s face just before Sonny broke his nose. “Not sure how the hell blowing away an unarmed man counts as clean, but…” “I heard he was one of those whacked-out vets.” “Just drop it, Scotty.” Sonny didn’t want to talk about it. He’d done his best to push it all deep down. “All I know is if I run into that asshole again, he’s getting another broken nose.” At least. Wheeler started to say something, then stopped. “Sorry, partner. I forgot you were in Nam, too. I should have been on that bust with you, but Lou wanted you to work an interagency on your own.” “Whatever. If we’re done here, let’s blow this pop stand.” He took a final drag on the cigarette before flicking it away, watching it spin like a tumbling firefly before landing somewhere down the gravel road. They rode in silence for a time, and then Wheeler started talking. Mostly about the case. “Gusto’s good for transportation information only, and even then only what he does. Stays in his lane and doesn’t cause problems, so people keep coming back to him. He’ll probably get sprung in the morning because he’ll say someone only hired his truck and he had no idea what they were loading on it. All bullshit, of course, but he sings a good tune in court and having him on the street works in our favor.” “Cause he’s a known face you can follow.” Sonny was still looking out the window at the passing darkness. Soon enough they’d be back in Miami proper. “That’s right, Sonny. The more faces you know, the more connections you can make.” “I get that, Scotty. But Lou’s been chewing our asses about the amount of cocaine that’s starting to come in again…” “That’s because the bosses are chewing his ass.” Wheeler kept his eyes focused on the road. “Look, the thing is Gusto’s good at what he does, which means bigger fish are going to start wanting his services. Coke is higher risk, but higher reward. In the time I’ve been busting him, Gusto’s moved from Cuban cigars to weed, and then bigger quantities of weed. The next jump…” “Bolivian marching powder.” Sonny nodded. He could see the sense in it, but it felt too slow to him. Why not put an undercover in to force the pace? A buyer to push this Gusto punk into making bigger moves? But he held his peace. He knew Wheeler was from the ‘slow and steady’ school of policing. And his friend made big busts. No question there. Wheeler seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Yeah, we could put someone in play to push ol’ Gusto along, but then we risk burning a source who could be useful down the line. That and he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He does something wrong, the bigger fish screams entrapment and walks. Seen it happen before, Sonny. These guys can afford big lawyers. You want to take ‘em down, you need to wrap them up tight. It’s not like the speed cooks out in the swamps.” “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Sonny reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out the Luckies. The flare of his lighter outlined the sharp lines of his chin and nose. “Still adjusting, I guess. Over in Robbery, when you got a line on a home invasion crew you rolled. And if you could push ‘em out in the open with a fake score, you jumped on it. That was John Malone’s style. This is…” “A different game. And I want you to be ready to step into it the exact second I transfer out.” Wheeler’s laugh filled the car. “Watch an’ learn, Sonny. Soon enough I’ll be DEA and you can run an’ gun all you want. And deal with Momma Lou.” A light glowed dim in the living room of the Crockett home when the car rolled to a stop in front. Sonny took a last drag on his cigarette and sighed. “Looks like I’m in the dog house. Again.” “You want me to…” “Naw. No reason for her to be mad at you, too.” “The guys we chase don’t punch a time clock, Sonny.” Wheeler put the big car in Drive and gave him a wink. “Just duck when you go through the door.” “Yeah, yeah.” Sonny forced a smile as he slammed the passenger side door and Wheeler rolled off into the night. Funny…his wife gets it and Caroline never does. We pulled odd shifts in Robbery, too, and I told her this wouldn’t be any different. He was halfway up the walk when the door opened. “The least you could have done was called.” Her voice was low, pitched so he could hear and not the neighbors. Caroline was always big on appearances. “I know, but this was a last-minute thing. When Scotty told me we were out of the office and…” “I thought this was going to be different.” He bit back his words until they were inside and the door was closed. “Caroline, I never said that. In fact, I told you this would be worse than Robbery. But Vice is the biggest league there is. I…” “You should have been here to tuck your son into bed, Sonny. Not out there doing God knows what with God knows who.” “If you mean sitting in a Ford with Scotty Wheeler, who wears too much cologne, then yeah, I would rather have been here.” He stopped, knowing he was about to go too far. “But it’s the Job, Caroline. And Scotty’s just trying to teach me everything he can before he moves over to the DEA. You know that. He’s the best, and I can learn from him just like I learned from John.” “And what can either of them teach you about us?” She stared at him for a time, then turned. “I’m going to bed. You’d better take the couch.” Sonny stared at her back for a long moment. “Sure.” Then the bedroom door closed and he was alone with the single side table light and his thoughts. He started to curse, then thought better of it. Billy could be a light sleeper, and the last thing the kid needed was to see this. With a long sigh he flopped down on the couch, stretching out as best he could. Morning would come soon enough, and he wanted to be out of the house before Caroline or Billy were up. “You’re sure they didn’t see you?” Miguel Mendoza looked up from his morning coffee. “Si, jefe. They were too busy busting Gusto’s load to notice us.” Jaime sat down uninvited and reached for coffee. “Gusto never was good at security once the cargo was ashore.” Miguel started to snap, then pulled back. Better to let it go for now. But as soon as I no longer need him… He caught Esteban’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. “Who was he carrying for?” “No idea. Gusto ain’t too picky about loads. He doesn’t need to be, though. All he does is the dirt-side stuff.” Jaime laughed. “Toss it in that damned pickup of his and go. Not like us, eh?” “But don’t forget, Jaime, not all that long ago you were just like him. It’s always good to remember where you came from.” “Yeah.” Jaime’s smile faded as the threat sank in. “Look, jefe, I get it. I don’t know how the cops got onto Gusto’s operation. If I had to guess, it would be through those Dominicans he was working with. They smoke too much of their own product an’ don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. And I already got rid of what I brought, so you got no worries there, either.” Miguel nodded, then looked at his watch. It was still early, but the small café would start filling soon enough. “I have a meeting soon, Jaime. Why don’t you go check the boat? The engine sounded like it was running rich last night.” “Still you have a good ear! It is, and I need to see to it before the next trip.” Jaime finished his coffee in two messy swallows and left the table. Once he was gone, Esteban sat down and shook his head. “That one is trouble.” “I know. But for now we need him. Maybe not for much longer, though.” “Did you need me here?” “No. Better if Enrique doesn’t see you. He’s my brother, but he also talks too much. No need for him to know about you or your work. Not yet, at least.” “Of course.” One of Esteban’s great gifts was his ability to disappear into a crowd. Within moments he had faded away, but Miguel knew he was close by if anything went wrong. In truth he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. Enrique, or Ricky as he liked to be called, was brash, cocky, and always moving at full speed. But if the business was to expand, he’d need to bring Ricky in. The kid was good with anything with an engine, and had the nerves to run a boat right under the noses of the Coast Guard without batting an eye. But he also had big dreams, and didn’t always know when to control them. “Miguel!” The familiar voice cut through the growing noise of the café. “Brother! It’s been too long.” “Don’t be so dramatic, Ricky. It’s been a week. Maybe a day more.” Still, Miguel smiled as he waved the shorter Mendoza to an open chair. It was hard not to smile at his enthusiasm sometimes. “And it wouldn’t have been so long if you hadn’t have insisted on running that race.” “How could I not? There’s something about taking one of those Cigarette boats through the Keys that sends a man’s heart pumping.” Ricky poured himself coffee from the press and took a drink. “But this tastes a damned sight better than a mouthful of salt water. You can be sure of that.” They talked for a few minutes, mostly about the race and the women Ricky chased any time he stopped racing. Then the younger Mendoza leaned back in his chair and fixed Miguel with a knowing stare. “But you didn’t ask me here for my fuck stories, even though they are superb. What’s going on, Miguel?” “We may have an opportunity. With the business.” Lowering his voice, Miguel told Ricky what he’d learned from Jaime. “It would be a big step up for us, but I’d rather it be made by family and not…” “Obnoxious hired help.” Ricky grinned and helped himself to more coffee. “I understand, my brother. Jaime is good with boats, but his brains leave something to be desired. And he’s not as good with boats as I am.” “My point exactly. Look, I want you to go with him on a couple of runs. Learn what he knows, and maybe make friends with his friends.” “The cigar people?” Miguel sat silent for a time, letting the thought roll in his head. “No,” he said finally. “The other ones. I’ve seen the money some of those monkeys are making, and it’s time the Mendoza family claimed its rightful share.” “You mean cocaine?” Ricky kept his voice down, something Miguel knew took a great deal of will for the younger man. “Yes. There is more risk, but the rewards are much greater. And no one knows as many ways from the islands into Miami as our family.” “That’s no shit. Cousin Jesus has forgotten more ways in than those monkeys will ever know…” “We must speak with him, too. Have him plan some routes for us.” Miguel smiled inside, but kept his face plain. “I leave that to you. You both speak the same language…that of boats and the sea. Me? I have…” “You have other interests. Like running the business and keeping us on course.” Ricky flashed another grin. “But I have heard things about this trade. Especially the Columbians. They are very protective of their product, and quick to lash out if someone tries to cut in.” “But we won’t be. We will provide a service they lack…the ability to get into Miami without leaving a trace.” And later we will take our share of their trade as well, but why be greedy at first? “They aren’t good at that.” He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I’ll set up a meeting for you with Jaime.” Sonny Crockett’s hair was still damp from the locker room shower, but at least he wasn’t late for the morning briefing. He slipped in just before Lieutenant Rodriguez came out of his office, shooting Wheeler a wry grin and nodding when his partner mouthed ‘banished to the couch?’ in his direction. Rolling his shoulders to loosen a kink in his neck, Sonny opened his notebook and waited for the show to start. Lou Rodriguez took his time puffing a stumpy cigar to life before settling in at his spot at the head of the conference room table. He peered around through the cloud of smoke. “Any word on that bust last night, Wheeler? Or are you making Crockett read all your reports now?” “Not yet, Lou. We’re still working on his reading.” Sonny forced a chuckle. “Very funny, Scotty. Very funny.” “Anyhow, we rolled up Gusto and a couple of other meatheads who were moving about two hundred pounds of Jamaican reefer from a boat shed into Gusto’s ride. We think a boat dropped it off about an hour before that, and left one guy behind to keep an eye on things.” Wheeler grinned. “The one guy, incidentally, who isn’t talking.” “Doesn’t sound like much. Especially when I compare it to the sales job you put on to get the resources…” “I know, lieutenant. Look, Gusto isn’t always one hundred percent reliable. Or maybe he didn’t know exactly what the load was going to be. But it’s still two hundred pounds of weed that won’t hit the street. I promise I’ll do better before my transfer goes through.” “See that you do. I don’t want you holding onto some big bust just to impress your new friends.” Lou smiled just enough to show he was kind of joking, but Sonny got the message. They went around the room, each team giving an update on their case of the moment. He didn’t pay much attention to the squad’s two tech guys…Stanley Switek and Larry Zito. They were working some kind of pawn shop sting or another, but they tended to make him nervous. Might be good enough beat cops, but I just don’t know about ‘em here. The other two detectives, Gina Calabrese and Trudy Joplin, were gathering intelligence on a new pimp, and they were still wearing their ‘working’ clothes. He gave them both admiring glances in spite of himself. Especially Gina. Something about Gina had always tugged at him…starting with her resemblance to his high school girlfriend Barbara. She was, as his uncle used to say, ‘full in all the right places’ and always had a smile for him. Even when he was a rookie fresh in from Robbery four years ago and no one else would give him the time of day. He knew he was heading into dangerous waters, but with Caroline being the way she was… “Crockett, you and Scotty hang back. The rest of you, thanks for your time.” Lou’s voice cut through his daydream and he wondered what he’d missed or done wrong this time. “It was my plan, Lou. Not his. If anything…” Rodriguez held up his hand. “It’s not about your little reefer collection, Scotty. It’s about Crockett needing his own cover now. With you defecting to the Feds, he’s going to have to operate on his own until we get another detective in here. And even then, he’ll need to be in a position to take the lead on cases.” Sonny nodded. “I’m all ears, lieutenant.” “We’ll see. I read your file…it says you’re good with boats.” “Yeah. Grew up on the water, and both my dad and uncles were into boats. I can handle most things, sailboats to those airboats and anything in-between.” “Good, because you’re about to become a boat guy. You both remember the Leone bust a couple of months back? Well, property finally cleared the watercraft. You already have that fancy car, Sonny, and now you’ll be able to complete the look.” The smile on Lou’s face was just this side of sarcastic, and Sonny bit back the reply forming on his lips. “The drug trade’s changing, and we have to keep up. You’ll have a sailboat at the marina, and one of those Stinger boats to go with it.” “A boat guy of questionable means. I like it.” “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You’ll need a name.” “Best to stick with your actual first name if you can.” Wheeler rested his elbows on the table. “Makes it easier to react if someone shouts at you. And it helps if the last name’s close as well.” Sonny nodded. He’d heard Wheeler’s ‘Ten Top Tips for Undercover Work’ speech before, the first time less than five minutes after they’d been officially made partners. But it made sense. “We don’t have all day, Crockett.” He started to speak, then a name popped into his head. One he hadn’t heard in years, but was close enough to his own last name he knew it would work. “Burnett,” he said without hesitation. “That’s B-U-R-N-E-double T. Almost the same as Crockett.” “I like it.” Wheeler nodded, winking in Lou’s direction. “Well in spite of that, I’ll take it.” Lou got to his feet, sending a final cloud of cigar smoke into the air. “You’ll have a fully backstopped cover for Sonny Burnett by the end of the day. I expect you to have something set up at the marina by the end of the week. And the sailboat? It’s a 42 foot Endeavour named The St. Vitus’ Dance. Don’t ask me why. And no, you can’t change the name.” Sonny kept staring at Lou’s back until the lieutenant was out of the room. Then he turned to Wheeler. “How the hell am I gonna… She was mad enough last night when I was late. A cover like this is gonna send her right through the roof.” “You want to stay in Vice, Sonny, it’s what you have to do. There was one case just before you joined the unit, I got stuck in an apartment down by Little Haiti for almost a month. Locals took to calling me Saltine…you know, cracker.” Wheeler chuckled. “Got a good bust out of it, though. They had a tight little numbers racket going on down there.” “Yeah.” Sonny looked out the widow at the squad room, his gaze lingering on Gina for a moment before moving on. “Guess I’d better put my flack jacket on and go break the news.” Wheeler got to his feet. “Let me come with you. It might make it easier for her to understand if I’m with you. I can at least tell her how it works and why it has to be done. And it’s a good cover. Dealers aren’t gonna shoot the people who move their product, so it’s safer than sending you in posing as a buyer.” “Every little bit helps, man. Funny thing is, I thought she understood all this.” Sonny slipped on his sunglasses as they walked through the squad room. Hell, why lie? She doesn’t understand any of it. And doesn’t want to. She had her way, I’d be selling cars with her brother and blowing my brains out after two weeks.

I actually finished Genesis somewhat out of order, so I sat on the chapters and just posted the finished product all at once. Well, I learned a few things from Genesis. Like all my Vice projects, this was something of an extended writing exercise. My first big takeaway? Don’t re-read Don Winslow’s Cartel trilogy before starting something like this. I had to continually fight the urge to sprawl and introduce new angles and characters to the narrative. Second, integrating the series into an extended novel is hard. Vice played very loose with time (as we know), both in terms of what happened during a season as well as what happened during an episode. Try putting that stuff on a timeline and see where you get! In the end I had to reshuffle episodes within seasons (but I never jumped an episode to a different season…although I was tempted at times) and decide which ones to mention and which ones to omit. And then I had to work what was going on with both OCB AND the Mendoza brothers around those events. Oh, and I also had to factor in my own stories as well. It got kind of hectic at times, and I’m sure I dropped the ball a time or two during the whole thing. Genesis covers exactly eight years, staring in April-May 1982 and ending in April-May 1990 (and that was totally unplanned…it was just how the narrative unfolded). We start with Sonny and Scotty Wheeler working as partners for Lieutenant Rodriguez and end with Pete and Castillo discussing the start of the Task Force. The word count for this one is a bit under 175,000, which is longer than anything I’ve done here (the previous record holder was No Good Deed if you’re keeping track). On the whole the thing divides more or less neatly (sometimes more, sometimes less) into four chapters or so per “era” of Vice. But that’s a rough division. Seasons 2 and 3 are heavily-represented, while Season 1 (and prior) aren’t as much and I also jumped through most of Season 5. Part of that had to do with where the two narratives were intersecting: the Mendozas were just starting out during Season 1, and Vice was focused on people like Calderone as well. As Vice’s narrative flow started to fragment, it was easier to work in the Mendozas from time to time, or fade OCB out as they chased off after some new master criminal leaving the field clear for the brothers to do their thing. I had to make a few choices with this one, and one of those was how to develop Tiffy and Holly. In the end I went the Vice route, making them more background than actual characters, Not my first choice, but I also had to consider just how many characters I wanted to confuse everyone with. And if you look at it, Vice tended to treat many female characters as secondary or even window dressing (there are, of course, major exceptions to this). That’s not my normal preference, but it was a writing choice I had to make. Holly in particular has potential as a deep character. How did it turn out? As an exercise it was great. Most of my writing covers at most a couple of months, and spanning eight years was an eye-opener in terms of the kind of stuff you have to do to make that work. Or did I make it work? Only the readers can really answer that. I know this is a different Vice novel compared to my other stuff.

“I see.” Miguel’s knuckles went white on the phone receiver as he listened to his lawyer’s high-pitched whining. “And it wasn’t local people?” Without another word he slammed down the phone before picking it up again and dialing a number. His plans for the day turned to ash in his mouth, but Enrique needed to hear it from him. “So they arrested them both?” Miguel winced at the bite in Enrique’s voice. “Yes. I’m afraid so. They were at Joe’s Crab Shack when the arrest went down. I’m told it wasn’t Metro-Dade, though. It was U.S. Marshals.” “What is this, freakin’ Dodge City?” Miguel had to smile at the reference to Gunsmoke, a show they’d watched often as children. “These days I don’t know. Maybe it is. But both Holly and Tiffy are in custody. Our lawyer said he hasn’t heard from either of them yet, so we don’t know what the charges are.” “So what do we do?” “We relocate. To the house in the Bahamas. We need time and space to consider our next moves.” “What about the girls?” “They’ll get bail. I’m sure of that. Neither of them have done anything that would warrant holding them. And we have the resources to make bail for them no matter the amount. And then we bring them to us.” There was a long pause. He could sense Enrique slipping away from him. And then his brother’s voice came back. “You know I was going to meet them for lunch. If I hadn’t have stopped here I would have been arrested with them. What do you need me to do?” “Get here with that boat of yours. The big, fast one.” He thought back to Esteban. He’d feel much better if he had the big Cuban with him, but he knew it just wasn’t in the cards. Whatever Federal warrant they’d cooked up for him was airtight. But Lupe was almost as good. “I’ll have security with me. We’ll be safe if we move quickly.” “Quickly is what this boat does, bother. You can count on that.” There’s something in his voice. I don’t like it. “Are you ok?” “Just tired.” Enrique’s voice was thin, drawn out like it was coming from a great distance. “I’ve been tired ever since Pasqual, you know. Anyhow, I’d better get moving.” There was a click, and the dial tone filled Miguel’s ear. It’s all falling in. Every piece of it. Enrique jammed the throttles wide open, hearing and feeling the big boat surge forward under his feet. He’d always wondered just how fast she could go, and this seemed like the perfect time to find out. He knew Miguel was waiting for him at the main boathouse. But he also knew he wasn’t going to make the meeting. How had it all gone so damned wrong? He couldn’t answer the question, not even for himself. Maybe it was Pasqual…not seeing the signs of his friend’s disappointment and betrayal. Or maybe it was before that, going all the way back to Jaime. He thought about Miguel’s ambition, but dismissed the thought. Miguel had never been particularly ambitious in that sense. He just wanted to secure the family name. Restore it to its rightful place. And they had. Until now. The wind whipped at his hair, ripping his sunglasses from his face. Turning, he imagined he could see Pasqual sitting next to him, his face twisted in the demented grin he always had when they opened a boat up all the way. Rationally he knew Pasqual wasn’t there…he’d blown the man’s head off after all. But the mind has its own ways of playing tricks. “We almost had it,” he shouted over the roar of the engines. “If you’d just played it straight, Pasqual, we would have had it all.” His mind flashed back to an image of Tiffy handcuffed and being stuffed into the back seat of a Metro-Dade patrol car. If he hadn’t stopped to piss they would have cuffed him, too. But handcuffs meant jail, and Enrique was never going to jail. No way, no how. The boat jumped over a swell, and for a moment he forgot where he was. And when he was. He was back on the race circuit, pushing his boat along the latest course. In the lead, of course. He’d always been in the lead in those days. Blasting through the waves during the day and having his pick of ladies at night. Until he met Tiffy and that changed. And then he started running cigars, and the races pretty much stopped. Dodging the Coast Guard and other smugglers was way more exciting than racing. Something squawked in the distance, and he knew the Coast Guard helicopter must have spotted his wake. It would be hard to miss, after all. A go-fast doing over sixty knots left a hell of a plume in the water. He couldn’t make out what they were saying over the loudspeaker, but he knew the drill. They were likely trying to vector cutters on intercept courses, assuming he was running for open water, and hoped he’d slow down to listen to them. His face twisted into something close to a smile. They had no idea he wasn’t running. Or slowing down. He could feel Pasqual over there now. Checking the radar like he always did when he was riding the second seat. Looking down, he saw the needles inching closer to red. I’ve never had her this fast before. The thought formed and was swept away by the salt-tanged air blasting around the low windshield. The engines roared, thundering their song in his ears. “We got this, Pasqual!” he shouted at nothing. “We fucking got this, man! Nothing but ocean, baby!” Looking over, he saw his friend grin and nod. It was time. Things had to end, but he wanted the ending on his own terms. Not his brother’s. And least of all not the one the people in the helicopter wanted. The go-fast was doing almost seventy knots when Enrique Mendoza cranked the wheel all the way to the right. The boat heeled over, the bow coming down hard and catching water, and then cartwheeled across the open sea, tearing itself apart with each tumbling impact. The helicopter crew could only watch and call in coordinates as fuel started to explode. They found bits of Enrique’s body scattered over a good half-mile of water once the search teams got on scene, at least what the fire didn’t claim and fish didn’t eat. Three weeks later it was declared an accident, possibly caused by a mechanical failure in the steering system. He should have been here by now. Miguel Mendoza looked at his watch again, trying to keep any irritation from showing on his face. First Esteban disappeared, likely arrested by some Federal agency if his South Beach patrol contact was to be believed, and now Enrique not showing up on time. If they were going to make it to the Bahamas free and clear, things needed to go according to plan. And so far nothing had gone according to plan. He stopped pacing and turned to Lupe. “Any word from Enrique?” “No, jefe. My people last saw him pulling out in that black boat he favors. That was over half an hour ago. They did say a helicopter flew over the boat house a couple of minutes after Ricky left. It might have been the Coast Guard.” “Check with them. Now.” Nodding, Lupe turned and hurried to the phone. He spoke for a couple of minutes, then hung up and came back. “They said it was Coast Guard. They can see smoke out on the ocean, and they’re getting ready to pull out. Franco says the bird is coming back, and he’s afraid they’re going to be raided.” Miguel nodded, his brain trying to process the news of smoke. Something told him Enrique was dead, likely by his own hand. It’s my fault. I should have been the one to finish Pasqual, not him. He doesn’t…didn’t…have the stones for it. There’s no shame in that, but he wouldn’t see it that way. My proud, foolish brother. Then he started thinking. If they’d hit Enrique’s location there was a damned good chance they knew all of his properties. Including this boat house. He’d never really dealt with the Marshal’s Service before, but he knew they had a reputation for being thorough. And the senior deputy in charge of the Miami office had an equally ferocious reputation for never letting go once he got his teeth into a case. And that could mean only one thing. The boats they had here weren’t his best, but they’d have to do. At least he knew the pilots were the best, and Lupe’s men would deal with anything that came their way. “Get the men moving! We need to go now!” Looking around, he saw the useless piece of flesh Enrique had promoted to replace Pasqual bolt for the door. Fucking coward. I’ll kill him myself. He started to turn when a crackling PA system cut through his thoughts like a razor through tissue. From where he stood, Martin Castillo could see the tactical team from the Marshal’s Service moving into position. Big men with black flack jackets and jeans armed with a mix of shotguns and sub machine-guns, they looked to know every inch of their job and moved with the casual ease of men who’d done this before. When they hit the boathouse it would be over. The arrest of the women had gone according to plan. From the bustle along the docks he could tell Miguel had heard about it, and likely he guessed Morales was in custody, too. At this distance it looked like an ant hill kicked by a child, but he knew there was purpose behind the movements. And he also knew it was time. Standing next to him, Pete Washington grinned and raised his radio. “Ok, boys. Execute.” The flat boom of flash-bang grenades competed with a buzzing PA system in terms of total, overwhelming noise. “U.S. Marshals! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!” A handful of popping shots from the far side of the building told him this wouldn’t end quietly, followed by the boom of a shotgun wielded by the first deputy through the side door. “Well, let’s get our sorry asses down there.” Pete pulled an older .45 out of his hip holster and worked the slide. “Let the boys know we mean business.” Even without Esteban Morales the Cubans were putting up a fight. Loyal to the last he thought as they moved toward the building. The shots came in quick clusters now, marking progress as the deputies cleared one room after another. He could hear them talking in his lone earpiece. So far it sounded like only the boat crews were surrendering. Then Switek came on the air. “We just stopped a car at the roadblock, lieutenant. Looks like Pasqual’s replacement and a back seat full of party favors.” “The one rat in the ship.” Castillo looked over at Pete when they reached the initial breach point. “Cason’s hit! Looks like there are four or five of ‘em holed up at the far end of the structure.” Pete shook his head. “Sounds like we found Miguel.” Then he keyed his mic. “Assume containment positions. Get the wounded out of there. You know the drill, people.” Castillo turned his head to look at the marshal. “So we wait for negotiators?” “Hell no. Those bastards shot one of my boys. But it don’t hurt to let them think we’re waiting for the handholders with bullhorns.” Pete raised a hand. “Now I ain’t against those people when it has a chance of working. But do you think we’d be able to talk Esteban’s boys out?” “No. They’re trained and determined. Once they have their orders, they carry them through. It’s how they were trained.” “Exactly.” Pete keyed his radio again. “I want Team One in an overwatch position. They have a green light if anyone armed sticks their damned head up.” Snipers. Castillo thought back to the two men he’d seen getting out of the flat black van. They’d kept apart from the rest of the warrant team, and he remembered seeing one with a long rifle case. Pete seemed to read his mind. “I’ve got two former Marines in my office. Scout-snipers from Vietnam. Kinda my secret weapon for situations like this.” A new voice came on the radio. Low and full of backwoods from someplace out West. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Castillo couldn’t place it. “Team One in position, boss. Confirm green light.” “You’re confirmed, Team One. But if the main target sticks his head out, shoot to wound, ok?” A dry chuckle filled Castillo’s ear, and then the channel went dead. I know I’ve heard that laugh before. But where? And when? A quick crackle of automatic weapons fire erupted from the far end of the boathouse, punctuated by the single boom of a high-powered rifle. Castillo turned to look at Pete, who was watching the action intently. “Let’s move up a bit,” the senior marshal said without taking his eyes off what was going on. “Angle toward the far side over there. When ol’ Miguel runs, he’s gonna go that way.” The rifle boomed again, then a third time. The chatter on the radio started to change, tracking the evacuation of the wounded deputy and the team’s positioning for a final assault. Castillo nodded at their communications discipline. A fourth shot boomed out, and then the Western drawl came on the radio again. “No more shooters.” “You heard ‘em, boys. Move in and sweep up this mess.” Pete turned to Castillo with an impish grin. “Let’s go see what’s left.” “Team One has the primary target. Movin’ toward the gap you left.” Castillo checked his big Model 29. “I want him.” “You got him.” Pete keyed the mic. “All deputies. Lieutenant Castillo is comin’ down to get the primary target. Don’t let him break the perimeter.” Castillo moved through the boathouse like a ghost, dodging scattered boat engine parts and stepping around the occasional pool of blood. In less than a minute he was at the far corner, moving through the side door and into the open space between the structure and a narrow dock running out into the water. He could see a slender man standing about ten feet down the dock, looking in both directions and seeing only squad cars and sunglasses. Sunlight glinted off a pistol in his right hand. “Drop the weapon!” Even as he said the words, Castillo knew they were pointless. Miguel Mendoza simply wasn’t that kind of man. “And why would I do that, lieutenant?” “It’s over, Miguel. We have Esteban Morales. Enrique is dead. Holly Miller is under arrest for money laundering charges along with Tiffy Franklin. Your men are either dead or in custody. There’s nothing left.” “Oh, but you’re wrong, lieutenant. The most important thing is left.” He watched Miguel turn, and saw the big Government .45 in his hand. “That’s your grandfather’s pistol.” It wasn’t a question. “Yes. It has some history, you know. Just like our family does. And that’s what’s left. The family name. It was never about the money. Not really.” The Smith & Wesson Model 29 was heavy in his hands, but Castillo didn’t let the big revolver shift even a fraction of an inch. “That pistol betrayed you. The FBI had bullets from an unsolved murder in the 1920s. It connected that weapon to Jaime, the Haitian, Cristobal Santos, and the others you killed. It got us one of the warrants.” “I see. Still, I can’t just give up. Mendozas are fighters, you know.” A thin smile played across his narrow face. “We always have been.” “I understand.” “Yes, expect you do.” There was a pause. “You’re Cuban, right? You and Esteban are quite similar. Creatures of duty to the very end. And driven by honor. Your honor, not something someone gave to you or forced on you. So you do understand.” “Drop the weapon!” “I just can’t do that.” Miguel smiled again and stared raising the Colt. Castillo’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn’t pull until the big auto-loader was almost at shoulder level. The Magnum boomed, and the impact of the big hollow point spun Miguel to the side and left his right shoulder a mess of torn flesh and bone. Grunting, he reached down and snatched up the Colt with his left hand. He got off one shot before Castillo put the second round in the center of his chest. “He didn’t give you a damned choice.” Pete stepped up and looked down at the body. “Hell of a thing, but I get where he’s comin’ from.” “The family name.” Castillo let the big pistol fall to his side, smoke trailing from the long barrel. “He built it back up, and decided he wasn’t going to tear it down by surrendering.” “Yeah. Legacy and all that shit.” Pete stuffed his own pistol into his holster. “One brother scatters his shit over a half-mile of water, and the other pulls ‘suicide by cop.’ All for some damned legacy. A legacy no one’s gonna remember in two weeks. Maybe less by the time we shut down their damned uncle and his charter fleet.” He clapped Castillo on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here and let the bosses gloat about their damned victory.” Castillo nodded, still staring down at the torn body. “No one won here.” “No one ever does, Marty. We just go on doin’ our job.” “Yes.” He nodded. Of all the Federal officers he’d worked with, Pete Washington was one of the few who truly understood the Job. “And they’ll be happy there isn’t going to be a trial. The brothers knew where quite a few bodies were buried. Lots of politicians and a few cops wouldn’t have survived the dog and pony show.” They were almost to the end of the dock when the unmarked car pulled up. Castillo didn’t know the man who opened the front passenger door, but he recognized the type. Plainclothes guard for a bigger fish. It was confirmed when the man practically bounded to the back door and opened it for one of the deputy chiefs. Carstairs. A pasty man with the look of a central casting undertaker, he’d made his name in Internal Affairs before spending a couple of months in Homicide and then jumping into a deputy chief spot. As far as Castillo knew the man had never worked an actual case in his life. “Castillo.” Carstairs’ voice was deeper than his thin frame suggested, and he wore dark glasses against the glare of the afternoon sun. He nodded in Pete’s direction. “This one of your detectives?” “Try Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Pete Washington.” The ‘jackass’ tacked on the end of the sentence was unspoken, but you could hear it in Pete’s slow Cracker sheriff drawl as he shifted to reveal the simple U.S. Marshal star clipped to his belt. “Head of the Miami field office. Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doin’ cluttering up my incident scene?” Castillo smothered a grin as Carstairs flinched. “So, should I assume this is a Federal case, then?” “Assume whatever the hell makes you happy, chief. Just stay out of the way and let my people do their jobs.” He waved toward the entry team, still wearing their black assault vests as they led a short line of handcuffed men toward a waiting van. “I expect you’ll get those boys in a couple of hours or so. We just want to run ‘em for Federal warrants. Same for the prick Castillo’s guy grabbed at the roadblock.” “And Miguel Mendoza?” “Dead.” Castillo looked down the dock. “He refused to surrender, and continued to resist after being wounded. He’s down there if you’d like to see for yourself.” “So you just gunned him down. Is that it?” Pete chuckled. “No. He ordered the man to surrender, He refused to obey a lawful command and continued to brandish his weapon. The lieutenant gave a second lawful command, which was ignored. Then he shot, but only to wound. The suspect retrieved his weapon with his uninjured, non-dominant arm and fired at least once before the lieutenant fired a second time. I’d say it was a clean shoot.” Carstairs stood slack-jawed at the sudden change in Pete’s voice and demeanor. “So he’s dead?” “Yep. Afraid you don’t get your perp walk photo op this time, chief. Better luck next time.” Castillo had turned away before Carstairs spoke. He wanted to get back to his team. Or what was left of his team. He could see Switek up near the road, bringing the Bug Van down to pick up the others. Trudy and Gina, he knew, were up by the road as well, manning the second containment point in case anyone tried running south while Switek watched the north. As if anticipating him, the radio crackled. “Lieutenant? You want us to come in?” “Yes.” He recognized Trudy’s voice even with the static. “Switek will pick you up. We’ll let the marshals wrap things up here.” Then he turned back to Carstairs. “My team will be at OCB if you need us. As the Chief Deputy said, this is their scene. We’d just be in the way.” Two Weeks Later - May 1990 “Hell of a view, ain’t it?” Martin Castillo nodded as he took off his sunglasses. They were on the tenth floor of one of the newer skyscrapers popping up across Miami, standing in one of the suite’s offices looking back out over the glittering city. “Is this seized property?” Pete Washington laughed as he shook his head. “Naw, but it sure could be. But I’ve got something else in mind for it. Look, you said your unit was running light, right?” “Yes.” He thought back to the pressure he’d gotten from the chief’s office on down to replace Crockett and Tubbs. Calabrese, too. Some days light, others unrelenting. But never going away, especially since they’d broken up the Mendoza cartel. “No one’s been a good fit.” “Oh, I get that. But look. You got good folks now. An’ I need someone who knows the lay of the land. My people are damned good at their jobs. Best in the business, if I can brag on ‘em.” Castillo nodded. And he didn’t think Pete was bragging. His marshals were some of the best Castillo had ever seen. “But they need local help. Guys and girls who know who the bad guys are. And we need a new way to fight these bastards.” Pete took a step closer to the window, looking down. “Those bastards down there don’t play by the rules. So we need to rewrite the book.” There was another pause. “I’ll lay it out for you, Marty. I got approval from DC for something they’re calling a joint task force. For us it’s just the Task Force. I sold the damned thing as cooperation between my office and elements of Metro-Dade, but at the end of the day it means your people get help from my people, Federal badges and top cover, and we get to run operations our way.” “I see.” And he did…as far as it went. Castillo had worked with Feds before. Had been a Fed before. There was always a catch. That moment when the music stopped and you were left standing alone in the room. “I know what you’re thinkin’, hoss. Hell, I’d be thinkin’ the same thing.” Pete grinned, slipping into his Cracker sheriff act with practiced ease. “You’re thinkin’ this smooth-talking Fed is gonna get what he wants and leave me standing with my pecker in my hand at the end of it.” Castillo had to smile. “Something like that.” “Well, I’ll be standin’ there with you, then. My name’s on this one all the way. But here’s the thing: you report to me, I report to DC, and we work directly with the AUSA on cases. Cases WE say yes or no to. We ain’t gettin’ stuff the FBI doesn’t want. And no hooker dragnets from the mayor. No sir. Not on my damned watch. We pick our cases, or develop them if we find something. And then we follow them to the Goddamned end.” He grinned. “That was another part of the sales pitch. Corruption. You an’ I both know these bastards can buy damned near anything they want.” “Except us.” Pete clapped his hands and pointed at Castillo. “Exactly. You got a rep in DC, Marty. So do I. Pains in the ass, but honest as the year is long.” There was a pause again. “You pick your team. I’ll send you some people, but if you don’t like ‘em you can send ‘em back. No harm, no foul. The Task Force is gonna be small and fast. I know your one girl’s happy where she is, and that’s good. But I got one question. You think you can get those two cowboys you had back?” “Yes.” There was no hesitation. “For a unit like this, yes.” “Good. I can pull some strings with your brass. Or more to the point, the AUSA can.” Pete laughed again. “And you can bet those old boys ain’t gonna argue if the hand of the Government God comes in and smacks ‘em around a bit. Hell, some of ‘em might actually like it.” Castillo nodded, letting the idea work its way through his head. He’d lost track of the number of times his teams had been forced to stand down. And not just in Miami. Laos thrust itself into his thoughts, blocking out everything else. It had started there, high in the mountains when some CIA officers had been protecting heroin moving along the trails ambushed by his team. He’d hit them when he could, but in the end all it had done was get his team killed. “Regrets? I got a few of those myself. Hell, I got a whole closet full of ‘em. Keeps me up some nights until I remember what’s done is done. Life ain’t got no rewind. But it does have a sneaky-ass fast forward. Kicks in when you spend too much time lookin’ back.” He felt his face twitch into a smile. “So you propose to look forward.” “Yeah. We’re both long in the tooth for this game, Marty. Been doin’ it a few years too many, maybe. I don’t pretend to know. But I do know what it takes to make a difference, and I think we got a chance to do that. Hell of a way to close out a career, don’t you think?” He stood, looking out the window at the city he’d come to love and hate in the same moment. Thinking back to all the times he’d wished for what Pete had just described. “We could make a real difference. Maybe not in the long term, but it would buy others time to make those changes.” “Or not. Not our game, partner. I learned that back working the Civil Rights marches. But I also learned it can feel damned good just doin’ what you can and, like you said, buying time for others. If they use it or not ain’t the issue. At least we got it for them.” “I’m in. I’ll need to talk to my people. I know Calabrese won’t want to leave her new position, but I expect Joplin and Switek will want to be part of it. I might need another person to help Switek with surveillance, and then there’s Crockett and Tubbs.” “You’ll have whoever you want. Once you’ve got ‘em hooked, get me their names and it’ll happen. Even your two cowboys. The whole team will be deputized as special Deputy Marshals so no one here can fuck with ‘em. And I can send you some of my folks if that ain’t enough. People I trust.” Castillo nodded, still looking out the window. The city has no idea what’s coming. Maybe that’s for the best. “One thing I can say. It’s gonna be a hell of ride.” Castillo turned and smiled. Really smiled. “You’re right about that, chief deputy. And God help some of those people out there. Because no one else will.”

“We can take Morales any damn time you like. That’s the beauty of that Federal warrant. The trick’s gonna be throwin’ a net over the rest of ‘em.” Castillo nodded. They were sitting in OCB’s conference room, Pete Washington doing his best Cracker George Jefferson act and the rest of his team adjusting to the chief deputy. “What do we have?” Switek cleared his throat. “Not a whole damned lot. Kinda like the King before the Colonel took him in hand. I mean, we know what the hell they’re doing. We even have a line on a couple of stash houses in the Groves. But there isn’t a trail of bread crumbs leading back to the Mendozas.” “And the women?” “We had a bit more luck there.” Trudy smiled. “It turns out the Division of Alcoholic Beverages and Tobacco has been looking into them for a while now. Their Bureau of Law Enforcement had a pretty good file, and I convinced them to let me have a peek. It looks like there’s way more money moving through there than liquor sales suggest is possible. And almost all of its cash. Same goes for the booze orders, talent booking, you name it. Everything’s cash.” Stan shrugged. “And that’s not normal?” “Not these days. People like to use their plastic. And most clubs deal with distributors on an invoice basis. At least that’s what the DABT guy said.” Trudy shrugged. “He was speaking Greek as far as I know. But Shock only deals with Mendoza Distributing, which is unusual, and always pays in cash, which is also unusual.” “They get any serial numbers on those bills?” Pete cleared his throat. “I might know a guy who could have a look at some lists.” Trudy scribbled a note on her pad. “I’ll ask him. I’d bet they do, though.” “See if they have any originating from Mendoza Distributing. That’s where the money will enter the system.” Castillo looked around the table. “Do we have any way to get money into their pipeline?” “No, lieutenant.” Gina shrugged. “Once Sonny and Rico left, we lost our only deep-cover players. Stan’s got a couple of biker covers in the drawer, but they won’t work for the Mendozas. Now Cooper…” “We do what we can. Make sure Chief Deputy Washington gets those numbers.” “Call me Pete, damn it. Ain’t much on formal titles, especially if we’re takin’ down bad guys together.” Pete grinned. “You get me those numbers, detective, and I’ll have word back by the end of the day tomorrow. Treasury has a couple of things goin’ regarding drug money, and if we can link any of it I’ll have a seizure order in no damned time flat.” “How did they pay for the property initially? And the renovations? That should be on file with the city. Trudy, take Gina and check on that. Switek, I want you to start working up a list of Mendoza Distributing’s customers. I want to find everything they have money in, especially the clubs Crockett identified in his notes. Take a look at the uncle’s charter operation, too.” “Do you ever hear back from Financial Crimes, lieutenant?” “Yes. They won’t be helpful.” Of course I didn’t ask them any specific questions. Money like the Mendozas have can buy a lot of friends. But they don’t seem to be doing much aside from looking for money the Manolos or Carreras might have hidden away. “Whatever we do, it’s on our own.” “Well, not exactly.” “Of course.” Castillo looked at Pete and nodded. “I didn’t mean…” “I understand, Marty. Hell, I had cases poached by damn near every alphabet agency you can think of. Usually the Feebs, but sometimes DEA or ATF feels left out an’ has to cut in on the dance. Way I see it, we’re workin’ together on this thing. Period.” “Work the money. See where it leads. If the Marshals can get seizure orders we can shut down their income in a matter of hours.” He turned to Switek. “See if you can pin down a location for Esteban Morales. They’ll need to find a replacement for Pasqual if he is in fact dead, and Morales will play a role in that.” Stan Switek had a serious love-hate with the old Deco hotels lining the beachfront. Love because they reminded him of better times, or what he liked to imagine were better times. If he squinted and the light was right he could even imagine Elvis himself holding court on some of the sun porches. Hate because they were either falling apart or being demolished to make room for more ‘modern’ piles of crap that looked the same no matter where you put them. And he also hated them because Izzy Moreno did most of what he called work there. He heard him before he saw him…the Spanish-accented nasal twang as unmistakable as the symptoms of some nasty disease. “Joo know joo want these choose. Look at the craftsmanship! Theese were sewn by hand jobs in the high mountains of Italy. The soles are of the highest qualitativeness. Joo won’t…” “Hey, Moreno! Strut your stuff on over here for a minute. These guys aren’t going anywhere.” Izzy stretched a hurt look on his face as he waved a hand holding a cheap knockoff disco shoe that might have been in fashion in 1974. Maybe. The assembled old, bald men turned to glare at Stan. “Joo can see they want theese, man!” “Hey, guys. I only need the count for a second, ok? He’ll be right back. I promise.” Grabbing Izzy’s skinny upper arm, letting him feel the strength in his hand, Stan pulled him off the sun porch. “Be glad I don’t make a call to your parole officer, you freak. You know you ain’t…” “I know, Switek. But a man has needs, an’ I can’t meet those needs flipping burgers.” “I need to know if Tiffy Franklin is spotting clubs for the Mendozas or Holly Miller.” “Hey, the street, that’s what she says.” Izzy lowered his voice. “Me? I don’ trust that cheap strumpet at all. The street, I mean. All I know about the blonde with the big ‘eadlights is she trots her assets into a club, an’ two weeks later it grows money. An’ she’s Ricky Mendoza’s lady, so joo do the mathematicals. Me? I’m not so good with mathematicals.” “Well, maybe I can help you with that.” Stan let Izzy have a quick peek at a couple of hundreds. “That’s all yours if you can point me in the direction of someone special.” “Hey, Switek. That ain’t my game. I don’ know working girls.” “Not that, you moron. I mean someone like Esteban Morales.” Izzy’s face lost what little color it had. “No way I wanna lock the bull horns with that one. He’s a certifiabled bad man, joo know. Tiffy’s one thing, but that cat…” “I know. That’s why he’s worth ten times your usual rate.” Stan pushed the bills back in the pocket of his baggy suit coat. “But if that’s how you’re gonna be…” “I might be knowledgeable about something with this man. Joo know I’m the man in Little Havana.” “I heard at least two gangs threatened to cut your little Izzy bits off if you came around again.” Izzy waved his hand. “That was a major miscommunicationing. All is understandable now. But the man joo want meets his men at a bar called The Lame Bull.” He snorted. “As if the mighty beast of Emingway could ever be lamed! The fools. No true Cubano would ever…” “We know about the bar., Izzy.” “But do joo know he meets one of his main unmentionables there every Wednesday night? The look on jore face says no.” Izzy grinned, his face looking even more lopsided than usual. “But I don’t know more than that. It’s not wise to know too much informationals about that one.” Nodding, Stan handed the little con man the two hundreds. “If this is one of your tricks, Izzy, I’ll come back and shove that shoe someplace you ain’t gonna like. Now beat it. And try not to con too many of those old guys, ok? Social Security don’t go as far as it used to.” Two weeks later they were sitting in the conference room. Castillo flipped through the papers Gina and Trudy had given him, letting the numbers soak into his brain. They’d gotten the bank records for every club on their target list, including Shock. “How did we get a warrant for this?” “The chief deputy.” Trudy smiled. “He made a call to the AUSA and the paperwork showed up not two hours later. And they were sealed warrants, so the Mendoza legal team didn’t a call. This guy’s got some major pull, lieutenant. Even if he does look like George Jefferson.” “The AUSA made it look like it was a routine tax thing, like the DABT running an audit.” Gina chuckled. “I don’t think they have any idea what’s going on.” Castillo nodded, letting his eyes run down the sheets. Lots of money going into these places. And almost the same amount coming back out. And most of it’s cash. “Did the chief deputy run those serial numbers?” “He sure as hell did.” Pete Washington swept into the conference room like a tornado. “And we hit the damned jackpot. Lots of numbers on those lists that track back to major narcotics activity. Even a few that our compadres over in DEA used for controlled buys. No question there’s drug money in each of those clubs, and a whole shit ton in Shock. The AUSA’s writing up warrants for asset forfeiture now. They still gotta clear a judge an’ all that, but it’s Federal court. You reckon these boys have pull there?” “Not yet. But they will soon enough.” “An’ that’s why we gotta nail ‘em now.” Pete sank into a chair, grinning at Trudy and Gina before slapping a surprised Switek on the shoulder. “I hear you got a location for the Cuban Ghost outa that CI of yours.” “Yeah. Club called The Lame Bull over in…” “Little Havana. Sorry…I worked Miami back in the days when I was still a baby marshal. Place is loaded with them anti-Castro boys, which makes sense given ol’ Esteban’s background.” Castillo looked up. “If we take them, it has to be simultaneously. Or as close as we can manage. Once word of the arrests leaks, the brothers will disappear.” “That could be a trick. But given the choice, I’d rather scoop up Morales. The women aren’t as critical to things.” “I’d like to talk to Morales before we move on the brothers.” “Now that could be a trick. Unless we do one of those sneaky-pete things an’ just toss a net over Morales.” “Black bag him.” “Yep. I knew you had alphabet agency background.” Pete grinned. “We can scoop him up quick an’ no one will know for a bit, at least. What kinda picture do you have of his movements?” Castillo nodded at Switek. Show him you’ve earned your place. The big detective didn’t disappoint. “The Ghost keeps to himself. He’s got a condo in one of the new tower things. Nice place, but not so nice as to attract attention. Drives himself in a reasonably new Mercedes, meets with ol’ Miguel once or twice a week, either at the Mendoza homestead or Pelican’s Nest. His right-hand’s a guy named Lupe Garcia-Sosa. CIA-trained as far as we can tell, and a hell of an intel guy. They meet a couple times a week, more if something’s going on.” “Sounds like you got the old boy’s life story down.” “I’ve been tracking this clown for over three months. Following him. Listening to his phone calls. The only thing I haven’t done is detail his car. One thing I can tell you for sure. After he has that pow-wow in Little Havana there’s a window of close to twenty-four hours where he doesn’t do a damned thing. No meetings, no calls. Unless there’s something on. And as far as we can tell the Mendozas are sitting back right now. Likely while they break in whoever’s replacing Pasqual.” Pete had been nodding. “That’s it, then. My boys will scoop him up either in his pad or right close by once he’s done in Little Havana. Keeps us outa that snake pit, too. You’ll get your quality time with him, Marty. Then we can pick up the little ladies the next day.” “Do we have warrants on the brothers yet?” Pete looked at his watch. “Gonna call about that in ten minutes. Check on the orders of forfeiture, too. Miguel is the easy one. The distribution company’s in his name, so we got him on the financial stuff. Enrique is harder. But we can still hit the boat house he likes to hide in an’ grab his boats. He’s bound to fuss, an’ we can bring him in on that.” “Miguel is the key. Take him and the organization crumbles.” Castillo got to his feet, suddenly tired. He knew he’d need to focus, to center himself, if he was going to take a run at Esteban Morales. He didn’t entertain any delusions about breaking the man. He was too well-trained and experienced. But he might get something. “You mind if I take the big guy along?” Pete grinned at Stan. “He knows the ground better than my people, an’ I need some help planning the raid.” “Of course. Detective Switek will help in way he can.” Castillo looked around the room. “We need to know where the women will be within the window after Morales is brought in. Gina, Trudy, put together a surveillance plan, please. Maybe the Marshals…” “I’ll send a couple people your way. Expect ‘em first thing in the morning. We got a day or so in hand before ol’ Esteban is gonna have his sit-down.” “Use the time wisely. We won’t get a second shot at these people. If we miss, they’ll leave the country.” Castillo picked up his folders. “We know they have at least two houses in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands. If they get out of Miami, we lose them.” Stan Switek sat in the back of a plain brown van, clutching a borrowed M-16 and wearing a ballistic vest with ‘U.S. Marshal’ in gold on the back. Sandwiched between two slabs of beef with close-cropped hair and monumental Copenhagen habits, he snuck a quick look at his watch. It was almost time. He’d spent the last day or so with these guys. Big, quiet men with scruffy beards, hair of varying length, and wearing jeans most of the time. But they listened to him, unlike the meatheads on Metro-Dade’s SWAT team, and actually worked him into the operation. Not only were they professional as hell, he was impressed with their undercover chops. Take the vests away and they’d disappear in almost any Miami crowd. “You know the drill?” Frankie picked up the Coke can he kept between his feet and directed a stream of tobacco juice inside. “Yeah. I mean I guess so. You guys pile out, I stay back and out of the way. Make sure no one shoots you in the back, including me.” He grinned. “No chance of you shootin’ us, boss. You’re a good cop. Hell, a little more time and we’d get you up to entry team pace. But yeah. Hang back. But it’s not to keep you out of the way. There’s always a chance someone else is watching the target. His bosses have enemies, and I’d bet he does, too. Always gotta have someone watching your back on operations like this.” The van made the final turn, and Stan braced himself as the big vehicle rocked a bit. Then it slowed and came to a stop. “In position.” The driver’s voice was low and calm, reminding him of a late-night DJ. “Two minutes.” “Spotters got eyes on the subject?” “Confirmed. Just him and his Mercedes.” Frankie was the team commander, and he raised his voice just a hair. “He’s in the car and alone, so we use drill Charlie. Take him as soon as the dome light comes on and he’s got one foot out of the car.” A side door slid open and two deputies eased out into the darkness. The initial arrest team. Once it started, it moved so fast Stan thought it might be a dream. The main door rolled up and the team piled out, breaking into two pairs of two and converging on the car. Esteban Morales stood just outside the vehicle, his hands high above his head and the two members of the arrest team covering him with Colt .45s. Stan brought his assault rifle up, swinging to cover the darkness behind the still-idling Mercedes, and heard Frankie’s voice again. “Esteban Morales. You’re under arrest on a Federal fugitive warrant. Don’t move.” Martin Castillo looked up at the single flickering fluorescent tube in the interrogation room’s light fixtures. He didn’t expect the trick to have any effect on Esteban Morales, but he wanted to use it to establish that the Cuban wasn’t in any way special, either. Just another punk sucked up by the law enforcement machine. Pete looked at him. “They’ll be puttin’ him in there in under a minute. You gonna wait for him there, or keep him in suspense?” “I’ll be in there.” Turning, Castillo opened the observation room door and crossed over to the white room with the bad light. Esteban Morales didn’t look defiant when they brought him in. He didn’t look scared, either. He just didn’t look at all, his face frozen in an indifferent stare. The deputies sat him down, and the clank of his handcuff chains hitting the table filled the room. Castillo didn’t look up. “Remove those.” “Are you sure?” “If he tries anything, I’ll kill him.” As he’d hoped, that drew a reaction from the Cuban. “You don’t expect me to believe you’d kill a prisoner in your custody?” “If you try anything, I will kill you.” He paused. “That should be easy enough to understand.” Esteban nodded and switched to Spanish. “I didn’t think you cops had the balls.” Castillo still didn’t look up. But he replied in his Cuban Spanish. “Fuck with me, and you will be the one without balls. You have a Federal warrant for arms trafficking with the Puerto Ricans. I’m sure ATF is anxious to talk to you. Maybe you can con them. You can’t con me.” “Just who the hell…” “I know all there is to know about you. And the old men who trained you. I might have been trained by them at some point. The lines in that world are very blurry, as they say. I know you went against them when you worked with the Puerto Ricans. And you continue to go against them by working for Miguel Mendoza. Another Puerto Rican.” “They are old fools with fever dreams about toppling Castro!” “Perhaps. But they have a long reach. If they learn where you are being held, do you really think they won’t be able to get to you? Especially if they’re led to believe you have truly betrayed them.” The confidence began to bleed from Esteban’s face. “But you’re a policeman. You can’t…” “You forget. I was trained by the same people who trained those old men.” He paused for a moment, still not looking up. “The people who trained them. That should tell you what I’m capable of.” “I see.” “No, you don’t. But I see you.” He looked up, catching a quick flash of confusion and what might have been fear in Esteban’s eyes. “In the eyes of the old men you’re nothing but a whore selling your wares to the highest bidder. They won’t have moved against you because of the power of Miguel Mendoza, but what do you think will happen once that power is gone?” He put his hands on the table and used them to push himself out of his chair. “I’ll let you think about that.” Back in the observation room, Pete greeted Castillo with a low whistle. “That was some slick talkin’. You serious about knowing the boys who trained him?” “Yes.” It was a chapter in his past Castillo didn’t like visiting, let alone talking about. “And he knows every word I said is true. But he still won’t break.” “So long as he’s squirmin’ I’m a happy camper. Might take a turn at him myself in a bit. Assuming he doesn’t ask for his lawyer.” “He won’t. He won’t want anyone to know he’s been arrested. Word travels fast in the anti-Castro community, and any lawyer he has will have a foot in as many camps as he can manage.” He turned back to the window, watching Esteban sitting immobile in his chair. “We need to get the women. Before word reaches them about his arrest.” Pete nodded. “Got a call while you were in there. From Detective Joplin. She said they monitored a call between Holly and Tiffy.” He paused. “Who the hell names their kid Tiffy? Anyhow, they’re plannin’ some kind of lunch at Joe’s Crab Shack tomorrow morning.” He looked at his watch. “I mean later today. The warrants came through, so we can pick them up there.” “We’ll need to hit the brothers at close to the same time. Do you have the manpower?” “Sure. I’ll send a couple of regular deputies after the women. They don’t move with security according to Switek an’ should be easy enough to scoop up. We’ve got teams on both brothers, so it won’t be much to send teams in anytime we want. We’ll know where they are. I’ll make a call and see if we can wrangle ourselves a bird from the Coast Guard. Mostly for Ricky. If anyone’s gonna bolt without warning, it’s him.” “I agree.” Castillo just stood, watching Esteban on the other side of the glass. He hides his fear well. But you can see it in his fingers if you know how to look. We might be able to flip him come time for a trial. I don’t think he wants to go to prison. Miguel Mendoza looked at the sheet of paper. “You think he’s the one to take Pasqual’s place?” He saw his brother twitch and raised his hand. “I don’t mean replace. No one can do that. Is he ready to take over those duties?” “Yes.” The single word was slurred, and Enrique let his head roll a bit to the side before catching himself. “He’s done runs before and not run aground. The rest of the boys like him well enough, and he’s cool under pressure.” I wonder how much he had to drink before he came over? “We don’t have to do it right away if you’re not comfortable. Take a couple more weeks.” “No. Let’s just rip the fucking Band-Aid off now. He’s as good as we’re going to get, and he doesn’t steal from us. I’ll ride with him the first few times and review his runs. See how he allocates resources.” Miguel nodded, feeling the ticking clock on the study wall beating its way into his brain. “I’ll back whatever you want to do. You know that.” He paused, looking at the empty rum bottle by his brother’s elbow. “Are you sure you’re ok?” “I keep seeing his face, you know.” Enrique picked up the bottle and tipped it in the general direction of his glass before realizing it was empty. “Shit. Is there more?” “Only if you stay here tonight. I can’t let you drive.” “Sure. Whatever.” He took the full bottle, twisted off the cap, and filled his glass almost to the rim. “Does it ever stop?” Miguel started to speak, then swallowed the words. For him it had. Within three weeks of killing Jaime, and only a few days after the Haitian. He’d never lost a second of sleep over Santos, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or not. His own rum tasted bitter in his mouth, and he forced himself to swallow it before speaking. “Maybe it’s good for you that it doesn’t. Then you think twice about doing it. Consider if it’s necessary or not. And Pasqual was necessary. He stole from us when he could have asked, and exposed our operation to risk.” “But did it stop for you?” “Yes. But I don’t know if that’s good. You see Pasqual and ask if it’s necessary to kill someone. I think about Santos and have to convince myself not to kill someone.” “Does Holly tell you that?” “No.” Esteban does, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. “I have to keep reminding myself. When it becomes too easy, it’s the first thing you consider instead of the last. We’ve survived in this business as long as we have because we don’t get greedy and we don’t leave a trail of bodies behind us. Killing should be a means to an end, not the end itself.” “That’s too damned deep for me, bother.” Enrique sighed as he took another deep drink. “I just didn’t think it would be this hard.” I offered to do it for you. But this isn’t the time to remind him of that. “Pasqual betrayed us. Betrayed you. And did he ever show remorse? No. He spit in your face.” Miguel took a deep breath. He could feel the anger building and knew it wouldn’t do Enrique any good. “But we need to look to the future, yes? Now that we have a city council member in our back pocket, things in South Beach can move quickly.” “I suppose that’s true. How much did that bastard cost us?” “Two hundred thousand dollars. Or one load. I’d say it was a decent investment. Our friends on Metro-Dade cost about the same, and they’ve repaid the investment tenfold.” “Speaking of those putos, what have they been saying?” “That special unit is still well understrength. But there’s been some Federal agency sniffing around the last few weeks. The officer in Patrol knows nothing, and our friend in Records only says new faces have been showing up pulling files.” “Our files?” “She doesn’t think so. But she can’t find out without attracting attention.” “Is the the damned FBI again?” Esteban laughed, the first real laugh Miguel had heard from him in hours. “I love losing their people in those damned Fords. Why they think they can keep up with a Corvette is a mystery to me.” “It is to us all. But no, she doesn’t think they’re FBI.” Lupe asked her that directly. “They might even be DABT investigators. It’s that time of year again, and even though our books are clean they do like to sniff around.” Enrique started to nod, and then his head rolled further forward than he’d planned. “Shit! That rum’s got some kick. Maybe I should…” “I’ll get you upstairs. Your old room is waiting for you. And I think Tiffy’s there, too. She’ll take better care of you than I could.” Once Enrique was safely in the hands of Tiffy, who just snorted when Miguel tried to explain, he wend back to the study and sat down. He sensed rather than heard Holly come in. “He was a mess.” “Yes. Enrique has never handled stress well. Even when we were boys. He’ll be ok, though.” She ran her hands along his shoulders. “I never doubted it. Tiffy and I are going to lunch tomorrow. We’re going to pick our next investment target. Did you want to come with us?” “I’d love to, but I’ve got a meeting of my own until almost noon.” He turned his head and kissed her hand. She didn’t need to know his meeting was in fact an inspection tour of their boat houses. “I need to finance this new target of yours, after all.” “It’s all coming together so well, Miguel. Our plans for the future.” “Yes. Yes they are.” He got to his feet, turned, and took her in his arms. “There’s nothing but the best ahead for us, my love.” He kissed her hard, feeling her press back against him. “Nothing but the best,” he whispered against the smooth skin of her neck before scooping her up and carrying her upstairs.

It had been two weeks since the incident with Special Agent Faust, and nothing had happened. No reprimand. But also no replacement agent. It was like the FBI had vanished from the face of the earth. Or at least Miami. Martin Castillo looked at the reports on his desk, hoping he’d see something different this time. But the typed words didn’t change, didn’t magically shift to reveal a new insight or sparking bit of information. The case was still going nowhere. He was still staring at the reports when his phone rang. “Lieutenant Castillo?” “Yes.” It wasn’t a voice he recognized. The man sounded more like a stereotypical Southern sheriff than a Fed. “This is Chief Deputy Pete Washington from the Marshal’s Service field office. Here in Miami, not off in some backwater hellhole. Look, my boys were lookin’ at the warrant wire this morning and we go a hit on someone your team seems to be chasin’.” “We’re got a number of cases ongoing. You’ll have to be more specific.” Castillo had worked with the Marshal’s Service a time or two over the years, but never regularly. They’d always struck him as focused and efficient, and not concerned about taking credit for cases. All unusual attributes for a Federal agency in his experience. “Yeah, I bet you do. Gotta say I don’t envy you that.” Pete laughed, a contagious sound that almost rattled the earpiece of Castillo’s phone. “Guy’s name is Morales. Esteban Morales. Says here he’s tied in with some boys named Mendoza. We got nothin’ on them, but there’s a Federal warrant out on his ass for some stuff he did as a youngster. Seems he was part of one of those ‘combat brigades’ or whatever the hell the anti-Castro Cuban expats call their gangs theses days. Chased a few of ‘em back in the day, let me tell you.” Castillo tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “We think Morales is running security for the Mendoza cartel. Tapping into those Cuban groups for trained men and firepower.” “Do tell? I guess ol’ Esteban has moved up in the world. Or down, depending on how you look at it. Anyhow, the warrant’s for all sorts of weapons-related nastiness. And it’s still active. You know pretty much all we do is hunt folks down, and I daresay we’re not half bad at it.” “We would appreciate any help you can provide. The Mendozas have proven…elusive.” “You got a way of playin’ things down, don’t you?” Pete chuckled again. “Most guys I know who talk like that have roots in the Agency. Course I won’t tell if you don’t.” There was a pause. “Look, why don’t we meet for lunch and talk? Face to face. I got a feeling our units could help each other.” They ended up meeting at a small place called Rudy’s Ribs, at the suggestion of Pete Washington. “Musta spent too much time in the South,” he’d said before hanging up the phone. “Can’t seem to have a good discussion without some fine ribs an’ beer in front of me.” Castillo didn’t mind, even though he wasn’t much of a fan of barbecue. He was more interested in what the Federal lawman was trying to sell. But he had to admit he wasn’t expecting the man who appeared next to his table. Pete Washington looked like nothing less than a taller version of George Jefferson, right down to the Afro and loud suit. “Look don’t go with the voice, does it?” he asked with a grin as he slid into a chair across from Castillo. “I kinda like it these days. Throws people off an’ gives me an edge. Kinda like those sunglasses and undertaker look do for you, I’d guess.” “Yes.” Pete turned to the waitress and ordered for them both. “And don’t forget a pitcher of beer. It’s hotter than hell out there.” When he turned back he was still smiling. “That should keep her busy for a few minutes. So, let’s have it. I know you got questions.” “Why now?” “Don’t avoid gettin’ to the heart of it, do you? I like that. Well, DEA was digging around some old cases and tripped over Esteban’s file. I’d guess they literally tripped over it. Their office down here is a sight. Anyhow, seems once upon a time he’d been working with some Puerto Ricans to smuggle C-4 and M-16s into the state. Whole plan fell apart when the Puerto Ricans started shootin’ at each other, but one of ‘em lived long enough to finger Esteban. DEA sort of stumbled around investigating it, then stuffed it in a box and forgot about it.” “And you want to bring him in.” “Kind of our job, you know. Running down fugitives. But yeah, I’d like to bring him in. But I’d like to take his bosses down more.” “I thought you said the Mendozas don’t have warrants.” “The boys don’t, but the grandfather did. He was a piece of work according to his file. Seems the father didn’t have the stones to carry on the family business the way the old man wanted, but the kids are a different story.” “They are.” Castillo looked past Pete toward the window. Seeing heat waves rippling off the blacktop street running past the restaurant. “They’re careful, dug in deep socially, and keep their distance from the nasty work. Maybe not Enrique…he loves fast boats. But we’ve never been able to put him with any product. We had a lead on one of his suppliers a few years ago, but it evaporated.” “That Bolivian asshole who got himself shot a couple years back? Couldn’t have happened to a better scumbag. But you think the Mendozas were involved.” Castillo noticed it wasn’t a question. “Yes. Santos was killed with a .45 to the head. It’s something of a Mendoza trademark. The same pistol was used in other killings we’ve tied to their cartel. Circumstantially, of course.” “Like you said, they’re careful. Until they’re not. Just so happens that pistol has a history. Seems slugs that might have come from it were used in some other murders. Back in the 1920s.” Pete grinned. “You can thank the FBI for that little nugget if you want. Me? I just figure they were doin’ their job for a change.” “Why didn’t they pass that on?” “Who knows? One of the great mysteries of Hoover’s Own. Maybe it got lost. You know, they could never make a case against old Guillermo Mendoza, even though Hoover sure as hell wanted to. Guy was always too slippery. Too careful. Just like his grandsons.” Pete stopped talking as the beer arrived, then started again as he poured glasses for himself and Castillo. “Course there’s no proof who owned the Colt, mind, but it’s the same gun sure as hell.” “My people are close. We have the homicides, an increase in high-grade cocaine showing up in South Beach and Brickell, and a possible way into Enrique Mendoza’s side of the operation.” “His side?” “Yes. Our intelligence suggests the brothers divide the labor somehow. Enrique seems to focus on transportation and most of the actual drug sales while Miguel is the business side. He runs their money through clubs, sets up the big offshore deals, and controls their security.” Castillo took a sip of beer. “Like Morales they’re all Cubans. At least the ones we’ve identified.” Pete whistled. “Damn. That’s slick.” “It’s not the first time we’ve seen something like this.” Castillo thought back to what Crockett had managed as Burnett. “But it’s lasted longer than any other attempt.” “Why do you think that is?” He recognized the interrogation technique, but didn’t take offense. They were both professional lawmen…it was what they did. “They don’t get greedy. They seem to have some kind of plan or feeling. How far they can go before they need to stop and take stock. There seem to be limits of some kind, but we’re not sure what those are.” “So how do you crack that nut?” “A weak link. In this case Enrique’s right-hand man. Pasqual Benitez. He was connected to Cristobal Santos the first time the man visited Miami, but we couldn’t make anything stick then. This time we can. According to one of our CIs he’s been making his own deals with Mendoza cocaine.” “That’s a good way to end up gator shit.” Castillo smiled. “It is. If they find out. So far he’s been careful. At least where the brothers are concerned. But we think they might have noticed the shortfall in some shipments. It’s only a matter of time before Esteban Morales is put on it.” “Or we take good ol’ Esteban down on his outstanding Federal warrant. See how the organization does without its head of security. And maybe some of his boys. I’ll bet more’n a couple have some paper.” Castillo let the thought move through his head. It would be more direct than his method, and possibly more violent. But it also didn’t put a CI at risk. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to sacrifice another CI to the Mendozas. Not if there was another way. “Morales keeps a low profile these days. My people can find him and flush him out for you.” “I’ll have a warrant team on standby. We get him quick enough, Miguel won’t have time to react. I’ll work some warrants from my side of the street. Metro-Dade’s a bit…” “I know.” “You got another reason to work with us.” Pete chuckled. “I heard about your little run-in with that prick Faust. He made a grab at a deputy in the Boston field office from what I hear. That’s why he’s down here now. You don’t fuck with Marshal’s Service people. But your bosses are gonna whine all damned day about it unless another Federal agency shows up to help out.” “Faust…” “Hell, I just wish I woulda been there to see it. That deputy up in Boston kicked him in the junk so hard he wasn’t walkin’ right for two weeks. Guy’s a head case, so I figure he’s marked for a top Bureau job. But this way everyone gets what they want. I get Morales, you get the Mendozas, and your bosses can claim they ‘helped’ the Feds and have someone else to blame if things go south.” “I think we have enough to bring Benitez in for questioning. Maybe we can shake something out of him. One of my teams has loose surveillance on him.” “Why not? Hell, if nothing else it might rattle them brothers a bit.” “You’re sure of the numbers?” Xavier was new, and he shrank back from Enrique’s glare. “Si, boss. I checked them six times. And I’ll check them six more if you wish.” “No.” Enrique stared at the sheet of paper, his heart sinking in his chest. All the numbers did was confirm what he’d suspected. Someone was skimming from their cocaine shipments. Not all of them, but the ones coming in light were all connected to one person. “Have you spoken with anyone about this?” “No. I came straight to you.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I thought it was important.” “You thought right, Xavier. Thank you. This is fine work. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for not checking sooner. For not seeing this sooner.” He reached out and clapped the skinny man on the shoulder. “There’s a bonus in this for you. Now go back to your work and don’t talk about this with anyone. And I mean anyone. Not yourself, not your mother. No one. Understand?” “Si, jefe. No words will pass my lips.” Enrique managed to hold his anger in until Xavier left. Then he slammed his fist down on the table.”Shit!” But he didn’t blame Xavier. The man was doing his job, and confirming what he’d already known deep down. Somewhere along the line Pasqual had given in to temptation and started helping himself to their product. The numbers showed it wasn’t much at one time…usually a kilo or two out of larger loads. But it added up quickly, especially after Enrique had put him in charge of his own routes. Part of him wanted to forget it. To burn the sheet and pretend he’d never seen it. But he knew that wouldn’t work. Sooner or later Miguel would find out. But that wasn’t the real reason he knew he couldn’t just make it go away. Pasqual had betrayed the family…betrayed the trust and friendship they’d had for years. Looking down, Enrique could see his hand shaking. He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. Then he reached for the phone. “Miguel? It’s me. We have a problem. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” “…so far it’s just numbers on a sheet of paper. I’d had a feeling something was going on, but Xavier’s work confirms it.” “And you’re sure it’s Pasqual?” “I can’t see who else it could be. The shortages are all on his routes, and the crews don’t overlap enough for it to be one of them.” Enrique gritted his teeth. “I’d bet a couple of them are in on it, though. Unless the Cubans…” “I’ll look into it, but I doubt it. They know what happens to traitors.” Enrique nodded, unable to miss the tone of Miguel’s voice. “I’m sure they do. But someone would have to distract them during the deal or when the cargo’s unloaded. That takes at least two people.” “How far back does it go?” “A couple of years. It wasn’t much at first. Maybe a kilo every few months. But in the last six months it’s become much more than that. He would have had to have help then, even if he didn’t at first.” “Agreed.” Miguel’s eyes were dark. “This is your side of the business, brother. How do you want to handle it?” Enrique was about to protest, then stopped. He’s right. These are my people. I don’t tell him how to cut the big deals or run the Cubans, and he’s let me run transportation how I like. “I’ll go through the lists and see if I can figure out who might be working with Pasqual. He’s the brains. I’m sure of that. But like you said, he’d need helpers. I’ll look for overlap. Xavier said it doesn’t happen on every run…only those with over twenty kilos of product. But he doesn’t know what happens after it’s unloaded. I’ll see if I can find some patterns.” “Good. I hope we’re wrong about this, though. Pasqual’s been a part of our operation since the beginning.” “And if he needed more money, all he had to do was ask! That’s what pisses me off, brother. It’s all so unnecessary.” “Unless he’s tired of being the one in the shadows. Maybe he’s decided he wants to give orders. Greed and ambition are dangerous things when put together.” Enrique nodded. He didn’t want to think about it any more. Not tonight, at least. Tonight he just wanted to feel and least six rum and Cokes inside him and Tiffy on top of him. Anything to make the pain in his heart go away. “I get it, brother. It’s not easy. It’s never easy. And if it becomes easy, maybe we should do something else.” “I forgot. You had to deal with Jaime.” “As well as others. We’ll look into Pasqual and then if you like…” “No. I’ll handle him. He’d get suspicious if you showed up all of a sudden. He doesn’t see you that much, remember?” Miguel nodded. “I know you’re close with him. I was…” “I know what you’re trying to do. And don’t think I’m ungrateful. But if he was stealing on my watch, dealing with that falls on me. And what would the others think if you did it? They’d say I didn’t have the balls. That you had to come in and clean up for me.” He shook his head. “I can’t have that.” “You’re right. That’s why I dealt with Jaime and the others over the years. So they wouldn’t say I just sit behind a desk and spend money made by other men. You look into things, and I’ll do some asking as well. We’ll compare notes.” “Why did you do it, man?” Enrique was pacing back and forth as he spoke, light from the dirty window playing across the floor. “Do what, Ricky?” The wooden chair creaked as Pasqual tested his ropes. “I don’t get it.” “The hell you don’t. I asked why you did it. Why did you rip us off? We’re like family, man. Family!” The last word was a shout pulled from a place deep inside his chest. “I treated you like a bother. If you needed more, all you had to do was ask, man. Ask!” “I didn’t…” “And now you lie to me. To my fucking face. This isn’t a game, Pasqual. We’ve got the weights. The shipments that went short. The boys gave you up, man. Turns out you were making promises you couldn’t keep.” “Bunch of bitches.” “No. Not most of ‘em. They still had some honor. Knew what it meant to give their words. But you? Why the fuck did you do it, man? I just want to know that.” Enrique stopped in front of him, forcing his breathing to even out and flexing his fingers so they didn’t cramp into useless fists. He’d never been so angry and so scared in the same instant, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it all. “Why?” Pasqual worked his face and spat onto the dirty floorboards not far from Enrique’s feet. “I’ll tell you why. Ambition. Something you ain’t got none of. If you did, you wouldn’t let Miguel order you around like a house bitch. We control the routes, man. We move the product. The money should be ours, too.” “And you’d know what to do with the cocaine? How to move it? How to turn the money into something we can use? That’s what Miguel brings. That and the Cubans. You think little street bitches like we know would be half as loyal as these men?” He waved his hand in the direction of two of the stoic Cubans., standing like paramilitary bookends near each arm of the chair. “It takes both of us to do this thing, you idiot. Why do you think Calderone fell? The Revillas? Even Manolo and Carrera at the end of it? They tried to do it on their own. Without family.” “Burnett fell, too. And he had loyal people.” “He moved too fast. That was his one mistake.” Enrique shook his head. “There’s a reason trees grow strong. They take their time. The strongest trees grow the slowest. Deep roots and strong trunks. But you? You want it all now. And you steal from us to get it.” “I only take what’s mine.” He hit Pasqual then, a strong backhanded slap rocking the man’s head back and the crack ringing off the walls of the shed. “No. You stole from us. Stole what might have been given if you’d bothered to ask. You were a brother to me, you know. But now you’ll get what’s yours, Pasqual.” The thought translated into action before Enrique knew quite what happened. He came up with the heavy Colt and put a round into Pasqual’s head. Right between his eyes. The back of Pasqual’s head exploded across the back wall of the shed. “There. You got what you were owed. Happy now? Bitch.” He flicked on the thumb safety and stuffed the pistol back into his waistband. “Get rid of this piece of shit. I don’t care how. And then burn this place. It’s served its purpose. I have to make a call.” Outside he noticed his hand was shaking. Just a light tremor many who didn’t know him would miss, but he noticed it. Pasqual was the first man he’d killed up close. Really the first man he’d killed that he knew for sure was dead. Sure, he’d exchanged shots in some of those boat chases, more games than real fights when crews were popping off rounds hoping to scare more than kill. But this…this was different. Very different. “I can tell by your voice it’s done and you did it.” Miguel sighed. “I was hoping you’d spare yourself that.” “Why? You do it.” “Yes, but one of us might have stayed clean. You were always the dreamer, Ricky. And that’s a good thing. Now you carry him with you. Like I carry mine with me.” He shook his head, trying to clear it of his brother’s words. “The body’s being disposed of as we speak. Those Cubans are nothing if not efficient. And now we have to figure out who will take Pasqual’s place.” “Move in anyone you can trust. I trust your judgement in this completely.” “But I picked Pasqual.” “Who went bad on his own, brother. Neither of us did that to him. He made his own choices, and paid for them. He served us well for years. Even now that counts for something.” “I suppose so.” But he didn’t believe it. Not really. Any man who turned his back on his brothers deserved exactly what Pasqual got. “I need to think about it.” “Don’t take too long if you don’t need to. With the old Carrera cartel in ruins we have an opportunity again. Especially now that we’re free of the burden of Cristobal Santos.” “I’ll do that.” Enrique hung up the car phone, not knowing what he was doing to do. Right now he knew he needed a drink. And maybe Tiffy’s calm voice. He wondered how Miguel hid that side of himself from Holly. He’d have to ask. “And there’s no trace of him?” “Not a hair, lieutenant.” Stan Switek shook his head. “Last place anyone seems to have seen him was at Pelican’s Nest. Dibble and Gorman checked. Guy at the bar says he took a call and left in a big damned hurry.” Castillo nodded. “They must have found out.” “How?” “Esteban Morales is good at what he does. If we found out Pasqual was skimming from his loads, it was only a matter of time before Morales knew it, too. He might have even known before us.” Trudy looked at Gina. “And if he found out…” “Pasqual Benitez is dead. Don’t believe for a moment the Mendoza brothers wouldn’t kill him in an instant for stealing from them. They’d see it as a family betrayal. And families like that react very badly to betrayal.” “He was our way in.” Stan slammed his hand on the table, rattling the pens resting on the battered top. “We’re back to square one.” “Maybe not.” Gina’s words were measured. “They’re gonna need someone to take his place, right? Ricky can’t run that show on his own. Not with the number of suppliers they have, especially if our read is right and he’s overseeing at least part of the distribution as well.” Stan nodded. “Yeah, but that’s gonna take time to figure out. Time we don’t have.” “We have additional resources now.” In short words Castillo told them about his meeting with Pete Washington. “The Marshal’s Service can get us Federal warrants. They even have an arrest warrant for Esteban Morales.” “The Cuban Ghost?” Stan whistled. “We haven’t been able to scare up so much as a parking ticket on him. And these guys are sitting on a genuine arrest warrant?” “Yes. And they have forensic evidence linking the murder weapon in at least two of our outstanding cases to murders committed in the 1920s by the Mendozas’ grandfather.” Trudy shook her head. “It would have been nice to have this a couple of years ago.” “Chief Deputy Washington feels the same way. It appears the ballistics evidence was siting in the FBI lab at Quantico for several years.” “Typical Feebs.” Stan snorted. “So what do we do with this?” “We combine it with what we have and bring down the Mendozas. The Marshals can bring in Morales as soon as we locate him. That’s not an issue. Getting actual evidence on the brothers is. But they’ll be rattled. Moving too fast. Having to kill Pasqual will have shocked them.” “And that helps us how?” “They’ll probably fall behind in deliveries while they sort out who’s going to take Pasqual’s place. Then once they do they’re have to move more than usual to make up for lost time.” “We think they have at least a handful of stash houses.” Trudy looked around the table. “They’d have to in order to slow down movement like we know they have and still keep up with their delivery schedules.” “Do we have leads on any of them?” “Not yet. But I’ve got some funny phone calls on one of the taps I need to run down.” Stan scribbled something on his note pad. “Give me a couple of hours.” “We don’t have the people to chase a bunch of leads, lieutenant.” Gina’s voice was matter-of-fact, just like her eyes under her dark bangs. “If we try that we’ll lose them.” “Gina’s right.” He folded his hands across the folder in font of him. “Get what intelligence you can and report back. We’ll work through and find the most logical lead. We have to be smart with this. Fast is not going to help us.” “Can the Marshals give us anything?” “I’ll make the call. The rest of you know what you need to do.” “What about Gorman and Dibble?” Castillo looked at Trudy for a moment. “Leave them were they are.” “You got it, lieutenant.” “They might spot something useful.” The words sounded hollow as soon as he said them. But he knew those two could never keep up with what had to happen now if they wanted any kind of shot at the Mendoza brothers. He made the call as soon as he was in his office alone. Pete Washington was silent for a moment, which ranked as an hour when it came to the chief deputy’s talkative nature. “I think we might have a tool that will help. In addition to being the best damned manhunters in these United States, an’ I don’t give a crap what the FBI’s publicity machine says, us marshals have another job. We seize any property marked for forfeiture by the courts.” Castillo nodded, even though he knew Pete couldn’t see him. “We used seized assets here.” “Sure, but with us we’re talkin’ the big leagues. You seize a boat? We seize the yard that built the damned thing. And the AUSA for the Southeastern District is all hot to trot about seizures.” “What do you need?” “Evidence something’s being funded by the proceeds of illegal activity. Like the money flowin’ into that club Miguel’s old lady owns on paper. Or maybe some of the green keeping his uncle’s charter fleet in the damned water. We get that, I can get a court order to take the club. Stop his cash flow dead in its tracks.” “We don’t see this very often on that scale.” “Naw. Too much pride. The Feebs won’t do it because we’re the ones doing the taking. Metro-Dade don’t like it because it’s the big, bad Federal government taking the stuff. Which means they don’t get to dip their finger in the frosting an’ lick it clean.” Pete’s laugh almost overloaded the phone’s earpiece. “But us? I figure we get what it takes to bring down someone like the Mendozas.” “We do.” Castillo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make a couple of calls. To people I trust within the department. They’ll know if anything’s in process.” “Good. An’ I hear the brothers might have whacked their transportation guy. Pasqual Benitez. Means they’ll be off-balance while they try to find another boat guy. Even Miguel can’t juggle all them damned balls at once.” He called the team back into the conference room and briefed them on what Pete had told him. “So we keep focusing on the women, especially Holly Miller. We need evidence showing Miguel’s money going into Shock and coming out clean.” Gina nodded. “What about Tiffy?” “I don’t think she’s significant. Maybe as a way to Enrique, but not with the money. Unless we missed something.” Trudy shook her head. “I don’t think so, lieutenant. When I said Sonny was starting to look at the women, I didn’t get the full picture. I think they were all he was digging into before he…before he left. He’s got lots of notes on this Tiffy, but nothing that tracks her back to money. She might have been a talent spotter or scout, but that’s all. Rico’s notes say pretty much the same thing, although according to him Izzy Moreno claimed she’d spot clubs for Miguel to invest in.” “Talk to Moreno again. We need to be sure.” Castillo turned to Switek. “Do we know what clubs might have gotten Mendoza money?” “No clue. Lots of rumors, but you know how that goes.” Switek shook his head. “If I was still a betting man, which I’m not by the way, I’d put money on places that had shootings we can tie to the Mendozas. Kilowatt over in Brickell. Maybe The Palm in South Beach. The message shootings.” Trudy nodded. “Sonny had notes on that, too. Really precise ones, which wasn’t normal for him.” Burnett. “Pay special attention to those notes. There’s insight there we need.”

November 1989-January 1990 “Tell me we got something.” Trudy Joplin looked around the table, her eyes bright. “It’s been over a month. There’s gotta be something.” Stan Switek shook his head. “They’re careful on the phones. Almost like they know we’re listening. From what I can put together from the tapes, they like to hold face-to-face stuff. Pelican’s Nest is the choice when it’s Miguel and Ricky getting together, but Miguel likes to meet Esteban either there or at a bar in Little Havana called The Lame Bull.” He chuckled. “I thought about sending Izzy in there with his shoes to talk Hemingway, but I figured it would just get the little twerp killed.” “What about Ricky and Morales?” “Now that’s where it gets funny. As far as I can tell, those two have never met. At least not for business. It’s always Miguel setting up stuff with Esteban.” Stan pulled out a sheet of graph paper. “I charted the meetings for the last month here. There’s never any overlap between Ricky and the Cuban Ghost.” Gina tapped her pencil on the table. “The Cuban Ghost? Really, Stan?” “Hell, yes. The guy is a ghost. He almost never uses any phone we have a tap on, and we haven’t been able to keep a surveillance box on him for more than a block or two.” He shook his head. “Of course we don’t have the people to do it right, and Dibble and Gorman might as well take out ads when they’re tailing someone.” Trudy sighed. Lieutenant Castillo had given her lead detetive status on the Mendozas, and so far they were coming up empty. Or maybe not empty, but not full enough. “What about their ladies?” Gina flipped through her notebook. “They’re both clean, at least as far as moving coke goes. But they toss a lot of money around. And I mean a lot. Miller hosted a fundraiser for some South Beach city council candidate last week. Two thousand dollars a head, and it was filled to capacity. Oh, and that candidate won. The Franklin girl’s not as obvious, but she’s been working some angles, too. She started promoting a club over in Cocoanut Grove called Popper, and within about a week they announced they were expanding and adding a new sound system. That kind of stuff doesn’t just fall out of the sky.” Stan flipped back through his notes. “It looks like the guy behind the club, Tommy Innaz, paid a visit to Shock not long before good ol’ Tiffy came on the scene. Dibble was actually awake for a change and he recognized the guy from when he was loaned out to John Vallencio’s Narcotics guys. He’s a mid-level player at best.” Trudy nodded. “Did they request anything from Records?” “No.” “Good. Don’t.” She leaned forward, feeling her dress stretch tight across her breasts. I gotta stop wearing the decoy clothes to work when I’m not on the street. “The Mendozas always seem to be a step or two ahead of us, and I want to limit any exposure of our information.” Gina nodded. “You think they bought someone.” “Yes. Probably more than one. I mean, think about it. They’re holding fundraisers for city council candidates in a club they control but don’t deal in. These guys are smart. And careful.” “I was kinda thinking the same thing.” Stan ran thick fingers through his trimmed beard. “For the first day or so after we got the warrants they used the phones quite a bit. Then they went all radio silence. They were careful about what they said before, but now it’s just a couple of words and then nothing.” Gina shook her head. “So what do we do?” “What we always do, girlfriend. Get the job done.” She looked at her two teammates. “It’s gonna be us and the lieutenant on this. Why don’t you two go check out Shock tonight? Go in and give the place a good look-see. Go as a couple. We always assumed the place was another trophy for a would-be Scarface, but I’m thinking Sonny was right. It’s something different. I want to know what.” Castillo sat at his desk, his eyes closed, until Trudy finished her report. “And you’re sure about a leak?” “As sure as I can be based on what we’re seeing, lieutenant.” Trudy shifted a bit in her chair. It was always unnerving when Castillo listed to your report without looking at you. But she was sure he could see through his eyelids. “Too many coincidences. Plus it really fits the way these two work.” “I agree. Are you sending Calabrese and Switek in without backup?” “Just me. They can’t go in armed, and wires are out for now. From what we’ve seen from the outside, Shock has good security. I didn’t want to risk showing our hand this soon.” “It’s the right call.” He leaned forward in the chair and opened his eyes. “We can’t tip our hand. Especially if they’re getting into politics.” He paused for a moment, making her think he might have changed his mind. “Do it. Just be close by in case they need help. I’ll stay close by the radio.” Stan Switek shifted from one foot to the other as they waited in the line outside the club’s main doors. I feel like a damned kid going to his first prom. Gina looks gorgeous in that dress, and I had to stuff myself in some suit from the property room. I bet she really misses Sonny right about now. “You look wonderful, Stan.” “You’re just saying that.” He smiled to cover the nerves. “You look great in that dress. White is really your color.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “No, I mean it. You look really good. It’s the pinstripes. They make you look like one of those Mafia guys who used to hover around Lombard.” “I guess that’s something. Gotta go with what I can, you know.” This time she just touched his arm. “Let’s have fun with this, ok? Like we did with drinks the other night. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I enjoyed that.” “So…so did I. And yeah, let’s live it up a bit.” He winked as they moved two bodies closer to the door. “At least it doesn’t smell as bad as the Bug Van out here.” He’d learned early on to cover embarrassment with humor, and sometimes it extended to other emotions as well. He hadn’t expected Gina to accept his invitation, let alone consider it a date and enjoy it. Maybe his luck was finally starting to turn… The doorman didn’t give them a second look, and once they were inside the raw sound and light of Shock hit Stan like a physical thing. Strobes and neon fought to highlight the long bar, and the sound system boomed out a pulse all its own. The dance floor was packed, and he guided Gina to an open spot along the bar where they could see the floor, the main doors, and the roped-off staircase leading up to what a neon scroll proclaimed the VIP rooms. “Whiskey for me and whatever the lady wants!” he shouted over the music at the bartender when the guy finally appeared. While Gina ordered, he turned and started scanning for security, his eyes jumping from one part of the room to the next basing his search off the two sharp-dressed sides of beef at the main doors. He figured they might not look the same, but they’d probably dress the same. It made it easier for them to track each other in the alternating gloom and brilliance of Shock’s main floor. “How much security?” He turned back to collect his drink, tossing a fifty on the bar like it was pocket lint. “Lemme know when that’s done, chief, an’ I’ll match it with another.” He took a sip and winced. “And the next one better be top shelf an’ not that well crap.” He noticed Gina’s smile, but kept his face blank. “Aside from the two at the door and the one at the rope? I see maybe four more. Look for the dark suits with white carnations. Kinda cheesy if you ask me, but it makes it easy for them to see each other.” “I just saw one of them toss a guy out.” Gina sipped her drink, using the glass and paper umbrella to hide her lips. “I recognized the creep. Low-level dealer who likes working clubs. Looks like they weren’t kidding when they said no one deals in here.” “It’s a tight operation. I bet those guys have radios, too. The Secret Service kind with the earpiece and microphone up your sleeve.” He took another sip of the low-end whiskey. “Means we might be able to pick it up if we hit the right frequency.” “And the lady of the house just arrived.” Gina jerked her head toward the door. Stan raised his eyebrows. Holly Miller knew how to accent her looks, from the clip in her thick brown hair to the tight red dress and hooker heels. She turned heads from the moment she walked in until she headed upstairs to the VIP rooms. I’d love to get a wire in one of those. That and the club rooms at Pelican’s Nest. But there’s no way we’d get a warrant. “You can roll that tongue of yours back in your mouth, Stanley.” He raised his hands. “Hey! No such thing! I’ve got the prettiest girl in the place on my arm tonight.” He paused, realizing what he’d just said. “Sorry…I didn’t mean…” “It’s ok, Stan. I happen to think I’m here with the greatest guy in the place.” Her cheeks turned a light red and she took another drink. “Did you see anyone go upstairs before she did?” “No. Which means she’s meeting someone who’s already up there or showing up early for something. Or maybe the actual office is up there. The blueprints the city had on file weren’t real clear about that, and there’s been some work done since according to the permits.” He rattled on a bit more, but he couldn’t forget what she’d said. Maybe there’s a chance. God, it would be nice if there was a chance. They spent about an hour at the bar, broken up by a few minutes of awkward dancing. At least Stan felt awkward…like one of those dancing bears who always showed up in the cartoons he’d watched as a kid. Gina had moves like flowing moonlight, or at least what he imagined moonlight would look like if it could dance. Still, he’d kept one eye on the stairs to the VIP rooms. But nothing happened. “We came up empty, lieutenant. Holly Miller was there, all right. But she stayed upstairs the entire time we were there. A couple of couples went up and came back down, but I don’t think any of them met with her.” Stan shrugged. “The office has gotta be up there. If I had to guess based on the only approved plans we’ve got, I’d say it’s that room in the back.” “How did they remodel without approved plans?” “Cash on the barrelhead. Ol’ Miguel probably paid some contractor in fresh fifties and the guy only pulled the permits he had to have. Electrical. Maybe plumbing. Basic stuff that could hide anything.” “Keep on it. We need a way in.” Stan shook his head. “I don’t know if there is one, lieutenant. Not like we usually do, I mean. We just may have to keep circling and hope they make a mistake.” He hated how hollow his own words sounded. These bastards just don’t make mistakes. “I hate deals like this.” Pasqual Benitez chuckled as he looked over at Rafe manning the radar. “Come on, mano. It ain’t that bad. At least it’s not one of them damned fishing boats.” He cut the throttles on the new boat a touch more, feeling her settle deeper into the water as the speed bled off. “How close are we?” “Another two minutes tops at this speed. I got the fishing boat on the scope now.” Rafe chuckled. “At least this dude uses guys who know what water is. Some of the guys The Bat sends…” “Yeah.” Pasqual could feel the Cuban behind him in the open cabin of the go-fast. Like most of them, he never said much but seemed to see everything. But this was big enough load he was going to try for two kilos. Maybe three or four if things worked out. It was easier now that Enrique let him run his own routes. Still, it was chump change compared to what the brothers were raking in. He’d seen the numbers with his own eyes, heard them talking about it in that damned club they had. And they thought a boat could buy him off. It was an insult compared to what he figured he deserved. The first time he’d made some nice extra money, cut down and parceled out to small-time dealers in Overtown and Little Haiti. And in the year since then he’d done the same thing every couple of months. Padding his own accounts and watching demand for his second-string product grow over time. But to step up his game he’d have to let Rafe distract the ape with the Mini-14. Looking over again, he saw the other man wink. It’s a go. Good. I figured he’d go for it. I know he needs the cash, and he’s still got a grudge against Ricky for something or another. They’d worked it out over drinks at The Overton earlier in the week. Rafe would do his bit for a third of what Pasqual got for the drugs. He thinks it’s half, but since I control that end he’s not gonna be any wiser. Kinda like I was before my eyes got opened. “I got their lights.” He cut the power even more, blinking his own navigation lights to let the fishing boat know he saw them. There was an answering blink and then the big cabin cruiser’s lights went dark. “It’s on.” He turned to the Cuban. “You’d better get in position in case they get ideas.” “Columbians.” The Cuban snorted deep in his throat and moved to the bow of the boat, his stainless steel Mini-14 cradled in his big arms. “Yeah, but they’re on time and they don’t look out of place if the Coast Guard wanders by.” He turned. “Keep an eye on that scope, brother. We don’t want any surprises.” Reaching down, he felt for the gym bag full of cash. He was also very aware of the weight of the .45 tucked into the back of his jeans. They were close enough for him to make out details on the cabin cruiser’s deck, even though the only light was from the stars dancing overhead. He was ready when a man emerged from the side of the stepped cabin. “Rafe, get the line, ok? Don’t want risk drifting out there.” He felt the boat rise and fall. “Got some swells going on.” “You bring the cash?” The voice from the other boat was thin and tight with nerves. Great! Last thing I need’s a jumped-up Columbian with an UZI. “Yeah. You got the goods?” “Si. Come on over and we check both.” He nodded to the Cuban. “You got it, but don’t forget my guy here can blow the balls off a fly at a hundred yards with that rifle of his.” “I don’t forget. And you don’t forget my pal has a shotgun.” “So we know where we fuckin’ stand. Let’s get this done.” He nodded to Rafe to take the wheel as he grabbed the bag and made the jump to the bigger boat. The Columbian was rail-thin and had narrow, mean eyes in a face pockmarked by a bad case of childhood acne. Or maybe smallpox. Pasqual didn’t care. What he cared about was the olive green duffle bag by the man’s feet. They went through the ritual of examining bundles of cash and random testing from the plastic-wrapped kilos, and soon enough Pasqual was jumping back to his boat. With a quick turn of the rope he cast off from the other ship and nodded at Rafe. “Take us about a quarter of a mile away from them. I’ll get the cargo stored.” The Cuban’s voice rasped from the bow. “How did it go?” “Good. No problems. They deal more professionally than they look.” “Hey! Can you come over here and watch the radar? We had a faint contact to the north, and in this damned dark I need to focus on piloting.” The Cuban shot a look at Pasqual. “Go ahead. I can store the stuff. Better we don’t run into some damned cruise ship or a Coast Guard cutter.” He hefted the bag. “This won’t take long, and then I’ll take the wheel.” He made a show of turning on the cabin lights and opening the main compartment, but the moment the Cuban’s head turned to the radar screen he pressed down and opened a smaller compartment he’d had put in after Ricky’s guy was done with the boat. Two kilos slid in without a sound, and then he closed it before loading the main compartment with the rest of the buy still in the duffle bag. Moments later he eased back into the pilot’s seat and opened the throttles, sending the boat speeding back toward Miami. The hard part was done. The guys at the boat house would just take the bag and unload it, most of it going straight to other buyers while a small part would head to one of the Mendoza stash houses. No one counted the kilos, least of all on a run Pasqual made. “You need help with the Mendoza case, Castillo.” Martin Castillo looked at the deputy chief and shook his head, glad they hadn’t sent Carstairs. “No. We don’t. My people have it in hand. The Mendozas are careful, so it’s going to take time.” “The mayor thinks you need help. So he called the chief. Then the chief called me. Look, I know your people do good work. But these guys…” “Are connected.” Castillo looked down at his own notes. “Do you want to know how much they donated to the mayor’s re-election campaign last year? Or the campaign before that? Or at least one city council election involving South Beach?” “You’re saying there’s a leak.” “I’m saying we have to be careful. We’ll only get one shot at Miguel Mendoza. If we miss, he’ll be untouchable. But with a big, detailed case his political allies will go to ground and leave him exposed.” “Sounds like you might need some bigger help, then. Federal help.” “You mean DEA?” “Not exactly. It seems the FBI’s taken an interest in the Mendozas. Don’t know why, but they keep calling about it. The chief thinks it’s an excellent opportunity for a partnership.” “Of course.” He knew there was no point in fighting it. The fact the chief had been mentioned indicated it was a done deal. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. “My unit’s undermanned. We don’t have time to hold the hands of the FBI.” “Make time. There are eyes on this one, Martin. People want to see it end successfully. And after that incident with Crockett and Tubbs, something like this would go far to getting you back in the chief’s good graces.” “I see. I want it on the record that OCB did not request this and that it was forced on us.” “Do you have to be such an ass, Martin?” Castillo smiled for the first time since he’d walked into the office. “Yes.” Then he turned and headed back out. He’d done what he could…now he just had to brief the team. Trudy Joplin came out of her chair. “What do you mean the FBI?” Castillo paused for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Trudy this angry. “Direct orders. We have no choice.” “You know they’ll screw this case up, lieutenant. Park all their damned tan Fords in front of the Pelican’s Nest like they did last time they got involved.” “That was a different case.” “But the same bunch of idiots.” She sat back down, her eyes still hot. “We have no choice,” he said, repeating the words. “Understand this…we will bring down the Mendozas. With or without the FBI.” “So why…” “They don’t trust us.” He looked at each member of the team. “And I can’t really blame them. Costa Morada was a disaster from their perspective. And we were in the middle of it. Crockett and Tubbs are gone, but they still need someone to blame.” Gina shook her head. “It’s not right. And the FBI? They can’t find their own backsides with both hands. At least DEA knows what cocaine looks like.” Castillo let them bitch for a few more moments. “We need to get to work. This gets us nowhere.” He looked around the table. “I want file summaries ready to turn over to them by this time tomorrow. They’re only getting summaries, not the original case files. No matter how much they complain. We might have to work with them, but we don’t have to give them everything we have.” “When are J. Edgar’s avengers supposed to arrive?” “The day after tomorrow.” Castillo looked down at his hands. “A Special Agent Faust. There may be one or two others, but I’m told Faust is our main point of contact with the Bureau.” He’d hoped the FBI might break with tradition and send someone from their Miami office who was at least competent. But they hadn’t. Martin Castillo looked across the table at a smug bastard with a crew cut and badly cut gray suit that must have from from the Sears’ clearance rack. The man had been droning on for close to five minutes without saying anything. He decided they must screen for the ability at Quantico and reject anyone who couldn’t do it. “The way I see it, we send one of your dollies in there all fancied up and see if we can draw this Enrique out.” “Enrique Mendoza has a woman he’s devoted to. As far as we can tell he’s been faithful to her for years.” Special Agent Archie Faust leered at Gina. “Well, just cut that top a bit lower and I bet he forgets all about her.” He shifted his gaze to Trudy and chuckled. “And if that don’t work, we can always go more exotic. Maybe that’s his thing.” “Don’t do that again.” “Say what?” “Don’t make a comment like that about any of my detectives again.” Castillo could feel the anger building in his gut, rolling up into his chest. And he didn’t try to stop it. Too much had happened in the last few months. “Detectives? Hell, I thought they were your decoys. We ain’t got women like this in the Bureau, let me…” Castillo was around the table in two heartbeats, his fingers finding Faust’s throat. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Faust gurgled, his eyes bugging out in his face. He tried to reach up, to grab Castillo’s hand. The thud of Castillo’s fist slamming into Faust’s liver was almost a physical thing in the room. Once, then twice.“Nod if you understand.” The man’s head bobbed like the hula girl stuck on the Bug Van’s dashboard. He held on for a second longer, watching the man’s face start to change color, then released him with a sweep of his arm. Faust hit the floor like a sack of flour, clutching at himself and gasping for breath. “I…” “Consider yourself lucky.” His voice was almost a whisper. “And understand this: we didn’t ask for your help. We don’t need you here. And if you ever disrespect any of my people again you’ll be looking at medical retirement.” Switek’s voice echoed from somewhere behind Castillo. “Man, I told him to be careful around that chair, lieutenant. It’s had a bad leg for what, six months now? Just can’t get Metro Dade to replace it.” Gina nodded. “It’s a regular health hazard. Who knew FBI agents could be so clumsy?” “Did…did you threaten a Federal agent?” He leaned over so his lips were scant inches from Faust’s ear. “No. I made a promise. And I honor my promises. I don’t want to see you in this building again. Or anyone else from the FBI. We will handle this ourselves.” Once Faust dragged himself out, Castillo spoke again. “If anything comes back from this, it’s my responsibility. I don’t want any of you…” Trudy looked up, her eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare say that! That son of a bitch disrespected me and my partner. He deserved everything he got, and then some. But yeah, I saw him fall out of that defective chair and hurt himself on the table just like everyone else in this room did. The Feebs have had years to build something on the Mendozas. They don’t get to swoop in and take our case. And I don’t give a damn what the bosses said.” “There might be repercussions.” “I don’t give a shit!” Her voice was still hot. “We did the work on this one. Sonny and Rico did the work on this one. We close it out.” Stan cleared his throat. “Look, they never question results, right? So if we break this one it’s all water under the bridge or whatever the hell it is they say.” “Switek’s right.” Castillo reached up and straightened his thin black leather tie. “But we’ll need to work quickly.” Gina nodded. “Why don’t we try digging something up on this Holly Miller? She’s close to Miguel, and a whole lot of their money moves through her club. She might be the weak link we need. Or at least a way in. Enrique’s woman, Tiffy, is more a club promoter than anything else. Ricky might care about her, but she’s not gonna have the access Holly does. According to Sonny’s notes he was sure they were both involved.” “Focus on the women.” Castillo was watching Trudy from the corner of his eye. He’d never seen that kind of anger from her, but he understood it. Less than ten minutes later his phone rang. “What’s this I hear about you assaulting a Federal agent?” “He made derogatory comments about both of my female detectives. More than once. They’ll be speaking with their union rep later today about the entire incident.” The deputy chief’s voice changed. “Do you think that’s necessary?” “Yes. It’s my understanding Metro-Dade takes sexual harassment very seriously. Or has something changed?” “Damn you, Castillo! The man’s…” “An incompetent pig. If that’s the FBI’s idea of help, we’re better off without it.” There was a long pause. “Look, I might have an idea. Let me reach out to someone with another agency. And you say they’re both talking to a union rep? You’re sure about that?” “Yes.” They weren’t now, but he knew they would be as soon as he got off the phone and told Gina and Trudy about the call. “Ok. Tell them they have my apologies on behalf of the department. This won’t happen again.” “No. It won’t.” Castillo hung up without waiting for a reply. He waited a heartbeat, then dialed an extension. “Gina? My office, please. And bring Trudy with you. You’ll be wanting to call your union representative.” “You’re sure of this?” The man nodded, his head bobbling like it was going to break from his neck. “As sure as we can be, of course. Without running numbers.” Enrique Mendoza looked up across the desk. “Run the damned numbers. I want to know if we’re really losing product, and if so where. You’re sure it’s not on the supply end?” “We don’t think so. Otherwise it would be like before and each shipment from the same supplier would come up short. We might not have noticed if the stash house in the Groves hadn’t started counting kilos. They had a couple come in during the last six months that should have been twenty kilos but only had eighteen.” He paused. “And the load last month went straight from the boat to the stash house. Part of Miguel’s new stockpiling strategy. No one touched it once it got to the boat house.” “Have the new kid…what’s his name? Xavier. Have him check it. He’s always got that calculator with him.” Sighing, he reached for the phone. “I need to let Miguel know.”

September 1989 “Crockett and Tubbs have both resigned from Metro-Dade. They’re gone. And nothing will change that.” Martin Castillo looked around the conference room, holding the gaze of each of his remaining detectives for a moment before moving to the next. “I understand this is hard, but we have jobs to do. Their departure has made that difficult, but not impossible. I will not be seeking replacements for them. We don’t have time to bring anyone new up to speed on our cases.” Stanley Switek snorted. “So they bail and leave us to clean up the mess.” “Enough. I know you and Crockett had issues. He’s gone now. I need you here and working.” “Sorry, lieutenant. It won’t happen again.” Castillo held his gaze for a long minute. He couldn’t really blame Switek for feeling the way he did, and in some ways he was right. Crockett and Tubbs had taken what many considered the easy way out…dropping their badges and walking. Switek could have done the same, but instead he stuck it out, dealing with the suspension and Internal Affairs sniffing around his every movement. But that didn’t change the fact that the Job still needed to get done. “I want each of you to review your ongoing cases. Anything that isn’t top priority will be handed off to another unit. That includes the mayor’s hooker stings.” Gorman chuckled. “Man, that was something I was lookin’ forward to.” “We won’t be wasting our time on them. Not this year. I want this unit working one or two high priority cases. Cases that will make a difference, not just headlines. Am I clear?” Trudy Joplin cleared her throat. “What about the Mendozas, lieutenant? We still don’t have a clear picture of what they’re up to, but they keep coming up any time we meet with our CIs.” “Stay on them. They’re one of the few intact cartels still operating in Miami.” In spite of himself Castillo almost smiled. “Crockett did a good job shattering three of them when he was Burnett.” Trudy nodded. “We got a bunch of little fish out there and one shark still swimming.” “We might need a bigger boat.” Stan chucked, then shook his head. “Sorry. Bad joke.” “No. You’re right, Switek. We will need more than we have to bring them down. Both resources and manpower. Still, we do what we can with what we have.” He looked around the table. “Gorman, Dibble, I want you working your CIs in Little Haiti and Liberty City. Especially Liberty City. They hear things, and we need to know what they’re hearing. Gina, Trudy, stick with the clubs in South Beach. Crockett seemed to think Miguel Mendoza was up to something there, and I believe he might have been right. We need to know what it is. Switek, start planning wiretaps. What warrants you’ll need. I’ll get what I can. We have to get inside their communications. Hear what they’re doing.” “You got it, lieutenant. The hard one’s gonna be that club of theirs.” “The Palm?” “No. Shock.” Stan looked around. “I know they don’t move coke through it or anything like that, and there’s no Mendoza on the paperwork anywhere. But the owner? Holly Miller. She’s Miguel Mendoza’s lady. The place is technically clean as a whistle, so…” “You think they run their planning through it.” “Money, too.” Trudy smiled. “I follow Miami Nightlife a bit. Shock is one of the highest grossing clubs in South Beach. Has been almost since it opened.” “Gina, Trudy. Dig into that club. You’ll be working South Beach as a whole, but focus on it. I want to know if Switek’s right about the connection with the Mendozas, and if the place is really clean.” Dibble looked at his cuticles. “It is, lieutenant. Maybe some freelance blow in there now and again, but that’s it. Club security actually tosses dealers out on their asses. It’s one of the few places in South Beach that does that. One of my buddies in Patrol used to have a beat in South Beach, and he always wondered how the hell they did it. Turned so much profit while being clean, that is.” Castillo nodded, noticing Gina hadn’t contributed a thing to the meeting. Neither had Gorman, but that wasn’t usual. Gina’s silence was. “Stay on it. All of you. We’re going to need all the information we can get if we hope to bring these men down. They’re careful and smart…a dangerous combination.” Back in his office, he slumped in his battered office chair, letting it rock back and closing his eyes. Keeping the team focused had always been difficult, but it would be worse now. Dibble and Gorman were being pushed into roles they weren’t suited for, and his remaining three detectives were wearing thin. Switek had only just come back from a near-suspension and major gambling issues, and he could sense Gina starting to look for the door. Only Trudy remained focused, and some days he wondered how she did it. He also knew they couldn’t let up. In the aftermath of Costa Morada the brass were looking for a reason, any reason, to disband the unit. He was surprised they hadn’t already. The pressure had to be coming in from every angle, from the state all the way up to the State Department and any number of alphabet Federal agencies. But for some reason they were still operating. Maybe they were just waiting for him to fail spectacularly enough they could offer him up on a platter and wash their hands of the entire thing. Certainly they’d had their successes, and maybe that was part of why they were still operating. He could see the bosses hoping for one last headline-grabbing case before declaring victory and disbanding the unit. And the Mendozas had the potential to be that case. What they didn’t understand was Martin Castillo would rather go out a winner, and if taking down the Mendozas was the last act of Metro-Dade’s Organized Crime Bureau he was ok with it. But he also needed to look after his people the best he could. Opening his eyes, he rocked the chair forward and opened his center desk drawer. The memo was right where he’d left it…another of those proposals for improving victims’ services that always played well during elections and then were conveniently forgotten until the next cycle. Not this time. Reading the lines again, he picked up the phone receiver and punched in numbers. “This is Lieutenant Castillo. I might have an idea about that proposal you sent out last week. Can we meet?” When the knock on his door came, it wasn’t a surprise. The words weren’t, either. “I don’t think I can keep doing this, lieutenant.” Martin Castillo looked across his desk at Gina Calabrese. She’d been struggling ever since Crockett and Tubbs resigned from the force, but until now she’d been holding up as well as could be expected. “I think I understand.” “Do you?” Her voice climbed a bit. “Yes. We’ve all experienced loss this past year. Some more than others.” He looked through the office window at Stan Switek working at his desk. “And for some the loss goes back before that.” She turned, following his gaze. Then she looked down. “I…I didn’t think…” “It’s fine, Gina. I understand wanting to move on. It’s something I’ve done, too. More than once.” He paused, looking down at the folder on his desk. “Were you going to transfer or leave the force?” “Being a cop is all I know, lieutenant. It’s all I’ve ever done, and all I’ve ever wanted to do. But it feels like we’re on a treadmill here. I want to make a difference. Or feel like I’m making a difference.” She looked away, at a spot somewhere past his shoulder, and he knew she was thinking of Crockett. “There are too many memories here, too.” “I understand that, too. Some ghosts we carry with us, others we can leave behind.” She smiled, but he could see tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “I saw an interdepartmental memo last week. Something about Victims’ Services wanting to recruit a detective with Vice experience to work with some of their clients.” Castillo just nodded, keeping his eyes hooded. He knew about the memo…in fact he’d been the one who’d pushed for the position and then worked out the details with the unit’s boss. Gina was on the edge of burning out. He’d known that for some time. So he’d used what was left of his clout within Metro-Dade to create a position for her. One where she could use her skills and knowledge and help some of the girls they’d been arresting and re-arresting for years. He didn’t know if it would work or not, but he couldn’t think of anyone better than Gina to give the program a solid chance. “I know you don’t think much of that work…” “That’s not true. It’s incredibly important to what we do. If we can’t reach those girls, someone needs to. And I know you want to be a part of that.” He paused. This was the difficult part. “All I ask is that you hold off on the transfer until we have the Mendoza brothers in custody.” Again he looked out at the squad room. “Dibble and Gorman just aren’t up to this. I need my best detectives.” I doubt those two will ever be up to it, but I’d rather deal with them than new people. At least I know their limitations. There was a long silence, filled by the laboring whine of the air conditioning. “Ok, lieutenant. I’ll stick it out. But only until they’re arrested. It could take years for them to make it to court…” “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Just until they’re in custody. But you should apply just the same. I’m sure we can work something out if the offer is made.” I already know she has the job, and that they’ll hold it for her until we’re through. It will give them enough time to get the position lined out and supported properly. Trudy Joplin knocked on his door five minutes after Gina left. “Something I should know about?” she asked after he nodded her inside. “Gina looks happier than I’ve seen her in months.” “She’s putting in for the opening in victims’ services. She’s agreed to stay on until the Mendozas are in custody.” Trudy nodded. “That wouldn’t happen to be the position you twisted some arms for?” She smiled. “Come on, lieutenant. I know how this department thinks, and they wouldn’t come up with something like that without a lot of outside help. And they sure as hell wouldn’t fund it without some serious arm-twisting.” A faint smile touched his lips, but he didn’t say anything. She’s smart. I wonder how many people underestimate her because of her gender and skin color? “How’s Switek holding up? There’s going to be a lot of weight on his shoulders, and if he needs time he should take it now. I know the last year has been hard for him.” “The big guy’s doing better.” There was an unaccustomed twinkle in her eyes. “He’s dating Gina now.” Castillo hid his surprise well. But then he’d never kept up with the social lives of his detectives. Except for Crockett. You never knew what kind of trouble his heart would get him into. “That’s unexpected.” “She finally got over that thing she had for Sonny. And Stan? He’s a great guy. Funny and has a huge heart. I think they’re good for each other. And she keeps his gambling in check.” “Good. These next few weeks will be hard. We’re going after major players and we’re down two detectives who knew the case files intimately.” She smiled. “Believe it or not Sonny actually left decent notes for a change. It looks like he was starting to focus on the Mendoza women, so we might have a good place to start. And Rico? His stuff is thorough. I’ve been reading up on it all, and I think we’ve got a real chance at them. It’s gonna come down to ballistics for some of it, though, so the lab better be on its game or I’m gonna go down there and kick some ass. That .45 keeps popping up like a bad habit, and we need to tie it to an owner.” “Good. I want to move on them soon.” He looked down at the files on his desk. Cases going back to before his time with Vice. And all with a common thread. “The Mendozas have been waking the streets for far too long.” And I share some of the responsibility for that. It needs to be made right before I move on. The thought surprised him, but only for a moment. Once Trudy left, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his battered desk chair. He’d been with Metro-Dade longer than he’d stayed with any assignment aside from his time with CIA. So much had been done, but so much was left undone. Again, like the CIA. And he wasn’t sure what could be next. But he knew he needed to put an end to the Mendozas. Crockett had been right about them, at least as far as he’d gone. They were dangerous, but not for the bodies they left in their wake. In truth the Mendozas were one of the least openly violent cartels Castillo had ever seen. That was what made them dangerous. They were an established Miami family going back generations, not brash outsiders draped in gold chains and waving MAC-10s around on street corners. They moved in the right circles, said the right things, and liked their business quiet and profitable. He knew they could pile up bodies with the best of the Calderones and Carreras, but they only did it when provoked. And they had what Sonny had brought to the Manolo and Carrera organizations during his break: precision. He faulted himself for missing most of it. For focusing on a handful of bodies shattered by those .45 slugs and not seeing the broader picture. Not understanding what Miguel in particular was up to until it was almost too late. They hid their money well, but traces of it were showing up in a number of South Beach clubs. Always high-end operations with high-powered names on the VIP lists. Switek had been right about that. But Miguel didn’t collect them like charms on a bracelet. Instead he seemed to invest in them, leaving the original owners in as figureheads while he laundered his money and made some operational changes to make the places more profitable. And it was easy to underestimate Enrique as well. The grinning younger brother with the almost surfer looks and easy way with boats. But he had a loyal group of pilots and knew the waters around Miami better than anyone alive. Focusing on moving product, he seemed to have raised it to an art form. Never sticking with the same routes or techniques, maybe even letting his pilots specialize according to their talents. It was hard to say, because they’d never gotten anyone inside the Mendoza organization. Not after the disaster with Gustavo. Keeping his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the squad room leaking around his closed office door, Castillo could still see the file picture of Gustavo Mendoza. He’d pushed him too hard. He’d known it then, and he knew it now. He tried to justify it by telling himself Crockett would have pushed the kid harder, but that only went so far. A push was still a push, and a small one could be too far as easy as a big one. He was down two detectives, but there was no avoiding it now. The Mendozas had to be brought down. Even if he had to do it himself. Metro-Dade didn’t seem to have the appetite for the case, or maybe the Mendozas were just too connected now. And with the Manolos and Carrera out of the way, they were poised to take over the majority of the cocaine trade in Miami. Maybe even South Florida if they wanted. No, it wasn’t something he could let stand. “What do you think of her?” Enrique Mendoza grinned. “I think you picked a good one, Pasqual. Is she as fast as she looks, or is the paint designed to distract the Coast Guard and lure in the ladies?” Pasqual laughed. “Both. She’s got a top speed of close to sixty knots. Not as fast as your racehorse over there, but close enough. She’s got more cargo capacity, though, and with the auxiliary tanks we can run all the way to the islands if need be and back with a full load.” “Good. We may need to test that capability soon. The Bat has another shipment coming in, but he doesn’t want to get too close the Florida. Something about a warrant or something. With Oswaldo you never know what’s real and what’s shit.” “It’s probably that rust bucket he’s been using lately. The thing doesn’t have the range to get as close as his other ship did and still make it back to whatever grass hut he uses to stage his operation.” “You’re probably right. I’ll get you the details as soon as I know them. If you think you can take this one solo?” “No problem, boss. You got a hot date?” “Something like that. Tiffy’s got some client or something she wants me to meet.” Enrique looked at his watch and frowned. “And I’m already almost late. I’ll call you as soon as I know the details of that run.” As he gunned the Corvette away from the boat house and out toward the main road, Enrique thought back to the SCARAB he’d just looked over. It wasn’t a bad boat…better than some in their growing fleet but not as good as the handful at the top. Reaching down, he turned on the car’s tape player and let the music blast over him through the Alpine system. They didn’t really need another boat like that, and he wondered for a moment why Pasqual had purchased one. Ah, it don’t matter that much. If it lets him feel important, it’s ok with me. It’s not like we don’t have the money. Turning onto the causeway, he let a smile slide over his face. After all, he had his own boat. No reason why his right hand couldn’t have his own, too. He pulled into his reserved spot at Shock just after seven, but the line at the door was already wrapping around the corner. Weaving his way through, he grinned at the Cuban on the door who just nodded and waved him past. “What can I say?” he said when someone complained. “I know a guy. Hell, I am the guy.” Inside it was loud, Duran Duran blasting through a sound system that cost more than some people made in six months. The bar was packed, and he bypassed it and took the stairs to the upper VIP area two at a time. Again one of the big Cubans nodded him through, and he walked into a cocoon of light blue neon and glittering chrome. Holly had done Shock’s VIP floor into a series of separate rooms, each one soundproofed to keep out most of the thunder from downstairs. Of the four rooms, he’d gone into the one they called the Ocean Room, mainly because of the blue lighting scheme. It was Tiffy’s favorite, and where she usually held court when she took meetings with people from other clubs. He saw her at the small private bar, her thick blonde hair streaked with blue from the lights and her tight blue dress doing little to hide her impressive body. She smiled when she saw him. “Ricky! I hoped you’d make it, babe!” “Wouldn’t miss you for the world.” He looked at the others in a loose arc around the bar. “The rest of ‘em I ain’t so sure, but I’d never miss you.” He’d already made the client…a slightly thick guy who might be Italian or Mexican depending on his mood and had at some point in his life confused greasy with slick. There was a girl, likely rented for the evening, and a couple of guys he assumed were supposed to be bodyguards. He smiled, feeling the weight of his own .45 tucked into the back of his pants and knowing the goons would have been frisked coming in. “Now be nice. Tommy here is looking to increase traffic in his club.” She turned to the greaseball. “What’s the name of it again?” “Popper. We’re over in the Grove.” He shrugged. “It ain’t South Beach, but we do ok. Could always do better, though.” “Never heard of it. But if anyone can change that, it’s Tiffy.” He grinned and kissed her hard, feeling her kiss him, back before he broke away and turned to the bar. “Hey, Joe. Get me a rum, ok?” He listened to them talk for a moment. Coconut Grove bored the hell out of him, but he knew there was money there. And a market. Markets did interest him, so he started paying some attention as he sipped his rum and let his hand roam up and down Tiffy’s backside. From her wiggle he knew she didn’t mind the attention one bit. And he had to swallow a chuckle when he saw the rent girl’s eyes go wide. Eventually Tommy got tired of listening to himself and took himself and his two goons and the rented girl back downstairs. Where he went from there Enrique didn’t really care. As soon as the door hissed shut, Tiffy pressed herself up against him. “You know I’m not responsible for my actions when you do that.” “Do what?” “Touch me like that in public.” She started to work her hips, and he knew what would happen next. “What did you think of Tommy?” “Grease bag.” He turned his head and gave Joe a ‘take a break for a few minutes’ look and winked as the bartender nodded and headed for the service door. “A second-string guy who thinks he’s making moves. Would love to have you do to him what you’re doing to me now, but knows it ain’t gonna happen.” She giggled, grinding harder and letting her dress ride up over her hips. “I’ve seen the club. Popper. It’s not bad. Not up to Holly’s standards, but it’s got potential. Kind of like what you’re doing now.” “Maybe we can make something happen for that greaseball.” He reached down to his belt. “And I know I can make something happen for you, baby.” Not for the first time he was glad the VIP rooms were soundproofed. He met with Miguel a few hours later, in one of the private rooms at Pelican’s Nest. They’d been coming here more frequently since the demise of Carrera and Burnett’s abrupt exit from Miami. Enrique got a kick out of talking with Otis Forsythe, but he suspect Miguel liked coming here for the associations. After all, their grandfather had been one of the founders of the dump. “So you think this place has potential?” Enrique shook his head. “Not me. Tiffy. I know as much about clubs as you do about boats, brother. But Tiffy…she’s good at what she does. And if she thinks it’s got potential it probably does. Plus it gets us into the Grove. Not my scene, but they do have money.” “Yes. They do. Did she say how much he needed?” “No. I can have her ask if you want.” “Maybe I’ll just pay him a visit. Play the wealthy benefactor, and then hit him with the bill once our money’s though the door.” Enrique nodded, reaching for his glass of rum. “How many clubs do we have interests in now? I keep forgetting.” “Kind of like I lose track of how many boats we have.” Miguel smiled. “There’s Shock, of course. And then we have money invested in five others. This Popper would make six.” “Sounds like you added a couple since we last talked about this.” Enrique narrowed his eyes. “I know about The Palm and Kilowatt, but…” “In South Beach we added Reggie’s and Le Fleur. There’s also Holliday’s. It’s more a bar than a club, but it lets us touch a new clientele.” “You mean bikers? Must make for fun times for those big Cubans.” Enrique chuckled. “But you’re right. Bikers have their uses. And they spend money.” He leaned forward. “We’re adding a couple more boats, too. Longer-range craft with better engines so we can move things from farther out. I let Pasqual pick out on for himself. Seemed fair since he does a fair number of runs on his own now.” “Good. I know The Bat doesn’t always like to come close to U.S.waters, and some of the new people we’re dealing with now that Burnett’s organization is gone are also skittish about the Coast Guard.” Miguel paused for a moment, and Enrique recognized the thoughtful look in his older brother’s eyes. “I wonder what happened to Sonny Burnett?” “My bet is he skipped town. Go someplace quiet and wait for the noise to die down. At least that’s what I’d do after what happened. Maybe he took Carrera’s woman with him.” “No. I hear she headed West. Las Vegas or California apparently.” Miguel paused again. “You know, we’re lucky he never came after us.” “You really think he could have gotten through those Cubans you seem to pull out of thin air?” It wasn’t first time he’d wondered just where and how his brother arranged security. “Maybe not. But he would have done us serious damage in the attempt.” He leaned back in his chair. “Look. I’ll let you know about Popper in the next couple of days. Or should I go directly to Tiffy?” Enrique thought. “Tiffy would be better. We have a run scheduled the day after tomorrow, and I don’t want any delay in the news getting to her.” “I’ll let her know. How are things between you two?” “Fantastic.” Enrique grinned. “Yes, I know. You never thought you’d see me with the same girl for more than three days. But we…we understand each other. And you and Holly? I never thought I’d see you with a girl period. Married to the business is what I thought.” Miguel laughed. “So did I, to be honest. But Holly has a great mind for business. And she doesn’t meddle in our other affairs. She knows, but doesn’t want to know.” “Tiffy’s the same way. I think she knows full well what I do, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. ‘What people do is their business’ is what she says. Maybe it comes from working too much in clubs.” “That could be. Holly says the same thing.” He paused again, reaching inside his jacket for one of the fat Cuban cigars he’d started to favor. “Have you heard anything from Papi?” “No. He and Jesus have both been quiet. What did you say to them?” “To Jesus? Nothing. To Papi…let’s say I let him know what we do and what might happen to him if he cocks things up.” Enrique nodded. “Good. About time someone told that old bastard off. It couldn’t have been easy, though.” He could see the sadness plain in his brother’s eyes. “It wasn’t, but at the same time it felt good, you know? After all the times he beat mama, tried to beat you, and beat me. It felt good to see fear in his eyes. Real fear, not that fake kind he puts on for the padres.” They were quiet for a time, enjoying their drinks. Enrique watched the room’s efficient exhaust fan sucking Miguel’s cigar smoke toward the ceiling in a swirling stream, letting his thoughts follow it outside. Then he looked at his watch. “Shit. We got a shipment of those Cuban turds coming in tonight, and it’s my turn to check it in. See how the new pilot did. It’s not his first solo run, but it’s his first time as second seat.” “Good. We need to move men up. With the Carreras and Manolos out of the way, the stage is ours, brother. We’re the last ones standing, at least in Miami. And according to my Patrol friend it’s going to stay that way for a while.”

Spring 1989 After Redemption in Blood and before Freefall “Are you sure about this?” Miguel Mendoza nodded, squeezing Holly’s hand. “Of course. We need to start making sure all our bases are covered, and to do that in this town you have to play politics. And that means donations.” They were siting in Shock’s comfortable office, the soundproofing insulating them from most of the club’s sound system. Still, he could feel the vibrations from the bass speakers through the soles of his shoes. “I don’t know how you can stand all this noise.” “It’s the sound of money, baby.” She smiled and winked at him. “The louder it is, the more people show up. The more people, the more they drink. Pure money.” “Yes. Of course you’re right. It’s just not what I’m used to.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Anyhow, we need to look to the future. And do that we need allies. Or more exactly people who don’t know they’re our allies. Now that El Gato is dead and the Carrera organization is in ruins we have to look to the future.” “Did you…” “No. We had nothing to do with that mess.” He smiled, glad he could tell her the truth about the thing. “We sat back and let them tear each other apart. Though I do wonder what ended up happening to Sonny Burnett. He could be a threat if he should surface again. The man’s smart, and very capable.” He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “But that doesn’t matter now, either. Who do you know that could represent South Beach on the city council?” “There’s a number of people who want the job.” Holly brushed her thick hair back from her face. He could see new lines there now…likely brought on by the workload at Shock. I need to get her some help. “Most of them are jackasses, but a couple of them see things as they are. They talk law and order, but look the other way when it comes to money flowing into the community.” “Law and order, so long as it’s in someone else’s neighborhood.” “Yes. So long as there’s no violent crime.” She chuckled. “The people I’m thinking of smoke pot at least, and one of the might be a recreational cocaine user. They don’t see drugs as crime on their own.” “Good. Get me their names and we’ll make a donation or two.” And maybe I’ll have Esteban do some digging. See if these ‘upstanding citizens’ have any dirt on their hands. “It’s something we’ve done before with the distribution business. Drop money into the chamber of commerce to keep the wheels turning. This is the same thing, just different wheels.” “What about other neighborhoods?” “We’ll look at Brickell, too. Some of the new clubs going in might make good investment opportunities.” He smiled. “Not that I’d drop those on you, my love. Shock seems to keep you busy enough as it is.” “It does, especially with the addition of the second stage. You wouldn’t believe some of the events we can put on now.” He smiled, letting her talk without hearing most of it. Any time she talked about the club a light bloomed in her eyes, and he fed off her excitement. That and the knowledge he hadn’t been exaggerating. Things were good. Very good. With El Gato dead and buried, or in a big litter box somewhere, and the Carrera/Burnett organization blown to pieces Miami was taking a collective breath. As soon as the shooting stopped, he’d started to move. Buying a controlling interest in another South Beach club and one in Brickell. Adding another connection to his growing list of suppliers, this one from the Carrera organization and capable of supplying just about any weight he required with only a day’s notice. They’d added six new boats to keep up with demand, making Enrique both happy and busier than he’d ever been. They’d managed to squeeze the Boroscos out of north Miami by flooding the market there with cut cocaine and pricing them out of business. And there’d been no more problems with his father or Jesus. In fact, Jesus was talking more and more about selling his business and retiring. “You’re not listening to me.” “Of course I am, darling. You were talking about how you had to fire your best bartender because you caught her screwing one of the doormen in the back room while the club was open. Then there were two two Metro-Dade visits that seemed to come out of thin air…” She giggled. “Ok, you were listening. The bartender isn’t a big deal. I have two more who are almost as good as she was, but they’re not gonna screw security. The cops, though…that’s a problem.” “Let me look into it.” One of the things he’d added to the family portfolio was a cop of his own. Two cops to be precise. One was a file clerk with a gambling problem and the other a beat cop assigned to South Beach with a taste for hookers who might not be 18. He’d heard rumors of someone having a cop inside one of the undercover units, Narcotics or maybe even OCB, but as far as he was concerned those were urban legends. He made a note to have Esteban reach out to their pervert patrolman and see what was going on. She smiled again, leaning across the desk and giving him a good look down the front of her blouse. He smiled when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. “With the second stage, I think we can handle more money coming through here now. I know we were worried before, but…” “I’ll see to it. Let me know what you think the max is and that’s what we’ll do.” He reached out himself and undid two buttons on the silk blouse. “That looks more comfortable.” She grabbed his hand and moved it to cup her breast. “That’s even more comfortable. Silly me. I forgot my bra this morning.” It still felt strange. Sitting at his desk like nothing had happened after everything that had happened. Sonny Crockett stared at the red toy helicopter that had anchored one side of his desk for years, feeling like he was looking at it for the first time. It was a feeling he was still adjusting to. He knew they were still looking at him. Not like the had the day he walked into the squad room still believing he was Sonny Burnett, or like they had during the first week he was back from sick leave. But he still felt their eyes on him from time to time. Stan’s most of all, which he could understand. He’d hung the big guy out to dry when he’d ducked out to finish things with Cliff. And he had no idea how to make it right. So in keeping with tradition, he ignored it. But a part of him, the new part uncovered while he was Burnett, told him that wasn’t a sustainable solution. Sooner or later the bill would come due, and he’d have to pay up. They still had him on light duty while the shrinks, the suits, and IAB tried to figure out just what to do with him. Sonny didn’t mind. Not really, even though he liked to complain about it. He wasn’t sure he was ready to go back in the field…wasn’t sure he trusted himself enough to go back out there, especially undercover. He’d thought he was ready before the boat explosion, and as Tubbs liked to remind him ‘look how that turned out.’ Still…it wasn’t not being able to do the Job that kept him sitting where he was. It was the fear of doing it too well. Or part of it too well, at least. He still snapped awake some nights, wondering what happened to Celeste. He’d never sorted out his real feelings for her: they were too complicated, too intertwined with hazy memories and unresolved longings for Caitlin. He smiled a very thin smile. He’d paid enough attention to the shrink to know at least a bit of the lingo. And it made sense. He didn’t think she’d come after him. Knowing her she’d taken all the money she could lay her hands on and run for the hills. Still, the part of him that kept waking him up wanted to see her one last time. Just to resolve things in his head. But he always came back to the doing the Job too well part. Burnett had been efficient. He had to give the guy - no, give himself - credit for that much. He’d blown through two major cartels and two minor ones in less time than it took OCB to collect enough evidence for a warrant in a bigger case. There were huge gaps in his memories from that time…when he tried to remember it was like watching a flickering movie someone had cut up and spliced back together out of order. But he did remember the attention to detail The focus. Both were very familiar, but from someplace back in his past. Sort of like the name Artie Rollins. He had a new appreciation for what the FBI agent must have been going through. Shaking his head, he reached out for one of the folders. ‘Reading up’ Castillo had called it. “Catching up more like,” he muttered as he read the label on the tab. “Mendoza. Now them I do remember.” “Got some light reading there, partner?” Rico was trying to keep his voice light, but Sonny could still hear the tension. He wasn’t surprised. After all, he’d taken two shots at the man. He wasn’t sure he’d be as forgiving if their roles were reversed. “Something like that, Rico. Gotta update the old program before I get back in the game.” He waved the folder. “You guys dig up anything new on these bozos?” He didn’t mention he remembered the name from Burnett. “Nothing of note.” Rico paused, scratching his chin through his neatly trimmed beard. “Wait. There is something. You remember that chump Santos? Bolivian ex-cop who snuck into Miami a time or two?” Sonny wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Yeah…I think I do.” He flipped through one of the files and nodded. “Had a lead to a kid named Pasqual something or another that never panned out. The kid worked for the Mendozas.” “Yeah. Anyhow, ol’ Santos turned up a while back with a bullet in his head. Out by some supper club on the way to nowhere. Homicide thinks he might have tried to cut in on the Mob and got shown the door the old-fashioned way. But he was shot in the head with a single .45 round. Ballistics linked it back to those Haitians in Liberty City and that Jaime kid who got taken out a few years ago.” “It’s gotta be them, Rico. No one else uses the .45 to the head. Not even the Mob.” “Gotta go with you there. Hell, I worked Mob cases back in New York. The wise guys like to use a 12 gauge under the chin. No ballistics and it makes IDing the vic almost impossible unless the prints are on file.” “Santos was a supplier, right? Supply side, not Miami delivery. So why would they take out a supplier? Especially if he’s one they used.” “Maybe he got greedy?” Rico shrugged. “Guy was a real piece of work. The kind of chump who’d torture his own mother just to find out where she hid the cookies. Even if he already knew where she hid them.” “But they wouldn’t have taken him out unless they could replace what he was delivering.” Sonny opened the folder again, sensing his mind flowing back to the dark corner that was Burnett. “These guys are sharp. He must have done something to piss them off. Something big. And then once they knew they could replace the weight he was bringing, they took him out. Quietly. They don’t seem to care much for public messages.” “Unless it serves a purpose. Like those Haitians. We had a couple more that had Mendoza fingerprints on them. But yeah, like you said it was always for a purpose.” “What else do we know about them? Recent stuff, I mean. I read the file twice now. It looks like Miguel’s trying to go legit. Or at least look legit. And his girl’s got that club…Shock, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Damned funny name, but it is South Beach. It’s gotta be his money behind it.” “Yeah. Holly Miller was a club promoter until ol’ Miguel took a liking to her. He might be backing a few other clubs. The Palm in South Beach. Kilowatt over in Brickell. That’s where one of his message hits went down. There might be a couple more, but we can’t connect the dots yet.” “He’s too careful for that, Rico. This guy doesn’t leave a trail. Maybe a crumb or two, but no trail.” Sonny stared at the file photo, blown up from some publicity shot or another. “Hell, he doesn’t even have a parking ticket.” “I don’t get…” “I want these guys, Rico. They’ve been three steps ahead of us for years. Three steps ahead of me, too. The doc says I need a hobby, so I think I’ll make the Mendozas my hobby again.” The rational side of his mind knew it wouldn’t fly, even assuming Castillo would let him on one of the cases. There was just too much going on in Miami, too many fires started as the narcotics underworld reordered itself in the aftermath of what he’d started as Burnett. He raised his hand. “Don’t say it. I know the lieutenant won’t let me. But a guy can dream, right?” The doubt in Rico’s eyes was obvious. “Yeah, I suppose so, Sonny. But you gotta stay out of that rabbit hole, ok? You know the one I’m talkin’ about.” “Yeah, I do. Look, I just want to keep my eyes open for leads is all. Maybe lean on Noogie or Izzy and see they heard anything.” “Now that’s a stretch. Neither of those two chumps move in the same circles as the Mendozas.” Rico shook his head. “Ok, maybe Izzy tried to sell shoes or that powdered bull crap to their old man, but Noogie ain’t stirred much from his DJ spot down at Rizzo’s. We haven’t had a lead from him since…since before you left.” “Yeah. Like I said, it’s just something to do. Kind of a way to link my mind back to stuff that happened before. The doc says that’s important to do. Anyhow, I’ll bet the lieutenant will keep you so damned busy you ain’t gonna have time to breathe, let alone find Izzy. And as soon as they unchain me from this desk, I’ll be that damned busy, too.” Rico was about to respond when the conference room door opened and Trudy called him in. Once his partner was gone, Sonny let out a slow sigh and turned back to the folders. It was a familiar reminder…he was on the bench. As he stared at the case files, he felt his mind shifting. Changing gears as surely as the Ferrari did when he downshifted going into a tight turn. The anger drained away, replaced by something else. Something focused. His world narrowed to the files and what he saw there, and also what he didn’t see there. He felt his fingers close around a pen as he flipped open a notebook. At least some of the answers were right in front of him. He just had to find them. By the time Rico was done with whatever briefing Castillo had called, Sonny had filled six pages with notes. Not about the Mendozas as much as they were about their women. Holly Miller and Tiffany ‘Tiffy’ Franklin. A quick call to Records told him they’d both gone to Florida State University, majoring in advertising, marketing, and partying. They were both sorority girls, members of one of the top-tier houses on campus. They were something of an odd couple…Tiffy coming from money and means while Holly clawed her way into school and the house. They both had the usual assortment of college misdemeanors on their records…a couple of MiPs, warnings for driving while impaired. Nothing major, and nothing that ever stuck. They’d split a bit after graduation. Holly started working for a promoter while Tiffy floated around the boat scene and generally spent her daddy’s money any way she saw fit. He guessed that was where she met Enrique. They’d been spotted together a few times, and then became what looked to be an exclusive couple. “Tiffy and her hot racer” was what one of the gossip pages called them. He couldn’t tell just where or when Holly and Miguel met, but they’d also become exclusive. And harder to track. They both shunned the spotlight and managed to stay off the gossip pages. It got interesting when he started tracking Holly and Shock. Within three months of opening the place had become one of the top-grossing clubs in South Beach. He even had a vague memory of them trying to book Caitlin before…he shook his head and chased the memories away. But the place shot to the top and stayed there. And somehow it stayed clean. No major drug busts. No nothing aside from the occasional fight or fake ID. And it didn’t add up. Sighting, he set down the pen and closed the notebook. Maybe he’d let it sit for a bit and come back to it later. Let the dark corner of his mind chew on it. It had to be Miguel’s money behind the place, but if so why keep it clean? Most of the kingpins they’d gone after just couldn’t resist running their own party favors through the clubs they owned. It was like bonus points or something. Then it hit him, and he snatched up the pen and starting making more notes. Miguel was using Shock to both launder money and as a kind of base of operations. Someplace clean he could hold meetings, make plans, and court supporters outside the drug world. After all, he’d been running a successful distributorship before getting into coke. He knew legit business better than anyone they’d gone after except maybe Lombard. A quick look at his watch told him it was almost quitting time. It still felt strange, going back to the boat after months away from her. At least the marina had looked after her, and somehow Tubbs had managed to convince them to keep feeding Elvis as well. At least Sonny assumed it had been Rico: his partner hadn’t said anything and he didn’t ask. He’d only been back to Caitlin’s house a couple of times, mostly because he didn’t want to deal with Angie’s looks of disgust. He still thought of it as her house even though they’d lived there together for a few months. Signing, he shut the folders in a desk drawer and got to his feet. They’d been the happiest months of his life, even though at the time it hadn’t always felt that way. Now she’s gone. Her and Will both. I never got to meet him, and it feels like I’d only just started to know her. At least the boat didn’t hold many memories of her. During Too Much, Too Late I still can’t believe he’s just walking around the squad room. Stan Switek shook his head as he watched Sonny ease out of the building, likely chasing down some lead for Tubbs or Valerie. He was working on one of the new microphones Castillo wanted to try in conjunction with some camera or another, but it was hard to focus. He hadn’t had that problem when Larry Zito was still alive, but now… The meetings didn’t really help. He’d tried to convince himself they would as he waited every Tuesday outside the church where they were held. But then he’d go in, start hearing the stories and see where his slide started, growing from a few simple bets with the bartender at Mickey’s while he knocked back a couple of beers in the dark days after Larry was killed. Thinking about Larry spiked the pain again. Then he’d duck out and make a last-minute bet. Anything to avoid the pain. Now he was on the hook for more than he could handle. The irony of it almost made him laugh out loud. He’d made a few bad bets and could get fired if they found out, while Sonny had done God knows what while blowing apart some drug cartels and got off with basically a slap on the wrist. He’d even taken shots at Tubbs not once, but twice. And then there was Tubbs. Chasing off again with that crazy woman from New York. The only one who couldn’t see she was just using him for her own purposes. Stan had never really cared for Valerie, and over the years she’d just gotten worse. Still, she was nice to look at and he could see how she might have been a good cop once. He figured he could judge given his own recent failings. “Some guys just have the luck,” he muttered, checking a connection on the microphone for the third time. He snuck a glance over at the far corner, seeing Gina and Trudy working on some sting operation they’d been stuck with at the last minute. Talk about luck. He knew Gina still carried a torch for Crockett. It might just be a flickering match now, but it was still there. After all the other women, including a marriage, she still pined for him. “Crap!” He looked down at the bright red dot of blood blooming on his left index finger, and then at the probe in his right hand. “Damn things are sharp. Gotta pay attention to what I’m doing.” Blotting at the blood with a tissue, he set the microphone down and reconsidered the problem. Larry would have figured it out in two seconds, and then laughed at Stan for sticking himself. When he dropped the tissue in the trash, he caught Trudy looking his way and grinned. Too classy for me. She likes to hide it, but I’ve seen those paintings she does. Naw, no velvet dogs playing cards in her pad. That’s for sure. Stan prided himself on having no illusions about his taste. He liked his beer cold, his Elvis and Hawaiian shirts loud, and that was that. His father had done a damned good job of smacking most of his illusions out of him at an early age. And knowing he was hanging onto the only job he’d ever loved by a thin thread did the rest. When he started glaring at the microphone he knew it was time to call it a day. Getting mad at the gear didn’t help, and usually ended up costing him take-home when he had to replace stuff that happened to bounce off the wall five or six times. Maybe sleeping on it would help. Sometimes it did…sometimes the numbers and wires just fell into place in his head behind his closed eyes and the next morning it all made sense. Not always, but sometimes. He treasured those sometimes moments. “You ladies have a good one. Don’t break any heels chasing down pimps, ok? I hear those things are hell to replace.” He gave them his lopsided grin. “I know mine were, but they’re also blue suede. Had to have them done custom.” Trudy giggled and elbowed Gina in the side. “I’ll bet they’re just darling on you, Stan. I gotta go check with the lieutenant before he leaves about backup for tonight. Be right back.” He nodded, wondering what was up. Trudy never checked with the lieutenant about backup. “Tell him if he sends Gorman to make sure he leaves those cigars at home. The bad guys can smell ‘em from half a mile off.” “That looks pretty nasty.” Gina nodded toward his finger. “Naw. Just stabbed myself with a tool. It always looks worse than it is.” He looked over toward Rico’s desk. “He off with Valerie again?” “Yeah, they’re still looking for that crack dealer.” Gina shook her head. “There’s something off about that whole deal, Stan.” “There’s always something off when that lady comes to town.” He shifted from one foot to the other. There were some major college games on tonight, and he needed to get his bets in if he wanted to have any chance of digging himself out of his hole. “Look, I hate to gossip and run, but…” “How’d you like to get a drink some night this week.” His jaw hit the floor. At least it felt like it did. “I…uh…what…” “I can’t tonight, because we have to work, but how about Thursday?” “Uh…you want to have a drink with me?” “More than one, hopefully. Maybe some dancing. I don’t know.” “With me?” She smiled, and he felt his gut melt. “Yes, Stan. With you. I thought it would be nice. Especially after that mess with the YMCA or whatever that goofball called his outfit.” “Yeah. That was a disaster waiting for a place to happen. At least they’re out of our hair now.” He looked around, checking the corners for Crockett or Tubbs. This felt like something they’d pull. “So what’s the punch line?” “What punch line?” She narrowed her eyes. “No one put me up to this, Stan. Well, maybe Trudy kicked me in the butt a little about it. But it’s my idea.” He raised his hands. “Sorry…it’s been one of those weeks. Who am I kidding? It’s been one of those months. I’d love to get drinks with you, but I gotta warn you these blue suede shoes aren’t built for dancing. Get me a fur coat and I’d look like a dancing bear in one of those old circus acts. Or maybe a hippo. The bear would dance better.” She laughed, and he felt his mood lighten at once. It was easy to forget how pretty Gina’s laugh was, at least until you heard it again. “I don’t mind dancing with a bear, Stan. Maybe I can show you a move or two.” “You pick the place. About all I know are sports bars and grungy places people like Gorman hang out in.” “How about Cuba Libre? It’s a little place in Little Havana. They play lots of salsa, so you won’t have to get too crazy.” “Sounds good.” He checked his watch. Damn! Gotta get to a phone. “How about eight? I can pick you up. But now I gotta run. Meeting with a CI, and if I miss the punk I won’t be able to find him again for like six weeks.” He hated lying to her, but the thought of breaking even was taking over his brain. To the point he damned near forgot that she’d been the one who asked him out. If he’d have known how the evening was going to end he would have stayed at his desk. OCB Finishes Too Much, Too Late and moves through Freefall “What’s the word from that cop you got on the payroll?” Miguel looked over at Enrique and smiled. “Two senior detectives dropped their badges and quit the force.” “And that makes you smile why?” “They were both in the Organized Crime Bureau. That fancy name they gave the old Vice unit.” He sipped his rum. “My guy says the two who quit were the best detectives in the unit.” Enrique laughed. “Now I get it.” “Yes. It makes our lives much easier. My source also says there are rumors about the unit being shut down completely. Some kind of scandal, but they’re keeping it very quiet. If he asks it will draw attention.” “Either way, brother, it’s good news. We know the regular Narcotics squad is undermanned, and with these guys down people it can’t be anything but good for the business.” “Yes. I want you to look into increasing runs by ten percent. We might have a new supplier soon, what with all that trouble in Costa Morada. The Columbians are looking for reliable replacements…people who have more independence. We need to be ready.” “We will be, brother.” Enrique’s smile radiated confidence, and Miguel was glad. “We will be.”

“I still can’t believe you killed him.” Miguel looked across the table at his younger brother. “After he tried to kill you, it was the least I could do.” Enrique shook his head. “It’s not that. I mean he was a major supplier.” “And we have more than enough others to replace what he brought to the table.” Miguel sighed. “Look, it was a thing that had to be done. He was disrespecting us. Cutting our shipments and expecting us to just deal with it. Not to mention he tried to kill you. Santos was on the way out, and everyone knew it. The Bolivian warrant was revoked because no one cared to deal with him.” “Ok, I get it. Between The Bat and the other Peruvian we have enough to meet the basics. And those Columbians are good at filling in the rest. At least Gutierrez taught them how to conduct deals. But Santos could have been our hole card.” “Or the asshole who screwed up everything. Santos wasn’t going to be happy until he made us his bitches. He was already trying to move in on Lauderdale, and I think he was trying to get a meet with Carrera as well. I do know he didn’t come to Miami just to see us.” Enrique smiled his sloppy surfer grin. “I’m not arguing with you, Miguel. Don’t think that. I’m just running my mouth so I can make sense of what happened. And I’m glad we don’t have to deal with that slime bag and his rust-bucket Panamanian steamers any more. It’s just…” “I know. Times are changing. And now we’re big enough we actually notice those changes. El Gato and Carrera will get tired of shooting at each other soon enough, or one of them will actually manage to kill the other and end things that way. In either case there will be pieces to pick up. Maybe we’ll grab some, and maybe we won’t. But we need to secure our business either way.” “Speaking of that, I’m having to shift away from the seahorse route. Two of my guys have had run-ins with other go-fasts out there. One was just a chase, but shots were fired in the second one.” “When was this?” “Last week. I didn’t want to bother you with it because of everything that’s going on, but if we’re going to secure things you need to know one route’s been shut down for now.” “Who runs these boats?” “Columbian freelancers as far as Pasqual can tell. He was piloting the boat during the first incident. It sounds like the same boat was involved in the second one.” “Is there any chance it’s Jesus again?” Enrique shook his head. “I thought of him first thing. But I’ve got a guy in his company, and he says Jesus has been behaving himself since your visit. At least as far as he knows.” “That’s the key. As far as he knows.” Miguel sighed. “Look, I need to get over to Pelican’s Nest. Otis wants a meeting for some reason. You want to come along?” “Naw. I think I finally got a handle on the engine problem one of the boats was having. But I want to run her out before I put her back in the rotation.” “You and your boats! It does sound like more fun, though.” Once Enrique left, Miguel got up and walked to the door opening onto the wide back patio. He did have a meeting with Otis Forsyth, but he did know what it was about. And he wasn’t happy. He could just see the shimmering water though the screening bushes beyond the manicured lawn, and imagined for a moment he was out with Enrique pushing one of their SCARABs to its limits. Then he sighed and headed for the front door. Enrique had his job, and he had his. It was why the family was as strong as it was. Pelican’s Nest never seemed to change. Miguel knew Otis liked it that way, as had his father and his grandfather. Nodding to the doorman, he went straight past the coat check counter and the bar to his club room. Otis was nothing if not punctual, and according to his watch it was time for their meeting. Otis sat in one of the overstuffed leather club chairs, his suit immaculate as always. There was maybe a touch more gray in his hair, but it was hard to tell. He smiled when Miguel came in. “My boy! It’s been a spell as my father used to say. How’s your business coming along? And I hear nothing but good things about that club your lady friend runs. My congratulations to you, sir.” “Thank you.” Miguel sank into the other chair. It was hard not to relax with chairs like these and Otis’s whiskey smooth voice. “Shock has done quite well. I think our mutual friend Mr. Blade would be properly impressed.” “Oh, he is. Most impressed. And a touch jealous, I think. But I told him he’s got no right to fuss. You’re here seeing to business and he’s still chugging around in that tanker of a yacht of his. Sometimes you just have to pay the IRS what they think you owe and get on with things.” “But I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about Newton.” “No. I did not. It’s your father, Miguel. He’s a dear friend, and an old one. But lately he’s been acting a bit…rash, shall we say. I think all this fuss and bother between Manolo and Carrera has unsettled his mind just a bit.” Miguel leaned forward. “He hasn’t spoken to me about anything.” “No, I don’t expect he has. Usually he just stays in that shack of his down by the water, but lately he’s been coming around the Nest. At first I was happy, you understand. Been a few years since I’d seen him and it was good to catch up. But then…” He shook his head. “This all happened in the bar, you understand. A public area.” “What happened?” “He started complaining. About you and Enrique. Said you were nothing without him, and how everything you’ve done was based on his ideas.” Otis snorted. “Rot like that. The first time I fed him some drinks and sent him home, but the second time he brought your mother’s brother with him.” “Jesus?” Miguel kept a smile on his face, but he felt the cold anger staring to ball up in his stomach. “Yes. That one.” Otis managed to sneer with his voice. “How he can pass himself off as cultured I’ll never understand. Anyhow, those two sat at the bar for an entire afternoon complaining about the two of you.” “Did he say anything about the business?” “No. The bartender had strict orders to call me at once if they started getting indiscreet, but it was a near thing. I don’t have to tell you people are on edge what with the whole Manolo thing and now that El Gato person and Oscar Carrera going at it like two hookers fighting over a drunken sailor. So I thought you should know.” “I appreciate that, Otis. An extra case of scotch might have to find its way into your next order.” “Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Our families have been doing business for generations, and it pains my heart when I see someone breaking with the old ways.” He leaned forward and chuckled. “And if I can be so bold, you remind me of what I remember of your grandfather. Your father just couldn’t measure up to the old man, and it took something out of him.” “And he took it out on us. Me, mostly, since I kept him away from Enrique. And of course our mother.” Miguel closed his eyes for a moment, letting the buried memories wash over him. “But he and Jesus must understand their time is over. Done. I’ve already warned Jesus once, and Enrique did before me. Neither of them are up for today’s game.” “No, dear boy. They aren’t. Not by a long shot. Of course I’ll let you know if I hear anything else, and I’ll do my best to discourage their teenage fantasies.” Otis made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle. “They really are sad when they get to telling each other lies, you know. Instead of being proud of you and Ricky, they’re jealous. And jealousy in old men is almost as dangerous as it is in pretty young things.” Miguel nodded, closing his eyes for a long moment. Jesus he could handle easily enough, but papi was something else again. So much had changed between them, but in many ways he was still the frightened boy hiding in his room listening to the shouts and whacks as his father beat his mother. Knowing it would be his turn soon enough. Still, he’d managed to keep the worst of it away from Enrique. “I think I understand. I was old enough to know what those black eyes meant.” Otis leaned forward, his eyes bright. “You’re a bigger man now than he ever was, Miguel. It might not hurt to remind him of that. Put the son of a bitch in his place, if I might be so bold.” “You’re right, Otis. Everything Enrique and I have done has been on our own. That old bastard even came close to bankrupting the distribution business until I got back from college and could take over like grandpa wanted.” The frightened boy whimpered once, then looked up at the man he’d become. “I’m going to have a talk with the old fool.” “I think if you do that, Jesus will go back into his hole. That one always needs someone to prop him up.” Otis gave him a shifty grin. “And if that doesn’t work…well…there are plenty of fishing charters in South Florida. He won’t be missed.” Miguel looked at his old friend and then smiled. “No. I expect he wouldn’t be, should it come to that. Thank you again, Otis.” What Otis called a shack was in reality a modern beachfront home nestled on a prime beach north of Miami. Dismissing the driver, Miguel handled the Mercedes himself. He needed the time and the quiet to figure out how he was going to approach Rodrigo Mendoza. The old man was unpredictable on the best days, worse if he’d been drinking. And from what Otis described he guessed Rodrigo was crawling back into a bottle. Turning onto the private drive, he entered his own override code into the gate lock. When he’d had the place remodeled just before his father moved out of the main estate, Miguel had taken care to make sure the entire security system remained under his control. He didn’t think his father was even aware of half of the features, and he kept it that way. The gate clanked closed behind him as he drove up the winding drive to the house. He’d thought for a moment about bringing Esteban, but had discarded the idea. This was family business, and no matter how much he trusted the Cuban he wasn’t family. He’d left Enrique out for a different reason. His brother wasn’t fully aware of everything Rodrigo might be fucking up with his antics, and he wanted to keep it that way. He found his father sitting on the back deck looking out toward the ocean, a bottle of rum and an empty glass on the table next to him. “So my son finally takes time out of his busy day to come see his father. I…” Miguel swiped the glass and bottle off the table with a single swipe of his arm. The glass shattered on the flagstones, sending glittering shards spinning through the air. “Shut up, old man. Do you have any idea what you’re doing? The problems you’re causing running your damned mouth?” “How dare you speak like that to me!” Rodrigo started to stand, his eyes flashing. “I…” With a single, firm push Miguel sent him rocking back into the chair. “How dare you! Who do you think pays for all this? It sure as hell isn’t you! Who do you think rebuilt the family name…one stinking deal at a time? It wasn’t you! And now you and that idiot Jesus are trying to play big men and running your damned mouths about things you don’t even begin to understand.” “Listen to the college boy! The boy who hasn’t even fired a gun…” Before he knew what was happening, his grandfather’s Colt was in Miguel’s hand. “A gun like this, you mean? Oh, I’ve fired guns, old man. Part of rebuilding the family name requires that. But you wouldn’t understand, would you? The only men you’ve killed are in those lies you used to tell us when we were kids.” “You expect me to…” “Shut up. You don’t know what it’s like to watch the light leave someone’s eyes. I do. I was willing to do what it took to rebuild the family name. You just pissed it away. Don’t think for a moment I won’t protect that name against any threat.” His eyes went wide. “You mean…” “I will act against any threat.” He looked at the Colt again, seeing each spot where the bluing was worn away from years of use. “You might want to think about that. I’m not a scared little boy any more, father. You can’t frighten me. And if you try to beat me like you used to beat my mother, I will blow your fucking head off. That’s our trademark, you know. A single .45 round to the head. It has a certain precision, a certain sense of finality. Don’t you agree?” “I don’t know you anymore.” “You never did know me. That much I’ve known for years. The world changed while you were sitting and pretended to be a bad man. While you were a minnow Enrique and I were growing into sharks.” He stuffed the Colt back into its holster. “And if I hear about you and Jesus running your mouths again in public, you’ll find out how quickly a shark can devour a minnow. Or maybe you’d rather go live in one of those trashy hotels with all the other old people and complain about your ungrateful kids. I think that’s about what your money could buy you.” “Miguel…I…” Rodrigo started to stand, but fell back into the lounge chair. “You’d really shoot me, wouldn’t you?” “In a heartbeat. If you threaten what Enrique and I have built.” He found that thin smile again. “That’s the different between you and me. You talk tough, but in the end you’re a pussy. I may not talk much, but I will do the hard things. Remember that, and if I see you about this again it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.” He didn’t start shaking until he was back in the car, sitting with the engine off gathering himself. It wasn’t much, just his hands vibrating like he’d touched a live wire while working on an outlet. But it was enough. He focused himself on breathing…in, then out, then in again. But what really calmed his nerves was imagining what it would look like if he actually had shot Rodrigo Mendoza. The twitching of the man’s limbs as the dying brain sent its last commands and messages. The echos of the shot chasing each other out toward the ocean. When it stopped, he opened his eyes and started the car. It was late, and he had a meeting with Holly to talk about yet another show. And then drinks with Enrique to talk about their new Peruvian friend Castena. Between him and The Bat the hole left by the elimination of Santos would disappear and they might even be able to think of expanding once the El Gato-Carrera thing shot itself out. “Are you sure this is the right weight?” “Sure it is, mano. Don’t you worry about that.” Pasqual Benitez shot a quick glance at his co-pilot as he loaded duffle bags into the stash compartments of the SCARAB. The boat bobbed a bit as the wind kicked up swells, pushing them away from the fishing boat they’d linked up with. “Just keep us from breaking something on that boat, ok?” It was another routine deal with The Bat. Twenty kilos moved one way and a bushel of cash went the other. Except this time the load was one kilo short. Well, maybe not quite a kilo. Pasqual wasn’t sure of the exact weight of the one package he’d slipped off the top of the bag. It wouldn’t matter in the end. The Mendoza brothers expected the occasional loss from larger shipments. Damage from weather and careless handling. You name it. He’d seen the numbers, so he knew just how much he could get away with. The Cuban riding shotgun was up in the bow, keeping an eye on the fishing boat crew. They were shiftier than usual, which helped convince Pasqual to make his move on this run. Four greasy Columbians who looked like they’d sell their own sisters made for a perfect cover. They also weren’t regulars. The Bat hired stringers from time to time, and this was one of those pick-up crews. He slammed the compartment door with a flourish. “Ok, we’re done. Let’s get the hell out of here, ok? I’ll take the wheel as soon as we’re clear.” He waved to the deckhand on the fishing boat, not caring if he got a response or not. It was all for show, anyhow. He didn’t say much on the run back, but then he never did. Usually it was the let down after a successful rendezvous out on the water, but this time he was trying not to give anything away. It wasn’t hard with the Cuban. Those guys never said much. But Vacco liked to talk. Luckily he didn’t much care if anyone answered him or not. “Man, I hate those fuckwits. I hope we don’t have to deal with them again. The Bat’s bad enough with his damned giggling and all, but those guys stank like rotting fish.” “Of course they did. They’re on a fishing boat.” “Sure, but man…there’s gotta be a shower on that damned thing somewhere.” Pasqual just nodded, letting him rattle on. The real test would come when they handed off the load to the next link in the chain. He felt sweat beading in his palms, making the wheel slick to the touch. Focus, damn it. It’s just a key. Maybe not even that. Hell, they ain’t even gonna notice. It took all his self-control to keep a distant look frozen on his face as he idled the boat up to the dock and nodded to the driver of the truck. “It’s in the usual spot. Near as I can tell we’re clean, but it was a pick-up crew on the other end.” “Gotcha.” The driver winked as he pointed toward the boat. “Hey! You vatos get with it, hear? Just the duffles. Nothing else.” Pasqual shifted his stance as the two men jumped down and started opening the compartment. They grabbed the bags and climbed back up to the dock without even checking. “We good to go? I want to get this beast gassed up and put to bed.” “You got it, mano. Have a good night.” The driver winked again and walked back to the panel truck. Pasqual rolled on the throttle and cranked the wheel, turning away from the dock and out into the water before the guy was even back in the cab. He’d made sure to tuck the package deep in his shirt, but it felt like ten tons and he was sure everyone could see it through the thin fabric. Still, Pasqual went through the motions of gassing up the boat once they got back to the boat house. Losing himself in the routine so he wouldn’t think about the package slipping around inside his shirt, slick with sweat. Vacco wasn’t paying a damned bit of attention, and the Cuban had taken his leave five minutes after they idled in and shut the big doors. Another five minutes and I’ll tell Vacco to fuck off and go. That just leaves the security guys, and they never give me a second glance. Vacco was glad to leave early, and Pasqual had to force himself to keep moving at his normal pace until the last system on the boat was checked and shut down. Then he nodded to the guard on duty by the side door and sauntered out to his Mustang. But the second he shut the driver’s door he started shaking. Suppressed fear crashed through his body, and he just sat there and shook for almost two minutes. What if they find out? He night be able to buffalo Ricky, but Pasqual had no doubts about Miguel’s reaction. Behind the smiles and soft words the older Mendoza brother was cold. Plus he’d killed people. Single shots to the head if the stories were true, and Pasqual had no reason to doubt them. Still, what was done was done. Now he needed to figure out what to do with the product. Starting the car, he took a deep breath and pulled out of the parking lot. The easy part was he knew where he couldn’t sell. Liberty City. South Beach. Brickell. The rest was fair game, assuming he wanted to dodge bullets from El Gato and the Carreras. The Mustang’s headlights played across the pavement as he turned onto the main road and headed back into the city. The coke was also at least eighty percent pure. He’d need to cut it before he could think about moving it. The shaking had stopped by the time he reached the Florida Turnpike and traffic picked up. I got this. Reaching down, he turned on the radio and let the music fill the car. Yeah, I got this. Time I got mine, damn it. “You’re sure about this?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Burnett. Looks like El Gato’s boys. They hit the boat right after it made the pick-up.” Sonny Burnett drained his glass in one long swallow and poured more bourbon. His head hurt, and the damned dreams had been getting worse and more frequent. The black guy he could almost understand, since he’d recognized him, but the Hispanic one was still a mystery. A face lurking just out of reach. The bourbon helped, but not as much as it had. “So what do we do?” Miguel Carrera looked around the office, then raised the tooter to his nose and snorted the cocaine deep into his sinuses. “Easy there, Iron Mike. I don’t want to have to explain how you burned out your nose to your father.” “To hell with the old man! We have to hit this bastard back!” Sonny pretended to think for a moment, then turned to his security man. “Take some of the boys and hit one of El Gato’s stash houses. One of the ones up toward Lauderdale. He wants to play games, we can respond in kind. Get the product if you can, but his people need to bleed.” “Hitting back without my permission, Sonny?” Oscar Carrera stood in the doorway, a champagne flute held loose in his hand. “I heard about the boat. It’s the cost of business, yes?” “Not when it’s the third one in two weeks, Mr. Carrera.” Sonny leaned back in his chair, looking up at Oscar through dark Ray-Bans. “We can’t give the impression we’re weak. I know you don’t want a war, but if we don’t protect what’s ours other bozos are gonna show up and try to take their piece. The Mendozas, for example. I hear they’re starting to flex again.” Something’s familiar about that damned name, too. Can’t get to it, though. Damn it! “The Mendozas are Puerto Rican punks.” Oscar slurped some bubbly from the glass and refilled it from the bottle in his left hand. “But you’re right. I could see them trying to swoop in. They’re like buzzards. Same could be said for the Hermanos brothers as well.” Sonny snuck a quick look at Mikey, who was rubbing his nose and glaring at his father. “So we need to hit back. It’s not a big thing, just a stash house. I was going to let you know before the boys rolled out.” Once the Carrera men finished squabbling and left, Sonny sank back in his chair. What he really wanted to do was shoot both of them and dump their bodies in the swamp so he could get on with business. But he knew it wasn’t time. Not yet. Mikey wasn’t quite there yet. Another couple of pushes and he would be, though. “He makes my skin crawl.” He hadn’t heard Celeste come in. “You’d better get back out there, darlin’. The twins might miss you.” She came around the side of the desk, her slender body only just concealed by a swirl of dark-colored fabric. “I don’t care. That coked-up greasebag was drooling over me all afternoon. And Oscar…you know what he’s like when he’s drunk.” He reached out and touched her thigh, feeling her warm skin through the cloth. “They’re almost there. Another push or two and Mikey will make his move. I could see it in his eyes when he snorted up just now.” “What about El Gato?” “What about him? He’s a convenient distraction.” Sonny chuckled, running his hand up along her backside. Feeling her press back against him. “He keeps those two bozos squirming. He ain’t doing any real damage to us…nothing that can’t be undone in a day or two at any rate. I always let Mikey think it’s more, and convince Oscar it’s less. Keeps ‘em at each other’s throats. It’s what you want, isn’t it?” She reached down, her eyes hot. “This is what I want, Sonny. And right now. I need it if I’m going to keep letting that maggot slobber at me.” He grinned, glad his sunglasses hid his eyes. There was something about her need he always found disturbing. Like she was trying to play him. And he guessed she was, at least partly. Just like he was using her, partly. He cleared the desk with a sweep of his arm, and she giggled as he lifted her up onto it. In the end it didn’t matter. They both wanted the same things: each other and the Carrera empire. He just had to stay focused so he’d be one step ahead of her when the time came.

“And you’re sure it’s still safe?” Miguel Mendoza looked across the table at Esteban Morales and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is, Cristobal. This El Gato is only interested in cutting the balls off of Oscar Carrera, and Carrera’s interesting in protecting those balls for his young wife. Neither of them are looking past that conflict.” “How can you be sure?” “This is my city. I know how it works, my friend. Plus, Sonny Burnett is running Carrera’s security. That is a man who’s focused on efficiency, and a wider conflict isn’t efficient. It draws too much attention.” “Very well. I’ll keep my original reservation. I’ll land in Miami tomorrow afternoon. Will your people be there?” “Of course. We’ll pick you up and then we can go to my club for dinner. Fontino's has an excellent menu and even better wine list. Then we’ll drop you wherever you’re staying and meet the next day for our discussions.” “That sounds good. I can’t stay more than a day, though. I have business up north, you see.” You won’t even be staying a day. But Miguel forced a lightness into his voice. “I understand. I also have meetings here that can’t be moved. But with the changed situation around Lauderdale we have much to discuss in a short time.” “And now that the unpleasantness of that last deal is behind us, we can move forward. Maybe you’ll think about expanding north? I have some ideas in that regard…” “We’ll talk more the day after tomorrow. It will be good to see you again, my friend.” Miguel let out a long sigh the moment he hung up the phone. “Arrogant asshole doesn’t even know he’s measured for a coffin.” “Are you actually going to have dinner with him?” “No. Fontino’s is an Italian place out toward the swamps. It’s a good club, but an even better distraction. He’ll look up the name, see where it is, and not wonder why we’re driving toward the Everglades. Makes it easier to do what needs doing and dispose of the remains.” Esteban nodded. “And we know his people hate him at least as much as we do, so no one will go looking for him. Lupe thinks his second in command, a punk named Vazquez, will pick up in his place. I agree.” “What do we know about him?” “A vicious bastard who isn’t especially bright. He can move product reasonably well, but is much better at doing what he’s told and nothing more. I don’t think he’ll be able to match what Santos can deliver for a few months…maybe more if he starts shooting his own people. It seems to be something of a Bolivian pastime, so it’s possible that’s what will happen.” “It shouldn’t matter. Enrique has been in contact with a couple of people looking for buyers in the aftermath of Gutierrez’s fall. They don’t want to work with El Gato, and between them should make up for what Santos used to supply.” “What will you need for the job?” “A Mercedes we don’t mind losing. One of your people to act as driver and another as bodyguard. It has to look like something we’d normally use. I don’t know if Santos is traveling alone…he didn’t say and I couldn’t ask without making him suspicious. Every other time he’s come to Miami he’s had at least two guards., but if his situation’s changed he might not bring as many. So a second car close by would be good. They can deal with his guards once we’re clear of Fontino’s.” “I’ll have two cars on standby. That way we can get you and the others clear before burning Santos and the other debris.” “Good thinking, Esteban.” Looking at his watch, Miguel shrugged and stood up. “I’ve got a meeting with Holly in half an hour. Something about scheduling shows for Shock.” He smiled. “I love how happy that place makes her.” “The amount of money it can clean doesn’t hurt, either.” Miguel turned, then chuckled. “No. No, it doesn’t. And speaking of that, have your people take a look at Kilowatt. Their orders are down a hair, and I want to know if it’s competition or just a dip in patrons.” It wasn’t something he was really worried about, but he also didn’t like Esteban joking about Shock. In the end it didn’t make much difference, though. They did need to know what was going on at Kilowatt, and Esteban knew just how far he could push things with the club. He was right, though…Shock did clean a good deal of money for them, cutting down on their dependence on Jesus and other money laundering avenues they didn’t directly control. The more he could keep in house, the better. “They say someone tried to hit Oscar Carrera.” Enrique Mendoza looked up from the engine compartment of their latest boat. “So?” Pasqual shook his head. “You don’t get it, man. Someone tried to fucking take out the head of the Carrera organization.” “Again, so? Obviously they missed or you’d be jumping up and down.” He wiped his hands on a dirty rag, reminding himself to actually wash them before he left the boat house. Tiffy hated grease stains on her clothes, and he was sure he’d grab her as soon as he saw her. “That means someone might be coming after us.” “How do you figure? Everyone knows El Gato has a hard on for Carrera. Maybe literally as well. I don’t want to know. But odds are he’s the one who ordered the hit, and if they missed I’m betting it was because of Burnett. He runs Carrera’s security, doesn’t he?” “That’s what they say. But still…” “Look, Pasqual. Chill out, man. El Gato’s pissed because old Oscar took out his brother, right? And probably because he also took his Lauderdale turf in the bargain. So he’s gonna hit back. That queen don’t care about us at all because we don’t deal in the same circles. Different suppliers, different clubs. Hell, different wardrobes.” He climbed out of the boat and onto the plank surface of the boat house dock. “Look, we both know El Gato ain’t ambitious. Not at all. Unless it’s meeting new pretty boys. But you poke him with a stick, he’s gonna bite back.” “I know.” Pasqual looked down at the boards. “You just gotta wonder when the other shoe’s gonna drop, you know? We been lucky so far…” “Hell, luck’s got nothing to do with it. It’s all planning. That and patience. I know you want to move into other markets, but that’s gotta happen in a slow and steady way.” Enrique waved his hand back toward the boat. “You gotta have the boats to move product, the people to watch that product, and enough buyers to make sure you aren’t sitting on a bunch of stuff waiting to be sold.” “Yeah. I get it. But we should be watching this Carrera-El Gato thing. Even if none of it blows back on us, some choice pieces might fall out.” “Miguel’s watching it. You can bet on that. Me? I’m more concerned with finding out why that piece of shit back there keeps running hot on engine two.” “Maybe we should be…” Enrique sighed. “We should be focusing on what we do. Look, it’s like a body. Miguel might be the head, but the head don’t work without blood flowing to it. We’re the blood, man. Our boats keep the product moving and our connections get it out and bring the money in. Those Cubans Miguel sends are like the white blood cells protecting the red cells. We work as well as we do because we don’t worry about the bigger stuff, and Miguel doesn’t worry about how product gets from point A to point B and then gets sold at point C.” “I know, man. Just with all these changes…I keep kinda waiting for someone to take a run at us.” “They’ve tried a time or two and come up short each time. Hell, not more than a few days ago we took out some of Gutierrez’s old boys who were trying to set up shop in Liberty City.” Enrique started toward the steps leading out to the parking lot. Pasqual’s whining was getting on his nerves, and Tiffy had said something about wanting to go out. He didn’t mind the idea of a few drinks, especially after fighting with that damned engine most of the afternoon. “Look, I gotta run. Have Louis take a look at that engine, will you? He might see something I missed.” He found his smile again as the Corvette’s V-8 roared to life. Boats and cars were things he understood. People…not so much. Too many things to go wrong and no wrenches you could use to fix them. Miguel had always been good with that side of things. As he accelerated away from the boat house and steered the car toward the expressway, Enrique smiled when he thought about how far they’d come…from running loads of Cuban cigars to being one of the largest movers of cocaine in Miami. They might even be bigger than grandfather had been. It was a humbling thought. “At least his flight’s on time.” Miguel Mendoza nodded, looking again at the “arrivals and departures” board. “We’ll wait here instead of at the gate. Don’t want to make it look like we’re too eager to meet him. Esteban nodded. “Are you sure you want me with you?” “Yes. He’ll think we’re talking serious business then.” Frowning, he checked his watch. “Are your other people in position?” “Yes. They’ll follow close enough to do what needs doing but not so close as to attract his attention. I know he was police, but these men are good, too.” “Trained by those old men?” “Some, but others were trained by us. We’re doing our own training now, jefe. Too much demand.” “And I expect it’s better than what the old men do. Or at least more practical.” Miguel was conscious of the weight of his grandfather’s Colt in the small of his back…another reason he didn’t want to meet Santos at the gate. He didn’t see any point in risking security, not with the cops on edge as a result of the attempted hit on Carrera. But the hit also ensured the cops were chasing after El Gato and maybe the Hermanos brothers or the Boroscos. Leaving him unnoticed. “Looks like he came alone. That or his security’s gotten much better since his last trip.” Miguel hid a smile when he saw Cristobal Santos coming out of the luggage claim area wearing a straw Panama hat with a black ribbon and a faded cream suit cut for the tropics. “I’d say it’s his ego. The same ego that makes him dress like he just walked out of a freaking Bogart movie.” He waited a moment, glued a wide smile on his face, and raised his hand enough to catch Santos’s eye. “Over here! We have a car waiting.” He turned to Esteban and winked. “My man can help you with your bag.” Santos still loved the sound of his own voice. “It’s good to be back in Miami, my friend. Especially with no pesky warrant hanging over my head. It’s a new day in my country…a good new day. And that means better days for us all.” He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the Mercedes’ back seat and grinned. “Yes. We’re going through some changes here, but things will even out again. They always do.” Miguel caught Esteban’s eye in the rear view mirror and nodded. “I figured we’d eat first and then get you to your hotel. I can’t expect airplane food does much for you.” Santos laughed. “No. If I were still in my old job I’d have the idiots who plan those menus shot.” He scratched his ear. “But what’s this I hear about someone trying to kill Oscar Carrera?” “It’s just El Gato playing at revenge. Nothing that needs to concern us.” “Does anything ever concern you, Miguel?” “Many things do. But El Gato only has a few guns, while the Carreras have many. They’ll make a lot of noise, especially El Gato with his fondness for all things theatrical, but in the end the Carreras will still be there.” “I’ll take your word for it.” Santos turned to look out the window. “Somehow your organization always manages to weather these disturbances.” “We live within our means.” Miguel bit the inside of his lip. “This whole thing started because Alejandro Gutierrez wanted a cut of what Miguel Manolo was doing in Lauderdale. It didn’t help that Manolo was expanding south and running into turf Gutierrez thought was his. Most of these fights start over uncontrolled expansion, going all the way back to Calderone. People get greedy and try to take more than they can use or hold.” “And you do not.” “No. We expand, yes, but it’s always controlled. Planned. Within our means. Why bring in more product than you can sell? Or promise dealers more than you can supply? Fools do that, not us.” “And that’s why I like doing business with you, my friend.” Like hell you do. You’ve tried to rip me off at least four times, twice putting my brother in danger. He was very conscious of the bulk of the old Colt, but he bit his lip again and chuckled. “That and we make you lots of money.” “That’s why we’re in this game, yes? To make money.” They were heading out of Miami now, and Santos turned to look at Miguel. “I thought you said we were going to eat.” “We are. Fontino’s is a supper club with enough privacy for us to discuss serious business. They also have the best Italian food in South Florida.” “When in Rome, right?” Santos laughed again, tugging at the foolish straw hat. “Exactly, my friend.” Miguel was sure the inside of his lip was bleeding now, but he couldn’t afford to give anything away. Not when they were so close. Esteban made the turn, guiding the Mercedes onto the side road leading past Fontino’s. Somewhere behind them he knew the chase cars were waiting, following in trail like birds of prey. “Wasn’t that the sign back there? I thought I saw neon…” Looking up, Miguel saw Esteban nod. We’re close enough. And there’s no one around. Reaching down, he pulled out the big Colt. “Things were going so well,” he said, hiding a grin as Santos’s eyes went wide. “Well…they were going ok, I suppose. And then you had the fucking balls to try to rip off my brother. Tried to kill my brother. What do you think we are? Fucking dumb peasants you can rob and kill as you see fit?” “That was an accident. My people going off on their own.” “No. It wasn’t. Your trigger man talked before he died. We know it was on your orders.” Santos was starting to sweat. Miguel could see it running down the sides of his narrow face. “He misunderstood his orders.” “I think he understood them very well.” The car eased to a stop, and Miguel knew it was almost time. “You underestimated the Mendoza family, Santos. You slimy piece of shit.” “We can make this right!” Miguel smiled. It was genuine this time. “You’re right. We can.” The old .45 came up in a smooth motion. Santos started to scream, and then the boom of the shot erased all other sounds in the car. Miguel flipped on the thumb safety and turned to the front of the car. “Get the fire ready, would you? I’ll need to change out of these clothes.” The smell of burned powder and blood bit his nose. “We won’t light off the car until your people get here.” Ignoring the mess on the seat next to him, he wiped a bit of blood and flesh from his face. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon air. Reaching back into the car, he plucked the spent brass casing from the seat. No reason to leave anything behind. As the reality of what he’d done sank in, he felt his fingers start to twitch. Just a bit, though. Santos had been a pig, and in many ways shooting him had been a public service. And Miguel knew the Bolivian would have done the same thing to him without batting an eye. Tires crunched on gravel as the chase car arrived. Esteban walked over and returned with a gym bag. “Your pants look clean,” he said as he handed it over. “Maybe just the shirt and coat need to go.” Nodding, Miguel unzipped the dark nylon bag and pulled out clothes. “Get it started. I won’t be long. We need to be clear before it goes up.” Grinning, Esteban hefted a small object. “Got that covered, jefe. Modified road flare with a delay fuse. We’ll have about twenty seconds to get clear and then boom!” He paused. “That was a nice piece of work.” “No one will know about it, but some might guess who caused him to disappear. And those are the ones who matter. They’ll think twice about fucking with us.” Miguel noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he unbuttoned the shirt, and also that it disappeared the second he focused on it. Good. Control. “Get the chase car turned around.” “Who called it in?” The state trooper looked annoyed as he pushed his mirrored sunglasses back up on his nose. “Some local stuffing his face at that supper club back by the turn off. Guess they came out and saw the smoke.” He peered again at the ID and his tone changed. “Sorry to call your guys out, lieutenant, but it looked like a hit to us” Martin Castillo nodded, leaving his own sunglasses on even though the sun was becoming a memory on the western horizon. “It’s what we do.” He looked at the smoking metal and plastic that had once been a car. “What else do you have?” “Not much. Car was a Mercedes 300 class, I think. We’ll know more if the lab can find a VIN in that mess. No plates, so we don’t have anything there. The body in the back seat’s mostly burned up, but from what I saw it looked like he’d taken one to the head.” He turned and jerked his head in the direction of approaching headlights. “The ME will be able to tell you more, and it looks like they’re coming on scene now.” “Thank you.” Castillo gave the trooper a short nod and then circled the scene, trying to stay as far away from the wreckage as he could while still noting details. He’d taken the call alone, knowing the rest of his team was tied up with surveillance on the Carrera organization. While there was a chance this was somehow connected to the fight between Carrera and El Gato, he had his doubts. And until he was sure he wasn’t going to divert any resources. He could see where a second car had come down and turned around, but doubted there was anything special about it or its tires. This had professional written all over it, from the burned-out car to the body in the back seat. It was too clean to be El Gato, and too private to be Carrera. Meaning someone else was in play. Or it was totally unrelated to narcotics. He knew the CIA favored removing troublesome individuals in the same way. Out here it was also possible the Cubans were feuding again…Castro’s people taking out a rival or one of the anti-Castro combat brigades eliminating someone they suspected of working for Castro or informing on them. He looked back to see the medical examiner’s team poking around the back seat. “Any chance of identifying the body?” The thickset woman shook her head. “Not here. Maybe back at the lab, but I can’t say for sure.” She looked back at the charred body. “Not your standard drug hit, is it?” “No.” “Looks like one shot to the head, but I’ll know more once we get him back. Guy must have just come into town, too.” She waved her hand back toward the rear of the car. “Crime scene found a suitcase back there. They’re gonna play with it and see what they can find.” “Thank you.” That added another layer to the problem, but also removed one. If this had been a deal gone bad, the shooters would have taken the bag with them. As he watched the various teams poking, prodding, and photographing the scene and the body, Castillo let the questions float in his head without chasing any of them. It was too soon to reach any conclusions. Still, he wondered about the location. Why take someone this far out and not just go all the way into the swamp? There had to be a message in it somewhere, but he wasn’t sure what. It was public enough to make the news, but not the front page or lead broadcast story because it wasn’t in South Beach or the Gables. “Lieutenant?” The forensics tech looked like he’d just graduated from high school and hadn’t talked to a cop since he tried to explain away his first minor in possession. “We don’t know who this guy is yet, but he flew in from somewhere. The suitcase has the remains of a checked luggage tag on it. We might be able to clean it up enough to tell where it’s from, but I can’t promise anything.” “Do what you can.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off a looming headache. “I’m heading back in. Send your results to OCB, please.” The next morning he found Stan Switek waiting in his office. The big detective’s eyes were bloodshot, and he didn’t look like he’d slept more than a couple of hours. “You ain’t gonna believe who that body was, lieutenant. Cristobal Santos. At least that’s what the ME says the dental records say.” Castillo stood for a moment. He hadn’t expected to hear that name again. “How is he in the United States? Doesn’t he have…” “Had, lieutenant. They had one of those government changes in Bolivia and in the process his warrant disappeared. So he wasn’t on any watch lists anymore.” Stan shrugged. “At least none the Customs people watch. I’ve got a call in to the airport, and maybe we’ll get lucky and find out when he came in.” “Thank you.” His desk chair made its familiar creak as he sat down, straightening his thin black leather tie out of habit. Cristobal Santos. I would have expected him to be killed in his own country, not here in Miami. “I’ll make some calls. Someone might know why he was coming to Miami.” The DEA wasn’t helpful, and they’d only just learned Santos no longer had a Bolivian arrest warrant. The supervising agent he talked to didn’t seem at all upset Santos was dead, and he got the same reaction from the FBI when he finally got the SAC on the line. He didn’t bother with CIA…if they knew anything they wouldn’t tell him, and if they didn’t know anything they might lie about it to make him think they did know something. Still, it nagged at him. Why was Santos here? “I heard the good news, lieutenant.” Ricardo Tubbs had his usual dancing swagger as he came into the office, but Castillo could see new lines in his face under his beard. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear Santos got hit.” “No one is.” He looked down at the battered top of his desk. “But no one knows why he was here, either. Or that he was even coming here.” “You think it’s got anything to do with Carrera?” “No. Carrera’s pipeline is Columbia. Not Bolivia. He’d have no reason to see Santos.” “What about El Gato? He’s been trying to up his status since his brother got whacked. And he’s gonna need cash at the rate he’s losing guys to Carrera.” “It’s possible. The lab hasn’t come back with anything on the car.” “Yeah. I’ll feel better when we know more about it. And what killed Santos.” “The ME on scene thought it was a single gunshot wound to the head. A large caliber round.” Rico shook his head. “Didn’t Santos blow in a while back to see the Mendozas?” “Yes. We had a lead on Pasqual Benitez, but could never develop it further.” “I remember now. Santos an’ his guys roughed up some hookers. One of them tried to finger old Pasqual, but it never went anywhere. You think they’d have the stones to hit Santos?” Castillo started to shake his head, then stopped. “I don’t know. There’s too much we don’t know about them. But if they did kill him, why did they do it?” “Maybe he was trying to cozy up to the Carreras? Or the Boroscos tried to make a play?” Rico shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We haven’t seen this kind of turmoil since the Revilla brothers got taken out.” “We’ll wait for the ballistics report.” “You really think they used the same gun?” “It’s possible. We’ve seen the same .45 in at least two homicides now. The weapon has significance to someone. We just need to find out who it is.” “It could also be a community gun. One that gets passed around with no real owner. Makes it hard for the chump caught holding it when the music stops, but it doesn’t mean he’s connected to everyone else who was killed with it.” “Yes.” But Castillo knew the weapon belonged to one man. He couldn’t explain how he knew it, but he was as sure of it as he was sure the sun would rise in the east. “Have the lab run the ballistics through the national database when they have something.” “Solid. See what else this piece has been doing.” Rico paused, and Castillo knew what was coming. “Anything new on Sonny?” “No. Not since the reports from the Carrera shooting. I understand you’re concerned, but it’s still officially Homicide’s case. And Internal Affairs. We need to focus on what we can do.” Once Rico left, Castillo rocked back in the chair and took a long, deep breath. The death of Santos was a puzzle, but so was whatever was happening with Sonny Crockett. The reports of him being on scene during the attempt on Oscar Carrera’s life were too consistent and too reliable to be anything but fact. He knew it, and he knew Tubbs knew it. Somehow he was staying two steps ahead of everyone. The question was why. Even though he’d killed a cop, Castillo didn’t think Crockett had gone over. As Tubbs liked to remind everyone, Yagovich had been a dirty cop. Working for Miguel Manolo if the intelligence was correct. Had Manolo sent Crockett there to be killed? The grainy video recovered from the gallery made it seem like a very distinct possibility. And if he knew Sonny as well as he thought he did, it made sense he’d run to Manolo’s biggest adversary. Oscar Carrera could provide protection and maybe a way to square things with Manolo. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. That might be what had happened, but it didn’t explain why it had happened. Maybe the explosion did something to Crockett’s brain. Castillo had a made a few discrete inquiries to doctors he knew, and they’d all said such a break was a distinct possibility. Especially given the recent personal traumas Crockett had suffered. Caitlin. Hackman. The incident with Angel Conner. And add in years of repressed trauma reactions from the job they did. They’d all agreed the explosion could have driven Crockett into the one place he felt safe and in control: Sonny Burnett. A sharp knock on the door dragged him back into his office. “Lieutenant? We go some movement on Carrera’s people.” Stan Switek shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway. “Rico thinks he’s calling some kind of meeting.” “I’ll be right there.” He let the chair rock forward and stood up, pushing thoughts of Sonny Crockett to a deep corner of his mind. There was work to do.

July 1988 After Mirror Image, White Lies, Flying Solo, Power Play Miguel Mendoza sat in one of the balcony chairs looking out over the expanse of manicured lawn toward the shimmering sea. The balance sheets for Shock were spread out on the table beside him, but he’d turned away once his focus started wandering. It had been a hell of a couple of weeks. He’d been lucky to have decided to pull back from major deals, moving only his normal product to their regular customers. With the killing of Alejandro Gutierrez and then Miguel Manolo, the drug world in South Florida was experiencing a massive realignment. The Carreras looked to be coming out on top, with a big assist from Sonny Burnett. Worst thing Manolo did was lose that one by accusing him of being a cop. Burnett a cop? No cop would do what he did to Hackman, let alone that bent cop up in Lauderdale. It made even less sense once word came out that Burnett had been the one to hit Gutierrez on Manolo’s orders. Why Manolo had decided to go after him was a question only the dead man could have answered. But Burnett had paid his former employer back in spades. According to Esteban’s information he’d given Carrera the location of at least half a dozen of Manolo’s stash houses. And he’d led at least one hit on those same houses, snatching up Manolo’s emergency stashes and leaving the rank and file nervous and scared. His leaving had also left Manolo’s security wide open, and somehow old Oscar had found a way to exploit it. Two days ago someone had taken out Miguel Manolo. Now Oscar was left sitting on top of not only his organization but the remains of the ones run by Gutierrez and Manolo as well. Even though Enrique fussed, Miguel didn’t worry about Oscar Carrera. He was of the older generation. Content to sit on what he had so long as no one tried to take it. He snorted when he thought of the son…a junkie who had no self-control and even less sense. No, the man who concerned him in the Carrera organization was Sonny Burnett. But he’d found a way to use the turmoil to his advantage. Santos was getting nervous since no shipments had moved into Miami for weeks. None of his shipments, at least. Now he wanted to come back to Miami. To meet in person to, as he put it, sort things out. In spite of himself Miguel smiled. It couldn’t have gone better if he’d written it out himself. “They said I’d find you out here.” Holly’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, baby. I was looking over the reports from the club and lost track of time.” He got to his feet and took her in his arms, kissing her lightly on the lips. “Things are looking good, and I mean the club as well.” “Now you’re being silly.” Still, she kissed him back, pressing herself against him. “Do we still have enough money to renovate the private room?” “Of course.” Cash flow wasn’t a problem. If anything it had picked up since he still had supply and some of the other locals, like those idiot Hermanos brothers, didn’t. “There’s no problem there at all.” But it did bring to mind another possible problem. An old problem. Jesus Estevez. “Even if we put a rush on it? I don’t want to spend the money, but at the same time we can’t close the club down for weeks to finish it unless we do a rush.” “No, that makes sense. Go with the rush. Just let me know what you need and I’ll transfer it into the expenses account.” “Do you think things will quiet down now?” She sat in the chair next to him, reaching out for his hand. “There have been so many murders…” “I expect so. It’s always like this when you have rivals going at each other.” He looked at her and smiled. “And no, we weren’t involved. I like to keep things quiet. Predictable. Profitable. And fights like that are none of those things.” “You’re right. People don’t like to go out when there’s trouble like that. Every time there was a shooting our profits dipped. At least they stayed out of South Beach.” “The people fighting were coming down from Fort Lauderdale. South Beach isn’t on their radar. I think they were more interested in quick profits in places like Little Haiti and maybe Overtown.” He squeezed her hand. “But you don’t need to worry about any of that. But I do need to know if you want to increase the alcohol order ahead of that show next week.” The boat shot through the water like a torpedo, leaving churning foam in its wake. Pasqual Benitez kept one eye on the gauges on the dash, but he was mostly interested in Enrique Mendoza. How his boss seemed absorbed by the boat and ignorant of what was going on around them. He still didn’t know quite what had happened on the last Santos run. Flaco wasn’t talking, which wasn’t unusual, but Ricky had been quiet about it, too. Maybe there’d been an issue with the product, or Santos’s men had tried something. The silence was odd. “She’s got heart, this one!” Enrique kept the throttles all the way forward, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Be good for straight in and out runs.” Pasqual nodded, keeping his thoughts off his face. He’d watched the fighting between Manolo and the other cartels with some interest, wondering when the brothers would move to claim their share of the spoils. But the word never came, even after Oscar Carrera snatched up some of Manolo’s stash houses. He knew from boat gossip the Hermanos brothers were moving in on some of Gutierrez’s old territory north of Miami, and word was the Boroscos were making moves of their own closer to the city. And still the Mendoza brothers did nothing. Watching as the temp gauges climbed a hair closer to the red, Pasqual held his silence. He knew Miguel preferred to keep things contained, and he also knew Ricky would follow his older brother’s lead no matter what he might feel personally. But it felt like they were leaving money on the table in a high-stakes poker game. Folding when they had four kings and an ace. He looked at the gauges again. “Best ease up, Rickey. We’re getting close to red on both engines.” Enrique eased back on the throttles. “Don’t want to burn her up for no good reason, eh? Still, she’s fast. Damned fast.” “No doubt. And once the mechanics get done working their magic she’ll be faster still.” Unlike us. “Something on your mind, Pasqual? You seem distracted today.” “No, Ricky. I’m cool. Just thinking about the next deal with The Bat is all. That Oswaldo is getting weirder each time out.” Enrique laughed as he dropped the boat to half power. “Now I didn’t think that was possible.” “I didn’t, either. But something happened up in Lauderdale that got him spooked. Don’t know what exactly. Maybe one of Manolo’s crews tried to rip him off. Whatever it was, he’s paranoid as hell. He’s got some kind of rig on his boat he claims is a jammer. Plays hell with the marine band is all I know.” “Has his product slipped?” “No. Quality and quantity are still there. It’s good Peruvian product. But he’s not such a good Peruvian product these days.” “I’ll let Miguel know.” Enrique eased back more on the throttles and cranked the wheel, gently turning the boat back toward Miami. “We might have a line on a new supplier. He’s Columbian, but some things can’t be helped. Not everyone who worked for Manolo is eager to jump into bed with Carrera.” “Sure.” So there is change in the wind. And maybe opportunity. Pasqual knew his cut from each deal was good…more than fair by the standards of many operations. But he also knew just how much was coming in, and how much he could make on his own just by syphoning a little bit off, cutting it more than the Mendozas liked, and selling it in shitholes like Overtown and Little Haiti. Places the brothers didn’t bother with, where a kilo could turn into three or four with the right cutting. At least doubling his profit. As he watched, the temperature gauges settled down as the boat practically idled back toward the dock. Pasqual knew most of the Mendoza boats intimately, but he didn’t own a single one. Maybe that was what irritated him the most. Years of loyal service and they still didn’t trust him with his own machine. Still, he knew he had it good compared to the men who’d died during the Gutierrez and Manolo turf wars. Shot in the back of the head and dumped in the ocean or left to feed gators in the swamp. But he’d also been hearing rumors of how Sonny Burnett was running things with the Carreras…each man owned his own boat or truck and got a straight percentage of everything he brought through. Not just a per-run payment. “You’re quiet again, my friend.” “What? Sorry, Ricky. I was just thinking about hitting the clubs tonight. The Overton and then maybe some of the South Beach joints.” He grinned to cover his mood. “Chase some skirts and see if I can get lucky.” Enrique chuckled. “The single life! Enjoy it while you can, man. Soon enough some lady’s gonna nail you down.” “Like you?” “Hell, I don’t mind. Tiffy’s a freak and knows how to party.” “I hear you, boss.” Leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat, Pasqual continued to keep his thoughts off his face. He knew Tiffy well enough to not trust her. There was something about her eyes…something that kept shifting away if you looked at her long enough. She was hot, though. No question about that. And he’d heard enough of the stories to know she was a serious freak. But he wasn’t ready to settle with one woman yet. Not until he had something of his own he could offer. “How much storage do you think we should add to this one?” The question bounced him out of his thoughts. “Enough for a hundred kilos, maybe? I don’t know if we want to risk this one on the bigger runs. Maybe save her for the emergency deals when time’s more important than quantity.” “I think you’re right. Once they’re done she’s going to be the fastest thing on the water within a couple hundred miles. Gives us more options. Hell, she works out I might get a couple more. You can never have too many fast boats. Am I right?” “You got it, boss.” Pasqual kept his eyes focused on the dock as Enrique guided them in. “You got that right on.” “What do we know?” Ricardo Tubbs tugged at the sleeves of his Armani suit coat. “Not much, lieutenant. Word on the street is Miguel Mendoza got hit by one of his own people…some chump called Cliff who had something to do with his transportation. All we know for sure is Oscar Carrera’s sitting on top of the heap now.” Castillo nodded. “Talk to me about Carrera.” “He’s old school. Likes to imagine he’s the biggest, baddest thing to come out of cocaine in Miami.” Rico grinned. “He’s not, but thinking he is keeps him in check. More or less. He’s never been much for expanding past what he thinks is his territory.” Trudy Joplin nodded. “Word on the street is he’s comfortable with what he has. Manolo bumped up against his turf when he tried to expand out of Lauderdale. That’s what kicked this off.” Gina Calabrese shook her head. “There are two wild cards in the Carrera household. His new wife and his only son.” She slid a grainy picture of a blonde out of a folder. “Celeste Carrera’s young, pretty, and ambitious from what we hear. She doesn’t play a role in the old man’s business, but he wants to impress her. If she says something, he’ll listen.” The second picture was of a dark-haired man with a narrow face and haunted eyes. “And this is Mikey. The only son. Confirmed junkie and booze-hound. He’s got ambition, but no brains.” “What influence does he have on the old man?” Rico looked at his notes. “Not much, at least according to our CIs. They like to fight about damned near everything, but in the end the kid always backs down. He’d like to grow the family business but doesn’t have a clue about how to do it.” Castillo nodded. “What are their relations like with the other organizations?” Stan Switek cleared his throat, and Rico noticed his bloodshot eyes. “They’ve mixed it up with the Boroscos a time or two, but that’s it. Old Oscar’s got himself positioned as a supplier of other suppliers, so he doesn’t deal directly with many of our familiar faces.” He paused. “But that might be changing. One of my CIs says he’s hearing things about the Carreras expanding their transportation network. Moving into markets Manolo used to supply. He doesn’t know what, but something’s happening for sure. And it’s too organized to be Mikey.” “Does he have any connection to the Mendoza brothers?” “None that we can find.” Stan flipped through his notes. “Carrera’s been moving in different circles mostly. He’s mainly into bringing product in fast and turning it quick to anyone who’s got the cash. The Mendozas don’t do business that way.” Rio nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s my take, too. They know each other. No way they couldn’t. But they don’t work together or have any heat with each other. More like ships passing in the night.” “Could that change?” Rico looked around the table and decided to answer for the team. “We don’t think so, lieutenant. If it did, it would be because Mikey got a wild hair. The Mendozas have their clubs an’ regular dealers. Besides, Carrera’s gonna be busy trying to hold everything he got from Gutierrez and Manolo. And if Manolo’s brother deals himself in…” “You mean Ernesto Manolo.” “That’s right, lieutenant. Or El Gato.” Rico grinned. “He’s a freak, no question. Has a string of pretty boys he likes to take out for drinks and was the laughing stock of the Dade County underworld. Until Carrera killed his brother Miguel.” Stan nodded. “One of my CIs is in that scene. He says El Gato is pissed as hell and looking for revenge. If there’s gonna be a war, my money’s on El Gato trying to take out the Carreras.” Rico saw the look on Gina’s face and raised his finger just enough for her to see. “Still no word on Sonny, either. Not since he blew away that dirty Lauderdale cop.” “We don’t know…” Rico felt the anger then. “The hell we don’t. That bastard gave me up to Manolo. I don’t know what’s going on with Sonny, but that chump he wasted was dirty. Lauderdale IAB knows it, but isn’t doing squat. We all know it.” “It’s not our case.” “I know that, lieutenant. But I’m not gonna buy into that ‘Sonny’s dirty’ story without a hell of a lot more proof. Something’s not right with him. I know that. Hell, he took a shot at me. But think about it. Sonny’s a good shot. At that range, he would have gone for the head to be sure. He didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but he hasn’t turned.” “We can’t touch this.” Castillo looked up, and Rico felt the heat in his eyes. “Too many people are involved. Too many agencies. Our priority now has to be preventing a war between Carrera and El Gato. The Mendoza brothers will have to wait unless they jump in on one side or the other.” Back in the squad room, Rico watched as Stan gathered his notes and headed for the door. Then he cornered Gina. “Is Switek ok?” “I don’t know, Rico. Why ask me?” “Because you talk to him. He was hung over in the briefing. That’s not like him.” She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. He hasn’t been around as much, but I don’t know what’s bothering him.” “Solid. Just thought I’d ask.” Rico retreated back to his own desk and his notes. Maybe later he’d do a little checking of his own. But for now he needed to get a better handle on Ernesto Manolo. “El Gato. Who the hell calls himself The Cat?” Then he looked at the photo clipped inside the records file and chuckled. “Now that makes sense. This chump looks like he’s a pineapple short of a fruit basket. And that ain’t a good thing in this line of work.” But no matter how hard he tried to lose himself in the files on Carrera and El Gato, he kept seeing Sonny’s face, lost in the haze in the alley and lit on one side by a flash of lightning. It had been Sonny, but at the same time it wasn’t. There was something different about his face. His eyes. There’d been a hardness there he’d never seen in his partner before. What the hell happened to you, man? he thought as he flipped through El Gato’s rap sheet. And how do we get you back? “We need to meet.” The international connection had its usual hisses and pops, but Cristobal Santos’s voice was especially grating today. “I agree.” Miguel Mendoza managed to keep the excitement out of his voice. “What about next week?” “I think I can manage that. I have other business in South Florida, and it seems one of my international entanglements has been dropped.” You mean you finally found someone high enough in the new Bolivian government you could bribe. “That’s excellent news. Let me know when you’ve confirmed your arrangements and we’ll meet. The situation here has been…shall we say…fluid, so I have to manage my time.” “Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Miguel.” “Asshole.” Miguel muttered the word moments after hanging up the phone. “At least this is the last time I need to deal with him.” “So you’re still planning on resolving the situation?” Miguel looked over at Esteban. “Yes. We know he’s talking with that freak El Gato about shipments, and that El Gato hopes to reestablish what his brother had in Lauderdale.” He allowed himself a thin smile. “I think we both know he won’t succeed, but he’ll make a hell of a mess in the trying of it, which gives us exactly what we need.” “Your father called me yesterday.” “Did he? What did he want?” “I think he was trying to find out what we were doing with Jesus Estevez.” Esteban smiled. “I told him nothing.” “He’s a foolish old man who still thinks he has some say in what we do.” Miguel paused, thinking back over the last few months. They’d reduced the amount of money going into Jesus’s charter fleet, and the older man hadn’t kicked. But there was always a chance he was slipping back into old habits. “Have you heard anything about my uncle?” “No. He’s been sticking to hauling tourists around and charging them too much to catch fish. El Gato is trying to recruit boats, but I think we both know Jesus would never work with him.” Miguel laughed. “I can just see Uncle Jesus’s face if that fairy ever tried to ask him anything. One thing you can count on with Jesus: Mother Church is strong in him. In some ways, at least. Still, something must have prompted my father to ask. If he calls again, tell him to speak to me.” “I did. He said he’d been trying but you weren’t taking his calls.” “Now I know something’s up. Any time the old man lies, he’s got a scheme in the works. Maybe he’s trying to convince Jesus to move something for him.” “I’ll look into it, jefe. One of Jesus’s top pilots has a bit of a gambling problem, and we own his debt.” “Good.” Miguel turned to look out the window. “We do have another problem, though. Some of the trash left behind by Gutierrez is trying to make inroads into Liberty City. It might be a shithole, but it’s our shithole.” “I didn’t…” “No reason you should know, Esteban. I only heard because Holly heard it from another club owner. The guy has a spot in the better side of the street, if you know what I mean, and he said a crew’s been working the block for the last couple of weeks. Selling badly-cut coke and running off his customers. It’s only a matter of time before they get balls and try to move in on our operation.” “Dead men don’t make moves. I’ll have Oscar’s crew see to it. He needs the experience.” “Good. And Esteban? Let them know this is to be a warning.” Esteban smiled. “I’ll see to it personally.” The rain didn’t do much to break the heat, and it just made the humidity worse. Growing up in South Florida, Stan Switek was used to the shifting summer weather. But he didn’t like being pulled away from a baseball game in Mickey’s…especially when he had two hundred riding on the Yankees. He parked a bit back from the patrol cars, the Thunderbird’s wiper blades swiping uselessly at the rain on the windshield. “Fuck it,” he muttered as he got out into the wet. The lead officer was a guy he’d known back in Patrol, and the man’s face split into a grin. “Stan the Man! You pull the short straw this time out, buddy?” “Something like that.” His Hawaiian shirt was starting to stick to his skin, and he wished he’d grabbed a rain jacket. “What do we have that got you to call out OCB?” “Five bodies.” Fritz waved in the general direction of the sheet-covered mounds, the rain doing its best to thin the blood soaking through the cloth. “ME should be here in five so we can get ‘em tagged and bagged all proper.” Nodding, Stan looked around. They were about a block into Liberty City, boarded up windows competing with liquor stores and signs hawking the services of bail bondsmen and ambulance chasers. “What’s your read, Fritz? I’m guessing this is your beat.” “Yeah. I pissed off Lieutenant Carlone and got sent to the back of beyond. Again. Those boys ain’t locals. Couple of the locals who do me a solid now and again said they were new…trying to muscle in on the rackets already here.” He snorted. “Drugs, mostly.” Stan nodded, feeling the rain dripping down his back. Turning, he walked under the scant cover of a crumbling awning over the door to what had once been a sandwich shop. “Sorry. Forgot my Patrol raincoat. And these damned Hawaiian prints run. Your CI got any idea where they came from?” “If he does he ain’t sayin’. But my educated guess is they’re leftovers from that Gutierrez-Manolo thing. LC’s a black neighborhood, and those boys look Columbian or maybe Honduran. Someone’s hired help left to fend for themselves.” “Great. So the locals took ‘em out?” Fritz shook his head. “That’s the funny thing, Stan. I don’t think so. No one, and I mean no one, is talking about that. Crime Scene might be able to tell you more, but I don’t think this was one of them drive-by jobs, either. Not enough collateral damage. No, someone came up on these guys and did them proper. Heavy caliber slugs to the head.” Stan turned to look at Fritz. “Did you say heavy caliber?” “Yeah. .45s I’d say. No more than two rounds in each vic. And right out in the open for God and everyone to see.” Fritz turned and looked back the crime scene rapidly being washed away by the rain. “You ask me it was a message.” “Oh, I’d say it was a freaking message. Thanks, Fritz. I don’t know if we’ll end up taking this one or not, but between you and me I’d say someone just told whoever’s behind these punks to stay the hell away.” A younger patrol officer walked over from one of the cars. “ME’s a block out, boss. And I just heard on the radio. The Yankees lost.” “Shit.” “And your contact in Patrol couldn’t give you any more?” “No, lieutenant. But Fritz has worked Liberty City for years off and on. He knows that turf. The five vics were a crew trying to muscle in on the street action there. None of it’s real organized, so it was easy for them. Until they bumped into the wrong people.” Stan looked down at his hands, still feeling the sting of the loss. He’d dropped four games in a row now, and was in over a grand. He was good for it, but… Rico tapped his pen on his legal pad. “And you said these were headshots?” “Yep. All five took one or two rounds to the head. Fritz thinks it’s a message, and I agree with him. They didn’t have any drugs on them, but the IDs are coming back linking them to the crew Alejandro Gutierrez used to run. This ain’t some home-grown turf war. It was someone trying to make a move and getting the taste slapped out of his mouth.” Rico stared at him for a long moment, and Stan hoped he’d chewed enough gum before coming in. Fritz wouldn’t have said anything about the whiskey on his breath, but the lieutenant would. “I think Switek’s right, lieutenant. This is a message, and I think we know who’s sending it.” Trudy nodded. “Seems a hell of a lot like that shooting a couple of years back. The Haitians in front of the bar. Did Homicide ever get anywhere on that?” “No. Gangs didn’t, either.” Castillo sat in silence for a moment. “We’ll wait for the forensics to come back. If it’s .45 ACP again, we’ll take it.” Stan scribbled something on his pad to make the others think he was paying attention. But his thoughts had wandered back to the Yankees game as soon as they brought up the Haitians. Who cares if they’re related? We’ll chase our tails again, it will go cold, and the lieutenant will toss it back to Gangs or whoever stands still the longest. I need to figure out how to get my luck to change. Maybe the ponies….or better yet dogs. Izzy might be able to cage a tip or two from his uncle. If they’re on speaking terms again. “What do you think, Stan?” Rico’s voice startled him, even more so because he was actually asking for his opinion. “I agree it looks like the same crew, but can we be sure it’s the Mendozas and not just some Cubans these guys managed to piss off? Gutierrez and his crew were starting to dip their toes in Little Havana, and we know they don’t take kindly to outsiders.” “You got a point.” Rico nodded slowly, rubbing his groomed beard. “There’s gotta be something more than just .45 slugs if we want to…” The door to the conference room opened and Dibble stuck his head in. “Sorry to break up the party, but we got a priority call. Someone just took a shot at Oscar Carrera. At least three bodies, and none of ‘em are his.” Castillo looked around the table. “We’ll sort this out after we see about Carrera. If it’s Manolo’s brother trying to get revenge this takes priority over the Liberty City homicides. We can’t afford another war on our streets, and if those two are going after each other it will be a war.” OCB moves into Hostile Takeover Esteban Morales took his time counting out the bonus money, making sure Oscar’s crew had plenty of rum to celebrate. “Excellent work,” he said as he handed each man a packet of bills. “The boss is pleased. And we let those putos know what happens when you try to move in on our turf.” Oscar, a thickset man with a bushy mustache, nodded. “It was nothing, boss. Hell, those idiots were just standing around posing and trying to talk big. They didn’t even know we were there.” “It makes you wonder how Gutierrez got as far as he did.” Esteban grinned. “But we know things are easier in Lauderdale.” And he was pleased with how things turned out. Dead bodies laid out for all interlopers to see. By his reckoning it should buy them another couple of months. Maybe more if El Gato took a run at the Carreras. From what little he knew of the man, Esteban was sure he would. And while they shot the shit out of each other, he’d go about securing Mendoza territory. Patience paid off, at least for now. And maybe the boss would finally get rid of the Bolivian prick. Santos had been making fools of them for too long. Maybe it was time to send a different kind of message.

The freighter’s deck was slick from the rain and ocean spray, but Enrique had no trouble finding his footing. Light shone from a handful of portholes on the superstructure, but they’re no lights on deck. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and he shifted to give a slight nod to the Cuban. Something’s not right. The man who’d thrown the rope was big and square. A broad chin turned dark with stubble and narrow, mean eyes dominated his face, and thick shoulders set the stage for the rest of him. “Good thing you made it, Holmes.” His deep voice was scratchy. “Weather’s taking a turn, no doubt.” “Let’s get this done. Where’s the product? You know the drill…test and then pay.” “Sure, Holmes.” But the man made no move. Just stood there grinning like an idiot. “Look, Chico. My name isn’t Holmes. And I want to get off this rusty bucket of shit and back to Miami before that storm really opens up.” He could sense the Cuban moving into a different position. Slow enough you’d have to really be watching to notice. He doubted the block of muscle in front of him noticed a thing. “Well, that’s the thing. Mister Santos, he didn’t want to send product this time. Not to you, anyhow. Says he’s got another buyer up the coast who’ll pay more. In fact, we already did that deal. But he does want the money you brought. Said he’ll make it up to you later. Says to think of it as a down payment on a bigger shipment.” The big man raised his hand, and a door on the superstructure creaked open. “Now just hand that bag over to my friend here and…” Enrique saw the big man’s right hand coming up filled with a pistol and started his dive to the left, aiming for a stack of battered crates for cover. The boom of the Cuban’s shotgun left his ears ringing, and the big man spun away with blood spraying from his destroyed midsection. Bright orange blooms by the door showed where the second man was firing, and Enrique hoped the Cuban had taken cover as well. Then he heard high cracks from behind, and a line of sparks showed on the superstructure metal as the Cuban in the boat opened fire with his Mini-14, driving the shooter to cover. “You ok, boss?” “Yeah! Now let’s get the hell off this damned tub!” Enrique scrambled to his feet, feeling a sharp stab where he’d scraped his palm raw on the deck. He sent three quick shots at one of the portholes, more to hear his own pistol than anything else. A second blast boomed from the Cuban’s pistol grip pump shotgun, and he thought he heard a high scream over the gunfire. The other Cuban continued firing from the boat, his .223 slugs gouging steel and showering the deck with sparks as they ricochetted into the darkness. The big Cuban grabbed his shoulder when they got to the rail. “Go! We got you covered!” Out of reflex Enrique flipped up the safety on his Colt and made the jump over the surging sea between the boats, slamming into the padded instrument console as he misjudged the distance. His chest was throbbing, his veins almost alive with surging adrenalin. Sending a final shotgun blast in the direction of the still-open door, the Cuban turned and made the same jump. Beside him the man with the Mini-14 continued triggering off shots, and Enrique imagined he could see glittering shell casings spinning away from the weapon with each shot. “Cut the rope!” Flaco’s voice was high and tight. “We gotta move!” Coming back into himself, Enrique found the knife tucked in one of the side pouches and hacked at the thick line just as the big Cuban sent another shotgun blast in the direction of the freighter. Finally it was free, the rope snapping back and up as Flaco jammed the throttles all the way open and cranked the wheel hard to port. The boat’s nose climbed in the air, the surging power slamming Enrique and the two Cubans back into the cushions as they shot away from the small freighter. Looking back, Enrique thought he saw a handful of muzzle flashes blooming along the rail and then the steamer was lost in the blackness. Miguel Mendoza paced back and forth in the narrow office at the boat house. “And you’re sure Santos planned this?” “All I know is what the dead asshole said. But he wasn’t in on it alone. The whole crew was. And they would have had my ass if it wasn’t for those Cubans of yours.” Miguel nodded. The two men would be getting bonuses, as would Flaco. “I’m not doubting your word, Enrique. Just verifying things. I’d be willing to bet he sold our load to the Manolo cartel. Lauderdale’s their turf, and that’s north of us. I hear they’ve been taking some hits and need more product in a hurry. And we both know Santos is a greedy pig loyal only to himself. If Manolo made him a better offer, he’d take it in a second.” “So what do we do?” “We lure him in.” Miguel’s fury had been replaced by something else while he paced. Calculation. “Look. He doesn’t know what his men said. And I don’t think the survivors are going to tell him their guy gave the game away. So we play dumb. Say he’s got bad apples again. We play the grinning, gullible Puerto Ricans and lure him into our waters. Maybe into Miami again. And then we kill the son of a bitch.” “You’d hit Cristobal Santos?” “Why not? He tried to kill my brother. That cannot stand. But we need to be precise about it. What’s the word…methodical. He can’t know what’s coming, and no one around him can suspect what’s coming. But once it’s done they’ll know who did it and why. And that it will happen to them if they set foot in Miami again.” “Isn’t he some kind of fancy international fugitive, though? Won’t that draw attention?” “Not if this thing with Manolo and Gutierrez keeps heating up. Or if Carrera takes a hand. He might, you know. They all work the same territory, and even an old bull like him will charge if he thinks someone’s in his pasture. Plus he’s got that young wife to impress.” “I’d forgotten about her.” Enrique scratched his chin. “Lots of things could go very wrong. You’re right about that.” “And when lead starts to fly, it’s easy to drop another body in the mix. I’m sure Metro-Dade is watching Manolo to see what he does to retaliate for the boat.” “To be honest I’m surprised he hasn’t.” “Maybe he’s trying to smoke out whoever planted the bomb. Like I said, my money’s on Alejandro. He’s slippery enough to do that and then try to partner up with Manolo when he missed. Or maybe he was trying to take out the men around the king so he could take their places. Who can tell with an idiot like that?” Miguel grinned. “But once he knows for sure who planted the bomb, he’ll take action. And then it will get hot again.” Enrique nodded, and Miguel noticed his hands were still shaking. Not much, but enough for someone who knew him well to notice. “Should we plan on a slow down again if that happens?” “Yes. I won’t risk our people getting caught in their crossfire. I had been thinking about adding a few new customers on the sales side, but now I think we’ll wait until things settle down again. We have enough coming in off our regular sales we don’t need to expand.” “Patience, eh?” “Something like that. Something I think grandfather would have done. Sometimes the best action is no action. Try to add another week’s worth to our supply if you can. I suspect our Peruvian friend will be up to it. The money’s there, and I’ll make the calls. If he can double the amount of one of his regular loads we should be fine.” “And I won’t need a second boat for that. So long as we use one of the newer ones.” “Have you used the new one yet?” Miguel steered the conversation away from the night’s action, seeing Enrique was starting to calm down. “No. She’s getting some work done, but I expect to have her on a run next week. The week after at the latest.” “Good.” He reached out and squeezed Enrique’s shoulder. “We’ll get thought this, brother. We’ve seen worse times and come out on top, and we had much less then. If we had to wait a week, we’d be in trouble. Now? Now we can just sit and watch our enemies do our work for us before we start again.” He stayed on the wide porch, watching Enrique walk to his Corvette and pull out down the long gravel drive. Normally his younger brother walked with a cocky bounce, but now he seemed reserved. Worried. He knew it would pass, but seeing it kindled his anger again. I’ll blow Santos’s pig head right off his damned shoulders. No one does that to my family. No one. He stood until the red taillights vanished into the gloom, then turned and headed back inside. At least there would be no explanations…Holly was at Shock overseeing one of her concerts. If the deal hadn’t been tonight he’d be there with her. But he’d have time to call Esteban before she got home. “I heard about the rip,” the Cuban said as soon as he picked up the phone and heard Miguel’s voice. “My boys say Ricky did well.” “Make sure they get bonuses. But also make sure they lay low and stay quiet about what happened. I don’t want Santos to know we know what he was trying to do.” “You got it, boss. We’re going to hit him back.” Miguel noticed it wasn’t a question. “Yes. But at a time of our choosing. I don’t want our people stuck in the crossfire between Manolo and whoever he decides to lash out at.” “Good idea. There’s a lot going on out there right now. People starting to move for position, and others making sure everyone knows which side they’re on.” “We stay above it. We’re on our side, no one else’s. We’re going to slow the runs soon. Sit back and wait for the shooting to start and maybe finish. There will be plenty of pieces to pick up.” Esteban chuckled. “That’s no shit. My guys heard about a shootout last night just north of the Grove. Two crews opening up over two kilos.” “That’s how it starts, my friend. How it ends we don’t know, but we can make our own ending if we keep our heads. But I want you to put some extra people on the stash houses. We might have to rely on them in another week or so, and I don’t want them exposed.” “They won’t be.” “Where are we on this?” Ricardo Tubbs looked the notes he’d jotted while staring down at the three dead bodies laid out under a streetlight. “Intel suggests they were little fish. Working for a guy who worked for a guy who might have worked for Gutierrez. Lots of shell casings the lab says probably came from a Tech 9 or maybe an UZI. And a bit of Bolivian party powder scattered around where a bag must have taken a stray round. Oh, and a couple of twenties with bullet holes in them, too.” “So the three are from the same crew?” “Looks that way, lieutenant.” Stan Switek shook his head, and Rico caught a quick glimpse of bloodshot eyes. “Homicide just kicked the bodies and handed the case off the second they saw the coke, but Gangs at least ran some prints. Our dead guys all ran together. Like Rico said, guys who work for guys. One of ‘em had a rap sheet going back to the 8-Ball Kings, but Gangs said he went out on his own a couple of years ago.” Rico sat to the right of Castillo, noticing how Stan skipped a chair before sitting down. Leaving a space for Crockett out of habit, maybe. Gina and Trudy were across the table, and for once Dibble and Gorman weren’t in the conference room. He didn’t mind…they didn’t add much to the conversation. Gorman in particular. They did run serviceable surveillance, though, which was where they were now. Trying to get a fix on Alejandro Gutierrez. He’d been something of a ghost since the boat explosion. It was Gina who asked the question. “Any news about Sonny?” “No.” Castillo’s voice was clipped. “The Coast Guard says there’s no more debris to be found, and the divers came up empty.” Trudy shook her head. “You want us to try to get a fix on the other crew at that meeting?” “Yes.” Rico thought he heard a whisper of relief in Castillo’s voice. He couldn’t blame the man. “Whoever they were, they took out three men quickly and reasonably cleanly. If they were working for Gutierrez, he’ll want to hit back. Hard. We can’t let this explode into a full-blown war.” Back at his desk, Rico stared for a long moment at Sonny’s empty chair. “Hell, it already is a full-blown war,” he muttered, tugging at the sleeves on his suit coat. “And it’s only gonna get worse.” “Do you think he knows anything about Sonny?” Gina’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “No, Gina. I don’t. If he did, he’d tell us. Castillo’s like that.” He sighed. “And right now we ain’t got the time or manpower to start our own search. I got Izzy and Noogie sniffing around, but Noogie’s acting kinda strange even for him and Izzy…this ain’t his game. You just say the name Manolo and I think the chump wets himself. But we’re doing what we can.” “I know. I just keep thinking…” “There’s nothing more we can do.” Rico didn’t mention the times he’d driven by the marina, partly to make sure Elvis still had tuna or kibble but mostly to see if anyone had been by the boat. The old fart who looked after the place was also seeing to feeding Elvis, and he kept a weather eye on the boat as well. “Ain’t seen your friend around for a spell,” he’d said the last time Rico dropped by. “I got that card an’ I’ll call first thing if I do, though. He’s a good guy, if a little wild.” Across the squad room Stan slammed down the phone with a curse. “And we got another one. Dead body just inside Overtown. Call of lots of shots fired, and in that neighborhood for someone to call you know it had to be a division’s worth of shooting.” “I got it.” Straightening his tie, Rico swung his feet off his desk and reached for the Caddy keys. “Anyone want to ride along?” “I’ll go.” Trudy smiled. “I still know some cats in that part of town. Might be able to shake a couple of words loose if Patrol hasn’t scared ‘em all off already.” Rico swung the Caddy into a spot a quarter of a block from the two patrol cars. “Looks like they’re traveling light,” he said, nodding toward the three uniforms clustered around what he assumed was the body. Someone had strung crime scene tape around the area, using a light post, a broken parking meter, and one of the patrol cars as anchor points. “Metro-Dade doesn’t come down this way much. Never have.” “Yeah. NYPD was like that where I grew up, too.” He flashed his badge at one of the uniforms. “Tubbs. OCB. What do we have?” The patrolman was young, likely a few weeks out of the academy at best, and had the pale cheeks of someone who’d just seen his first dead body. “Guy took two in the chest. At least that’s what my FTO says. I think he might have been a corner dealer. One of the ones who holds product for the younger ones.” “Solid.” Rico gave him a quick smile before turning to the older cop with two stripes on his shoulder. “You know this cat?” “Goes by Tricky. Don’t ask me the fuck why.” The older cop, with eyes that had seen way too much too soon, gave a dry chuckle. “Like the kid said, he holds product for other dealers.” “He independent?” “No way. I think he carries…I mean carried…water for the Manolo cartel.” “It’s starting already.” Trudy looked from Rico to the body sprawled halfway across the curb. Nodding, Rico crouched to examine the body. “Two in the chest. No doubt about that. Don’t see any sign of lots of shots being fired, though.” The older cop grunted. “That would be Tricky’s ride. They dumped about twenty rounds into it.” He pointed toward a Monte Carlo with its windshield and passenger side windows shot to hell and a constellation of bullet holes pocking the door and rear quarter panel. Trudy walked over to the car. “I’d say they hit him first and then shot up his ride. Question is why.” “A message. Just showing how much firepower they’ve got.” Rico straightened up and scratched a few lines in a pocket notebook. “Seems pretty restrained for Gutierrez, though. If this is payback for the hit earlier.” “I don’t know, Rico. This guy’s higher up on the food chain than those punks who got hit earlier.” He nodded. “Yeah, that’s true enough.” He looked around. “Anyone stop to watch the show?” “Nope.” The older cop shook his head. “They all scattered as soon as we rolled up. I’d bet it was the shooters who made the call.” “Probably. No point in payback without an audience.” Rico looked over at Trudy. “Anything you want to check on, partner?” “No. Looks like the ME’s here, and that means crime scene isn’t far behind. They’ll send his effects over. We should check the car, though.” “Solid.” He turned to the uniforms. “Extend the crime scene to include the car.” Why they didn’t do that when they rolled up is something I’ll never understand. Back at OCB, Rico laid out twenty pre-packaged bindles of cocaine. “All set for quick sale, lieutenant. We tested one, and it came back 75% pure. That’s pure gold for Overtown.” “We also ran the punk’s street name.” Trudy walked to the white board in the conference room and stuck up a blown-up mug shot. “Say hello to Trevarious Johnston. The late and maybe unlamented Tricky. His rap sheet went back to when he was fifteen, mostly narcotics with the occasional assault mixed in to keep it real.” “It looks like he started dealing for Manolo about a year ago. Started in Little Haiti and then moved back home. Narcotics thinks he’s got a crew of about ten smaller pushers moving product for him, but that number’s not solid.” Rico paused. “But his relationship with Miguel Manolo is. They’ve got surveillance photos of the two of them. Not enough for any kind of warrant, but enough to show the connection.” “Stay on it. Manolo will hit back, and hit hard. Anything on the weapon?” Rico shoot his head. “The lab says 9mm, but it could have been a handgun. They didn’t find any shell casings on the scene, so they think the shooter or shooters might have been in a car.” He paused. “Or they were careful and picked up their casings.” “Does Gutierrez favor any shooters?” Rico smiled. He’d anticipated the question and pulled some files. “Not really, lieutenant. Seems like he goes with whoever’s handy. But he likes to contract out. That way nothing comes back on him or his people.” “Stay on it.” Castillo didn’t look up. “And keep me informed.” The sun had started to slip below the horizon when Rico tossed the Herald on a small table next to his chair with a snort. “Blood in the streets.” He glared at the front page. “Damned thing coulda come from the Post. Don’t expect to see that here.” He looked around his smallish apartment, the latest in a string of places he’d lived as part of his many covers. It was better than the hotel by the airport he’d been stuck in during his first weeks in Miami, but how much better was still an open question. At least he could see the lights from here. It wasn’t New York, but it was a city. He drew some comfort from that. He also couldn’t really argue with the paper. There was a war coming, and it was going to be as nasty as the Revillas cleaning house. Miguel Manolo wasn’t known up in Lauderdale for his patience when it came to rivals. Gutierrez was still something of an unknown, and Rico wasn’t even sure if he had real control over his own people. “Gotta be doing something right, though,” he muttered, getting up and walking into the small kitchen. “Otherwise we would have found him floating in a canal with a couple of bullets in his head.” As he poured a glass of orange juice, his mind wandered back to Sonny. The only body the Coast Guard hadn’t recovered from the boat. He’d seen the statements. There had been a charter fishing boat about a quarter of a mile away, and the captain swore he’d seen a small boat speeding away from the bigger one just before it went up. Rico figured that would have been Gutierrez, scurrying away like a rat before the cheese exploded. But had Sonny been on board? And if not, had he gotten away in time? Sonny’s got more lives than three damned cats. If anyone could get away from that mess, it’s him. But that raised another question…if Sonny had gotten off the boat in time, where was he? Taking a sip of juice, Rico rolled the question around in his head. Sonny’s penchant for going off on his own was doing him no favors now. Granted it had only been a few days since the explosion, and if he’d been hurt he might be in some underground clinic. A check of the legit hospitals had come up empty, but Rico knew if Sonny was holding to his cover he wouldn’t go to a hospital. But why stick to the cover? It was a question Rico couldn’t answer. No matter how many times he chased it around. Maybe he’d been fished out of the water unconscious by Gutierrez for whatever reason, and was lying in some illegal clinic still unconscious. Between getting shot, Caitlin, and the business with Angel Connor, Sonny had been through a lot. Maybe too much. It was something Rico couldn’t discount, even if others did. “Where the hell are you, partner?” he whispered to the gathering night beyond his apartment window. “You gotta let us know if you’re ok. Hell, let me know you’re ok. Cause I ain’t gonna stop looking until I find something.” “I apologize again for the actions of that bastard. You be sure it was not at my orders.” Miguel Mendoza bit back a snort as he listened to Cristobal Santos jabbering away on the other end of the international call. “Of course not. It’s what happens when you can’t oversee important transactions yourself. Things sometimes get out of hand.” “I’m glad you understand.” There was a pause, and then Santos started fishing. “I hear things are heating up in Miami.” “Not from where we sit. Our business is doing just fine. There might be some trouble between two interlopers from Lauderdale, but nothing more.” “So you don’t view them as a threat?” “No. Not in the least. Our position is secure, and we have more than enough resources to defend what’s ours. If one of them tries to cut in, they’ll discover that in short order.” He paused, then decided to push things. The smugness in Santos’s voice irritated him. “And in times like this, we remember our friends and our enemies. I’m sure you understand.” “Of course. It’s what men do.” But Miguel heard a trace of doubt over the crackling international connection. “And since we’re friends I understand your position.” “Good. These can be confusing times. People are always moving to take more than they can control. And it will only get worse if the Carrera cartel decides to take a hand. It’s always possible. The old man is very proud and territorial. A dangerous combination. Especially when Manolo’s bumping up against areas he considers his own.” “So this could become a three-way conflict?” “Or more. The Hermanos brothers are small time, but they’re always eager to get in on a fight. The Boroscos are a bit more cautious, but they’ve been inching toward Lauderdale and might see this as an opportunity.” Miguel had no idea if the smaller groups were considering anything of the sort, but he couldn’t pass up a chance to muddy Santos’s view of the situation. When he finally hung up, he looked across the desk at a grinning Esteban. “I couldn’t resist.” “I don’t blame you. I’ll bet that pig is running to his people now demanding everything they have on the Hermanos brothers. He’s an idiot.” “Yes, but still a dangerous one.” Miguel waved his hand toward the paper on his desk. “I see it’s starting already.” “Yes. So far they’re one apiece, but I think the blow to Manolo was more severe. I also don’t think Gutierrez was behind it.” “Really?” “It was too clean. Far too clean. Alejandro is more a bomb in the car trunk kind of guy. That and my source tells me the police found the product in the car packaged for sale. Gutierrez wouldn’t leave that behind. It wasn’t much, but it’s still something he could use to turn a profit.” “So who do you think did this?” “I actually think it might have been the Boroscos. It’s in an area they claim as their own, and this guy hadn’t been working it for more than a couple of months. Maybe they warned him off, then decided to send a stronger message when he ignored them.” He shrugged. “It might also have been ambitious locals. Overtown has its share of gangs, and they might resent someone from Lauderdale trying to get in on the action.” He smiled. “But the police seem convinced it’s tied to Gutierrez. Who am I to disagree with the great minds at Metro-Dade?” Then his face changed. “There is one thing, though…” “What is it?” “I keep hearing rumors about Burnett. That he’s still alive. And working for Manolo.” “Are they reliable sources?” “Reasonably. One’s a mid-level dealer, but the other has done security for Manolo at that damned chicken coop he keeps.” “Keep on it. If he’s still alive we need to know.” Miguel stared at the wall clock, listening to the ticking in the quiet room. “He’s a bigger threat that they understand. Don’t ask me how I know.” “I get the same feeling from him. Anyone who could do what he’s done is dangerous.” Esteban got to his feet. “You’ll know as soon as I learn anything new, jefe.”

May 1988 During and after Deliver Us from Evil It still doesn’t seem like she’s gone. I still keep looking up, expecting to see her face or hear her voice. Can’t even listen to the damned radio anymore. Not that I ever did much. Funny. My getting shot wasn’t a big deal. Cost of doing business almost. But this… Sonny Crockett stared at the bottom of his glass, then waved in the direction of the bartender for another. And I know where the son-of-a-bitch is. Blatt gave him up sure as hell. But we can’t touch him. Not officially. Now it’s on me. He wasn’t sure what had brought him to Rizzo’s, especially at ten in the morning. Maybe it was the fact that no one he knew would think of looking for him here, or the fact he knew it would be quiet this early…one or two drunks who’d never managed to leave the night before and some of the girls getting ready for their early shifts. Or maybe it was just the gloom. The broken dreams hanging thick in the strip club’s air. “Sonny! My man!” Noogie’s voice was low, something Sonny didn’t expect given the man’s usual over the top demeanor. “I heard about your lady. The Noog-man is sorry as hell, if that’s worth anything.” He started to snarl, then stopped. Noogie didn’t have his habitual sunglasses on, and the sadness in his eyes was almost a physical thing. “Thanks. Noogie. It is.” Noogie nodded and settled in on the stool next to him. “And that’s why you come back, Jack? To this place, I mean. It’s like where hope goes to die.” He nodded to the bartender. “But it ain’t. Not really. Now the Noog ain’t no preacher man, an’ ain’t never gonna be one, but this place saved my skinny ass. Gave me somethin’ to do. A job. An’ hell, I get to help some of these girls time to time. Some of ‘em even get right and move on. It ain’t much, but it sure ain’t hopeless.” The bourbon bit the back of Sonny’s throat. He’d never seen Noogie like this before, and it jarred him out of his mood. At least for a moment. “I get it, man. I really do. But sometimes hope does die. I mean, Hackman. He’s out in the Cacos. Working on his damned tan after he murdered my wife and son.” “She was…” Noogie’s face twisted into a nasty snarl. Something Sonny had never seen before. “That’s low, Joe. Even for a piece of garbage like him” “But there’s nothing I can do. They aren’t gonna extradite him. No way. He’s got friends out there with money who can tie the damned thing up for years. And it’s on me, Noogie. I should have let the state of Florida fry the son of a bitch.” “Now the Noog-man ain’t one for lookin’ back, Jack. You gotta look forward.” Noogie leaned closer, his eyes changing again. “You want to get this rude dude?” “No way the lieutenant’s…” “I know a guy. Get you there and back without anyone so much as seein’ your white shadow. So happens this cat owes me like big time. Little favor the Noog-man did for him back in the day. Ok, maybe not so little, but a debt’s a debt.” Noogie grinned, but his eyes were stone cold and serious. “Say the word.” Sonny was about to shake his head, then stopped. He kept seeing the light leaving Caitlin’s eyes, hearing Frankel’s voice. And seeing that damned cross Hackman had worn and waved in front of him when he fell for his act. And if he would have just dropped his papers instead of insisting on closing out his cases without telling anyone, this might not have happened. He wouldn’t have been distracted…would have been there to protect her. But none of it mattered now. She was dead, and a light in his heart had gone out. Maybe it was the bourbon, or some lingering effect from getting shot, but he heard another voice in his head. One that was cold, distant, and full of calculation. The voice of Sonny Burnett. It was that voice that answered Noogie. “Consider it said.” “The Noog-man will make the call, Saul. Stick close to that pager, hyar? When this cat moves he’s greased lightning, and if the Noog-man’s lying he’s dying.” He drained the glass and slammed it down on the bar. “Thanks, Noogie. I owe you one.” Something was changing in his head. Shifting things just a bit into new positions. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he had to admit he liked how it felt. “Naw, man. You don’t owe the Noog a damned thing. Just make it right for your lady, hyar? Sometimes that’s all we can do in this life.” Sonny Burnett nodded, feeling the big .45 under his left arm. When he spoke his voice was flat, and he knew his eyes were dark. “We’ll settle it this time. Once and for all.” “I just go a call from Lupe. He said one of Jesus’s pilots just picked up a contract to transport a guy to the Cacos and back.” Miguel nodded, even though he knew Esteban couldn’t see him through the phone. “So Jesus is moving into that racket now?” “No. Nothing like that. He says the guy was contacted by someone he owed a major favor to, so it’s personal.” “I’m sorry, Esteban, but I have to ask how this concerns us.” “The person being transported is Sonny Burnett.” “I see.” It took a moment for it to sink in. “Why isn’t he using his own boat?” “Something about not wanting to leave any traces. Our sources also say Frank Hackman is on the island. Lupe thinks that’s why he wants to go. Should I have him tell the pilot to drop it?” Miguel thought back to the stories in the paper about Caitlin Davies. Holly had been about to add a one night show for her at Shock when the murder happened. And Caitlin had been Burnett’s wife. “No. Let them go. And make sure no one interferes with it.” “But he’s working with both Gutierrez and Manolo. If something happens to him…” “He’s avenging his wife, Esteban. And we both know Frank Hackman is the lowest form of scum.” Miguel thought of what he would do if someone murdered Holly. In front of him like Hackman had done. “No, we must make sure he gets where he needs to go. And then back to Miami. Burnett’s never messed with our business, and this thing he wants to do is honorable.” Esteban sighed. “You’ll get no argument from me, jefe. If Hackman did that to my woman, they’d be burying what they could find of him in a sandwich bag. I’ll see to it personally.” “Thank you.” Miguel hung up and turned to look out the wide window. He’d never met this Burnett, only seen a picture or two. But he understood what it meant to seek revenge. Especially for the woman you loved. He’d be less than a man if he stood in the way of such a thing. June 1988 After Deliver Us from Evil and Vengeance is Mine, just before and during Mirror Image “Where are we on the meeting?” Sonny Crockett looked down at his notes, focusing on what he was about to do. And pushing the Cacos deep down inside himself. Along with the fading memories of being shot. “Gutierrez wants it to look like a deep sea fishing expedition. The moron fancies himself some kind of trophy fisherman, I guess. Or maybe it takes the sea breeze to air out those cigars of his.” He shot a look at Stan Switek. “I never thought those things of yours would smell good, big guy. Hell, I think even the fossilized turds Gorman smokes smell better.” Ricardo Tubbs chuckled. “And who’s on the guest list?” “A veritable who’s who of Miami’s finest narcotics salesmen, headlined by Miguel Manolo himself. And our host, Alejandro Gutierrez. Along with a lesser cast of dealers, runners, and maybe a banker or two.” “You should be wearing a wire.” “Can’t risk it, lieutenant. Those two trust me, but trust only goes so far in that business. Especially when the stakes are this high. Neither of these bozos trusts each other, no matter how many times they say they do.” Sonny forced a chuckle. “Besides, this is just the first meeting. It goes ok, there’s gonna be more.” “And you’re sure you’re ok after the indecent with the Angel? Your cover’s intact?” “Sure. I don’t think those two ever heard about it. The players involved were well below their pay grade, and we know Maynard doesn’t like to advertise his operations.” Sonny shook his head, trying to forget the slender girl with the red hair who’d wanted him killed, or the sniper with the same name who’d almost pulled it off. “No, I’m still solid.” Rico shook his head. “I don’t like it. Out on the water like that. There’s no way to have backup close if something goes wrong.” “Nothing’s gonna go wrong, Rico. Hell, I’m just going fishing.” He got up from the table. “Now let’s get in position. The sooner this happens the sooner we can reel those two in.” Esteban Morales waited until Lupe was done with his report before asking his questions. “And you’re sure he’s dead?” “Yes. Burnett shot him once. And as we know, once with a .45 is all you need.” Lupe smiled. “He uses one of the new Smith & Wessons if you were curious.” “I see. And nothing will come back on him?” “Doubtful. The locals liked the money of his patrons much more than they liked Hackman himself. My sources say they’re glad to be rid of him and the attention he brought. They tried like hell to keep it quiet, which is why it took over three weeks to confirm.” Lupe paused. “We’re still hearing those rumors about some kind of meeting between Gutierrez and Manolo.” “How reliable are they?” “More reliable than we might like. And Burnett’s involved as well. He seems to move between the two men.” “I know the boss isn’t too concerned. If those idiots stop shooting at each other, it’s fewer bullets we have to dodge. But this is good to know. Have your people stay on it, and I’ll let the boss know.” Once Lupe was gone he made his call and relayed the information. Then he sat in the silence of his apartment office, listening to the sounds of the street leaking through windows shut against the early summer heat. The whole Burnett thing still nagged at a corner of his mind, but he couldn’t fault Miguel’s logic. Or the reason Burnett wanted to go to the Cacos in the first place. What bothered him was they had no way of collecting on the debt. Turning, he reached for a bottle of rum and poured himself a generous measure. He had to remember to have Lupe dig a bit deeper into Sonny Burnett. The man had moved up fast; maybe too fast all things considered. But he wouldn’t spend much time on it. Miguel was looking for another club to invest in. Something away from South Beach but still located where it would make decent money. Maybe he’d call one of his ladies and have a night on the town. First hand experience was always better than Miami Magazine reviews and rumors. At least the streets were reasonably quiet again. The shooting a couple of weeks back seemed to have been a local affair…two small-time dealers trying to figure out which of them was more insignificant in the scheme of the Miami narcotics scene. There had been a couple of random shootings on the edges of Little Haiti, likely connected to his little operation. But it was all to the good. They kept Metro-Dade running around like headless chickens and the Dominicans and Haitians consumed with their endless cycles of revenge. As he sipped his rum, Esteban wondered what the old men would think of his choices. Locked in their phantom struggles with Castro, he doubted if most of them would even notice. Of if they did, they’d write him off as some kind of boat lift trash, even though his parents had come over before Castro took over. It was funny in its own way: they championed capitalism, but he likely had more money than three of them combined. Shanking his head, he reached for the phone to call Lina. She was always up for anything, and he felt like celebrating. His fingers just touched the receiver when the phone rang. “Boss? It’s Juan Carlos. You ain’t gonna believe what just happened…” The private room at Pelican’s Nest was quiet, filled only with the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional boat horn from the marina outside. Miguel Mendoza drew smoke from his cigar in and let it hiss out between his lips. “And you’re sure about the casualties?” “As sure as we can be.” Esteban sat across from him, his eyes intense. “Manolo wasn’t present, but a number of his top people were. They’re now fish food. Juan Carlos estimates someone used about three pounds of C-4 on that boat. Alejandro Gutierrez seems to have survived.” “Of course he did. The hit was likely his doing.” Miguel watched the smoke swirl toward the ceiling. “It reeks of him. Cheap overkill. And careless. Unless he had some reason for taking out Manolo’s top people and missing the man himself.” He paused as a name floated up in his head. “And what of Burnett?” “There was no sign of his body, and the police are looking. We know that much from monitoring their scanner traffic. He might have made it clear of the boat when Gutierrez made his break. We know he’s resourceful.” “That he is. And sitting in the middle. I wonder whose play he will back now?” “What about Gutierrez?” “I think he’ll try to insert himself into Manolo’s organization. Pose as someone trying to find out the truth about the explosion and maybe take credit for saving Burnett and one or two others. He’s a slug, but an ambitious one. That much we know.” “And what do we do?” “Business as usual, my friend. I already told Enrique to continue the runs, but shift away from the Lauderdale area for now. If Gutierrez is still planning something I don’t want our people wandering into the line of fire. Or being mistaken for someone else. Manolo is likely to try to hit back, and he’ll flail around until he finds a target. We don’t need to be his target.” “Do you have instructions for me?” “Have your people watch the clubs closely. Some might see this as an opportunity, and we need to make sure they know it isn’t. At least not on our turf.” He paused, chasing another idea. “And have your boys keep their ears open for any new clients. There’s bound to be some, what do the call it, interruption of services with this and we should be ready to move in where we can.” “The usual neighborhoods?” “Yes. Brickell and South Beach. Maybe North Beach as well. We’ll let the curs squabble over the other areas. But watch Liberty City closely. No one needs to get ideas there.” Esteban nodded. “Do you think they did get Burnett?” “If Gutierrez did this, he should hope he got Burnett.” “Why? He’s not on his payroll.” Miguel nodded, contemplating the glowing end of his cigar. “And he’s not on Manolo’s, either. He’s his own man, and for an opportunist like Alejandro that makes him very dangerous. Think about it, Esteban. This man’s been moving up slowly but surely. Starting with his own boat and making a few runs here and there and then graduating to major scores with connections in New York City. And then the meeting on the boat. If Manolo wasn’t there, maybe Burnett tipped him off. I don’t think he knew what Gutierrez was planning, but he seems like a smart man to me. He’d figure it out.” “I see what you mean. And if he’s alive…” “We let them fight it out amongst themselves. We have our own challenges. The last thing we need is to get mixed up in someone else’s turf war.” “That reminds me. There’s a new group of Columbians starting to work in North Beach. One of Ricky’s men mentioned it to Leon, and he passed the word.” “What do we know about them?” “Not much. It sounds like they’re working the beachfront mostly. Small sales of lower-grade product. But they’re aggressive and possibly violent.” Esteban chuckled. “But they’re Columbians, so that’s expected.” “If they get out of line, crush them. A few punks selling ounces or grams isn’t worth our time, and it keeps the police distracted. But if they move in on any of our clubs, mess with any of our people, your boys are to bury them.” “Understood.” Esteban finished his drink and got to his feet. “I’ll go pass the word. Leon’s crew is both solid and dependable. They’ll do well to watch these punks.” Once the Cuban was gone, Miguel took another long puff on the cigar. He’d spoken with Otis earlier, noticing the man’s pleasure about Shock and the other moves he’d made. He didn’t know everything, but Otis was connected and had a better feel for Miami’s reality than many gave him credit for. Still, he couldn’t smile for long. The business with the boat bothered him. It was a fool’s stunt, and he hadn’t thought Alejandro Gutierrez was that big a fool. Reckless, yet. But not this. At least the bulk of their fight was north of his usual territory. There was also Jesus Estevez to consider. The old man had been quiet since his visit, but Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on with the charter company. Jesus hadn’t said a word when he’d reduced the cash flowing into the business, and that alone made him wonder. Maybe he was sulking after having his hand slapped. Or maybe not. “You could at least turn the fans on.” Miguel looked up to see Enrique waving his hands theatrically. “I didn’t expect you so soon, brother. Otherwise I might have, given your delicate sensibilities.” “Delicate my ass. I just don’t like the same cigars you do.” The younger Mendoza chuckled as he sat down. “I assume you’ve heard?” “Yes. We’re going to take no action aside from the usual precautions. Avoid Lauderdale and the surrounding area. We don’t need to get caught up in their shooting war, if there is one.” “I agree. We’ve got another load coming in from that pig Santos in a couple of days, and Pasqual picked up one from The Bat last night. We’ve actually got a bit of a reserve now if things get bad and we have to suspend runs.” “How much?” “I’d say two weeks for our usual customers. Maybe more.” “Good. Don’t let it become much more than that, though. It’s easy for a reserve to become a target.” “Don’t worry, Miguel. It’s covered. We can always cut some product and dump it in Liberty City or Little Haiti if we have to. We’ve given some of the smaller dealers there a taste, and they like our product.” “Good thinking. Just let me know if the cash intake jumps too much. I’ll need to plan which club to route it through.” He looked at the tip of the cigar again. “Have you heard anything from Jesus?” “No. I was going to ask you the same thing. Do you think he’s up to something, or just sulking?” “I don’t know. Keep your ears open.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “You know, if this business between Manolo and Gutierrez heats up, or Manolo and anyone else for that matter, it might give us some cover to settle a few matters. Santos. Uncle Jesus.” “You think it will come to that?” “With Jesus I don’t know. Santos? I’d like nothing better than to be rid of that pig. But he’s given us no reason so far, and his product is still good. Isn’t it?” “Yes.” Enrique looked at his watch. “He still makes his deliveries on time and at the purity we agreed to. Some loads are a bit light, but never by more than a couple of kilos. He always insists it was a loading oversight, and we don’t pay for product we don’t get.” “Good. Are you handling the next delivery?” “Yes. Me, Flaco, and a couple of those silent Cubans of yours.” “Make sure they deliver everything that’s promised. I don’t like the idea of Santos assuming it’s ok to short us product when he feels like it.” He smiled. “Things are going well, brother. I’m going to look at another club in South Beach in the next couple of days. See if we can buy in at a reasonable price. I want to have an ace in the hole in case Metro-Dade decides to close something down.” “Are they sniffing around?” “Not at Shock. We’re keeping it clean. But they keep probing The Palm. After Frankie and all I can’t say I’m surprised.” “What about Kilowatt?” “Good idea. I hear they might not be doing so well these days. It’s always easier to buy into these places when they start to slide and the owners get desperate. That and we already have a network there.” “I’ll leave you to the high finance, then. But just so you know, I’m looking at another boat tomorrow. Something faster than anything we have now. I think we might need the speed with some of the new ships the Coast Guard is starting to field. Let alone the competition.” He grinned. “Better to outrun them than trying to outfight them is what I say.” “Use the usual account. It’s got plenty. And yes, I agree. We fight when we must, or when we choose to. If we let someone else make that choice for us, we’ve already lost.” Miguel looked at the wall clock and crushed out his cigar. “And I’m going to be late for dinner. Holly’s meeting me here to go over a couple of shows she wants next month.” Aside from the occasional ringing in his ears, he felt fine. Things were still a bit stiff, but that was to be expected. At least he felt fine until he tried to remember who he was. At least, as the doctor had pointed out, he knew what he was. Sonny Burnett looked at the components of the semi-automatic pistol laid out on a cloth on the low table. SIG P220. I know that without thinking, but how? I even know how to take the damned thing down, clean it, and put it back together with my damned eyes closed. But I had to read my name off my driver’s license. As he slid the barrel into the slide and followed with the guide rod and recoil spring, he thought back to the explosion. Or what he remembered of it. There’d been something about fishing. Then a flash of something in the water. He remembered jumping a second or two before the blast, a wave of sound and yellow light pushing him down into the warm salt water. Then nothing until he woke up on the table in some doctor’s back room. Gutierrez and his damned cigar. No way he could forget the smell of that stogie. And somehow he knew memories linked to other things like smells tended to be stronger than other memories. At least he thought he knew that. He slid the slide and barrel combination onto the SIG’s stainless steel frame, pulling it all the way back and locking it in place before turning the disassembly catch back into its locked position. The whole thing was as automatic as breathing, and he didn’t know why. Finally he slammed a full magazine into the pistol and released the slide locking lever, sending it forward and feeding a round into the chamber. A quick press on the decocting lever and he slipped the pistol into a shoulder rig he’d scrounged. It wasn’t his usual rig, but it would do until he remembered just what his usual rig was. It had either been a stroke of luck or damned good planning that kept Miguel Manolo off the boat that day. But that didn’t gnaw at Sonny as much as Alejandro Gutierrez. He said he’d been on the boat, but the flimsy sling on his arm didn’t seem enough given the power of the explosion. He blinked, feeling the heat from the blast in his face again as he turned to look out the wide window. Something wasn’t right about the whole thing, and sooner or later he’d figure it out. But for now he had to earn his keep. That much he knew, and like the doctor said he knew what he was. All he had to do was convince Manolo to put him back in the game. So long as he stayed busy things were ok. The weather had turned sour between when Enrique talked with Miguel and when he was out on the water heading for another meet with Santos’s people. He’d let Flaco take the wheel, content to watch the radar and let the wind whip at his hair. The last rain squall had been intense but short, and he figured they had at least half an hour before the next one hit. The two Cubans were content to stay in the bow compartment, out of sight but ready to bring their Mini-14s into play at the slightest sign of trouble. As soon as the blip showed up on radar, he had Flaco change course. “They’ll have seen us already,” he said, peering down at the scope. “That tramp steamer should have better radar than we do. So cut speed a bit and just ease up on them. Those Panamanians can be jumpy.” “Yeah.” Flaco eased back on the throttles. “Got a bit of chop tonight, too, boss.” “Not a bad thing. Keeps the sightseers in the marina.” Leaning over, he looked down the companionway. “You got the buy money ready? I’ll need one of you to come over with me. The other should be ready by Flaco.” He grinned, even though he knew they couldn’t see it. “The usual drill.” He recognized the grunt of the bigger Cuban. “Money’s ready, jefe. I’ll come over with you. I got the shotgun. Might make them think twice about doing anything stupid.” Reaching down, Enrique checked his own Colt. Overhead the clouds were thick and menacing, with only a faint tracing marking the location of the half moon. The tang of impending rain mixed with the salt in the air, and he looked over at Flaco. “Smells like it might start raining again sooner than we thought. Stay on the wheel and be ready to move if we have to.” “Expecting trouble?” Flaco made a slight course correction, steering them toward the looming dark shape of the tramp steamer. “Not really. Just playing it safe.” His thoughts went back to the earlier buy. “I don’t trust Santos’s contract help. Hell, I don’t trust Santos, either. If anything goes south we’ll jump back over. Cut the line and haul ass.” As they got closer, he could see a man with a line standing along the rail, his face highlighted by the small freighter’s navigation lights. He moved to the side of the low-slung SCARAB, catching the line when the figure tossed it and using it to haul the small boat closer to the larger vessel. Making it fast, he reached out for the gym bag held by the bigger Cuban. “You ready to deal?” he shouted over the thumping of the freighter’s diesel engine. “Always.” The man’s voice was deep, carrying over the engine noise and slapping waves like a bullhorn. “Come aboard and we get this done, Holmes.” Enrique turned, seeing the shadow of the second Cuban near the co-pilot’s seat. “Keep us covered. Remember, cut the line the second we get back if there’s trouble.” He just saw the man’s head shift in a nod before turning and gauging the distance for his jump to the freighter’s deck.

Sonny Crockett heard the clack of Angie’s high heels on the marble floor before he saw her in the doorway. Those heels were as good as a bell on a cat’s collar, even though he was afraid she’d fall off them and hurt herself every time she tottered by. “Girlfriend says she’s at the studio today. In case Blondie wants to stop by.” “Thanks, Angie. I might later.” He took a final swallow of coffee and got up from the long table. “But I gotta get moving if I want to be on time for work.” Caitlin’s personal assistant, bodyguard, and God knew what else rolled into one snorted. “If you call rollin’ around in fast cars work.” “Yeah. Someone’s gotta do it.” He grinned to cover a flash of annoyance. They’d been married over six months, and he still hadn’t gotten used to Angie. Some days he wondered if he ever would. But he could tell the black woman was an important part of Caitlin’s past, so he just rolled with her jabs. And with talk of a tour, he knew both women were on edge. The tour. The idea of her going on the road excited and frightened him at the same time. Excited him because he knew how much she loved sharing her music, and being on tour was the best way to do that. Frightened because Gordon Wiggins was still alive and kicking. He had no doubt the disgraced exec would be waiting to take a shot at Caitlin, even if he was behind bars. Men like that were connected, and prison walls weren’t any kind of deterrent. He pushed the Ferrari through the mid-morning traffic, using the time to force his thoughts back to the Job. Taking down the Chilean arms dealer had been a good case, but it kept him away from the one eating a hole in the back of his mind: the Mendoza brothers. They’d been quiet in the aftermath of Gustavo’s murder. Too quiet for a family as steeped in honor as they claimed. He’d expected at least some kind of hit at the Dominicans or the remnants of Zorro’s crew. But there’d been nothing. At least nothing they or Homicide could see. He gotten a look at Miguel at the opening of the club Rico talked about. Shock. The man looked like a pirate in tuxedo, right down to the neatly-trimmed goatee and narrow face highlighting his dark eyes. He’d stayed in the background, content to let a leggy brunette run the show. On paper she was the club’s owner. Holly Miller. A mid-level club promoted and all-around looker who’d suddenly come into a South Beach club of her own. Sonny didn’t buy it. It had to be Mendoza money behind the place. The question was why. As near as they could tell the place was squeaky clean. Enrique had been there, too: a shorter, lighter version of his older brother looking more like a surfer forced to go to formal prom. He’d had a lady on his arm, too. A blonde version of Holly Miller with bigger boobs and slightly shorter legs. From the way the two women acted he guessed they knew each other, but it was hard to tell from his position across the street in the Bug Van peering through night glasses. What he did notice was neither brother sported the ornamentation favored by most dealers. There were no draped gold chains, no diamond-encrusted watches or rings. They both looked, in a word, respectable. He saw Rico’s Caddy in its usual spot as he turned into the Gold Coast Shipping lot. Sighing, he dug a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his sport coat pocket and lit the first one of the day. He’d been cutting back lately, but a smoke before work still helped settle him into the mood. And he’d need to be settled if Rico was running early. “Hey, partner! You get anywhere with that Manolo character?” “As a matter of fact I did, Rico.” Sonny grinned as he sat down behind his desk and contemplated the folders in front of him. “Got a sit-down with his right hand in a couple of days. Something about needing a boat for a major shipment.” He shook his head. “It ain’t as much as I got with Gutierrez, but ya gotta start somewhere.” “Solid.” Rico flipped through an open folder for a few moments, but Sonny could tell something was on his mind. “Look, Sonny, I gotta know. How did Caitlin take that whole phone dating case?” “Not very well, and I can’t say I blame her. She doesn’t know the Job yet.” He smiled to cover the pain memories of their argument brought up. “But next time you get to be the joker on the other end of the phone. But enough about me. Tell me you got something rubbing elbows with the Mendozas at the club opening.” “Aside from a rash? Nothing. Those two are cool as they come. Miguel? He’s like a pirate out of central casting. Just kept saying he was proud Shock had chosen Mendoza Distributing to supply their bar. Enrique’s a different character. Likes to talk boats and racing, but he wasn’t as cool. Kept looking around like he expected to see someone. I had to throw Cooper at someone, I’d go after him. Any chance we can use that Forsythe character for an in?” “Not without drawing too much attention. I’ve moved cigars for ol’ Otis a time or two since that first run, but he never opens up any more than that. And if you push he goes to ground.” Sonny sighed. “No, I think we’re on our own with the Mendoza brothers. And on our own time judging from the stack of cases we got.” “Yeah. I might drop in on Shock a couple more times.” Rico grinned. “That Holly Miller has damned good taste in waitresses.” “You do that, Rico. Me? I’m gonna blow this pop stand in a bit and drop by the studio. Cait’s working again, and I want to see what she’s got going.” OCB follows with Homebodies “When did this happen?” Chico squared his shoulders and looked Esteban Morales in the eyes. “Last night. Club security missed them, but we got them out and on the street before they could cause too much trouble.” Esteban nodded. It squared with what he’d already heard from the club’s head of security, but he’d needed to be sure. “And you’re positive they’re from Zorro’s old crew?” “Hard to miss Haitians, boss. They cleaned up a bit, but you don’t lose Little Haiti just by putting on a second-hand suit.” “No, you don’t.” He looked at Chico for a moment longer. “Your team did well. Give the boys my thanks, and stay close by. We may have a job for you. I need to talk to the boss.” Miguel’s voice was calmer than he’d expected, but it was possible Holly was in the room. “You say this was last night?” “Yes. Chico’s men sent them on their way, but they were from Zorro’s old crew. The Haitians in Liberty City.” “I remember them. And we need to send them a message.” Esteban cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about that, and that puta Victor might have been on to something. I can have Chico’s men deal with it, but in a way that diverts attention from us. I was thinking the last thing you’d want…” “Good thinking as always, Esteban. Do what needs to be done to resolve the situation. Thank you as always, my friend.” Hanging up, Esteban got up and headed into the living room. He still conducted quite a bit of his business from an apartment in Little Havana, with the bedroom serving as his office and the living room as a waiting room. Chico was still there. “Look, the boss wants us to see to things, but we’re going to do it in a different way. You’ll need some of those shitty Tech-9s and maybe a Monte Carlo. A pimp-looking ride if you can find one.” Chico looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “I get it, boss. We’re gonna play Dominicans.” “Yes. Find the bastards who disturbed the club and hit them with a drive-by. Maybe shout some of that gang shit they love so much. It will send Metro-Dade poking around the wrong holes, and the Haitians as well if we’re lucky.” “So Zorro’s old girlfriends won’t know it was us, either?” “No. It’s not as clear a message as we might like, but these are interesting times, Chico. Sometimes we need to be cautious.” “Don’t worry, jefe. I don’t question the plan one bit. It makes sense to me. It’s just, you know…” “Different.” Esteban smiled again. “Yes. But like I said, things are changing. And if we can get more eyes away from us…” He clapped his crew boss on the shoulder. “See to the task, and don’t bother reporting back. I’ll know when it’s done. And burn the car someplace in the Everglades. Another puzzle for the police to sort out.” Chico laughed as he pulled the bandana over his face. “It’s like one of those old Westerns, ain’t it? The bandidos about to rob the stage coach.” Xavier was behind the wheel, his own cloth and sunglasses already in place. “It kinda is, ain’t it? Wish I could be behind the trigger.” “You know you’re the best driver in the crew, Holmes. And we might need that if things get a little sideways.” He turned to his two men in the back seat of the Monte Carlo. “Look, you know the drill. Those asshole 8-Ball Kings always open up from every window, so that means you’re shootin’ over the top of the ride, Diego. Ernesto, you go for the dude on the right, I’ll take the left-hand asshole, an’ Diego you just hit the center. Then we spray the place, shout some shit, and get the hell out.” Xavier nodded. “Car’s already stashed at the burn sight, Chico. We’ll be on our way as soon as you torch this piece of shit.” “Good. Now crank the music those cabrones like so damned much and let’s do this.” As always, Lupe’s intel had been perfect. As they turned the corner, he saw their targets swaggering out of a small market in the middle of the block. The three remaining members of Zorro’s set, the assholes who’d tried to throw their weight around in the boss’s club, didn’t even look around as they reached the sidewalk. Overconfident assholes. One of them heard the bass beat pumping out of the Monte Carlo’s subwoofers and started to turn, shouting a warning as he dug for a pistol stuffed in his waistband. Tinted power windows hissed down, and Chico hefted his own Tech-9. “Suck on this, puta!” he shouted, taking aim at his target and firing a burst of four shots. Behind him two more machine pistols chattered, and over the firing he heard his boys shouting the same kind of insults. The muzzle flashes from the Tech-9s were almost blinding, turning the car from black to bright silver in an instant. The training in the swamps paid off. His four rounds caught his target full in the chest, sending him spinning to the concrete. The one who’d seen them first managed to haul out what looked like a Beretta and get off two wild shots before Diego cut him down. Ernesto’s man died in the same heartbeat as Chico’s, and then there was silence except for the booming music and the fading echoes of the shots. The acrid smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air. Five seconds had passed since the windows hissed down. “Let’s go!” Chico turned to Xavier and laughed. “We done our good deed for the day.” Trudy Joplin cursed her high heels for the tenth time as she picked her way around another scattering of shell casings. “Get some more of those markers over here,” she said, raising her hand. “Looks like they fired another burst from here. I don’t think it’s defensive fire…too far away from the bodies.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the chalk outlines on the cracking concrete sidewalk. Lights from three patrol cars and the forensics wagon painted the crumbling houses around them red and blue, and from time to time she saw a curtain part and then quickly jerked closed. No one saw a damned thing here, she thought, looking back at the sheet-draped bodies by the store front. Seen it a million times before. And lived it, too, so I can’t blame them. She and Gina had been gearing up for another hooker sting when the call came in. Shooting in Little Haiti. Possibly connected to narcotics, gangs, or both. Castillo sent them out with a look, and here they were in their hooker best trying not to trip over shell casings, empty bottles, and God knew what else on the street. Gina had been by the bodies, and she motioned to Trudy as she stepped away. “Gang-affiliated, or I don’t know my tats,” she said. “I think one of them might have been part of Zorro’s crew before he got killed in Libery City a year or so back.” “I remember that one. You think it’s connected?” Gina shook her head. “No. As far as we know they never hit back at anyone.” She was about to continue when an unmarked Ford pulled up at the edge of the crime scene. “Looks like the lieutenant sent the cavalry.” “If you could call them that.” Trudy sighed as Dibble and Gorman clambered out of the car, Gorman’s bald head gleaming in the light from the squad car rollers. “I wonder if he waxes that thing?” “Evening ladies.” Dibble at least had a pleasant voice. He was a good cop as far as it went, and unlike his partner knew his limitations and was comfortable with them. “The lieutenant sent us out to have a look-see.” “You guys taking this one?” Gorman shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Word is Homicide’s rolling one of their teams, and since we’re where we are Gangs is going to want to look at it as well. Likes like it could turn into one of them three-corner tag team messes.” He looked both women over, making Trudy’s skin crawl. “And you’re both too dolled up to be out mucking around in this shit.” “I won’t argue with you.” Gina grabbed Trudy’s arm and started for her car. “We’’ll leave you boys to it. Looks like Gangs is here now, so you can arm wrestle with Hughes to see who gets the case.” “If he kept looking at me like that…” “That’s why I got you out of there, partner.” Gina smiled as she shut her car door and started the Toyota. “Besides, that looks like a garden variety drive-by. Patrol said someone mentioned a Monte Carlo with spinners on the hubcaps. The shooters used automatic weapons, 9mm according to the casings, and might have been Hispanic. And that means….” “Dominicans. Maybe the 8-Ball Kings. Double Treys prefer doing things up close and personal.” Trudy sighed, stretching her legs out. “Gangs can sort out who’s beefing with who and then drop the whole thing on Homicide.” “Yep. We got called in because it’s near a drug corner, but there hasn’t been any major movement in that neighborhood for at least six months.” “They can’t afford it.” Trudy looked out the window, seeing her childhood neighborhood near Overtown instead of the crumbling apartments of Little Haiti. She’d almost been able to smell the hopelessness in the air around the crime scene, and was glad to be leaving it behind. Or at least be able to pretend she was leaving it behind. “They can’t afford much of anything back there.” Esteban answered his phone on the second ring. “It’s done, boss. I left Gordo to keep an eye on the scene while we got rid of the car. Don’t worry…he wasn’t one of the shooters so no one’s gonna spot him. He said there were at least three units fighting over who’s gonna take it. Homicide, Gangs, and two guys he thinks are either Organized Crime or Vice. He said they were still squabbling when he pulled out.” “Fantastic work, Chico. Tell your boys there will be bonuses for them. You, too.” Hanging up, he sank back in the club chair next to the phone and allowed himself a smile. He’d update the boss later. Now, he just wanted to savor the moment. If he was honest with himself, Esteban had doubts after the mess with Victor. About his judgement. Where the boss’s head was at. Where the organization was going. But all that was gone now. He’d brought in a few more men, men who’d gone through the swamps with the handful of old men who still clung to their fading dreams, and he felt ready to take on any task Miguel gave him. Things were changing. And they were changing at a pace he’d not imagined possible just a year before. The club alone had been a complete surprise, and now they had a share of The Palm as well. He wasn’t responsible for security at The Palm, at least, but it was an asset needing monitoring just the same. Add in an additional supplier, maybe a couple more stash houses, and the existing locations and his men were kept busy. How Enrique didn’t know about him was still a mystery. The younger brother had to know the Cubans were coming from somewhere, but it was also possible he didn’t really care. So long as they were there and did their jobs. He figured the younger Mendoza must be feeling the growth as much as he was, since new stash houses meant new transportation routes and every new supplier or buyer added another layer to what Enrique had to manage. No, in the end he supposed he and Enrique had quite a bit in common. If he knew Miguel, and after all these years he figured he did, the organization would take a breather soon. Stop growing and settle in with what it had. He’d seen the boss do it before, including right after they’d started moving cocaine. At the time he thought it might have been because of Calderone’s pressure, but he had more understanding now. It was Miguel allowing his organization to settle into what needed to be done. To find its own rhythm and way of doing things. Then they’d grow again. But only once the foundation was set. It was a different world now. A different city. Just outside their normal territory two organizations were gearing up for a fight over control of one narcotics path. The Manolos were down from Fort Lauderdale, while the Gutierrez outfit was more local. They were both trying to expand into the growing suburbs to the north of what the Mendozas considered their territory, and things were getting heated. Esteban had increased security on stash houses on the edge of the conflict, and was sending more men with boats running in the contested waters. So far there’d been no incidents, but he was afraid it was only a matter of time. Gutierrez he knew…a rough, brash man given to boasting, big cigars, and those bulky gold chains many of the Columbians favored. His crew was loud, violent, but still small enough to pose little threat to the Mendozas. Manolo’s organization was another matter. The man himself came from a poor background, but liked to surround himself with the trappings of wealth…art, clothes, decorative women. He didn’t know as much about him, but Lupe’s crew was working to change that. He did know Manolo had a cousin called El Gato…a fixture in Miami’s bathhouses and gay bars who dabbled in the same trade as his more subdued cousin. But El Gato was small time. Vicious, but small time. The Manolos were also bumping up against Oscar Carrera’s organization. Carrera was a known commodity: one of the men who’d gotten his start smuggling pot before graduating to cocaine in the late 1970s. A man who valued tradition, he was usually content to tend his own fields and customers, but if pushed he’d come out swinging. Manolo was said on the streets to be pushing. But Esteban knew Carrera was smart enough to let Gutierrez and Manolo bleed themselves out fighting each other before sweeping in to scoop up the pieces. It was all more complicated than it had been even a year ago, and he did his best to keep Miguel informed. They’d been lucky so far, only bumping heads with a handful of small, local operations. But if they kept growing some kind of war was almost inevitable. Getting to his feet, Esteban walked to the balcony door and stepped out into the muggy spring air. It was his job to make sure they were in the best position once that war came, and to also ensure the Mendozas came out on top. Sitting at the far end of the table, Trudy didn’t bat an eye when Gorman entered the last part of his update. “…in the end we let Gangs take it, lieutenant. If there was an OCB connection it would be low-level street dealing at best.” He turned to Dibble. “My guess is someone whistled at the wrong girl back on the block.” Castillo nodded, then his eyes sought out Trudy. “What’s your take, detective? You were first on scene.” “Yeah. Me and Gina. Lucky her she gets to try to talk Roxie into admitting where her pimp is.” Trudy favored the room with a tired smile. “It felt like a routine drive-by to us. Lots of casings in the street, nowhere near as many on the sidewalk, and dead bodies under sheets. The victims had gang tats, and Gina recognized one of them as being in Zorro’s old crew back when he was still around. No one was talking, but I’d expect nothing less in Little Haiti. To be honest I was surprised Patrol got as much out of the locals as they did.” Castillo nodded. “The first unit to respond works that neighborhood as part of a community policing pilot. I guess they’re familiar faces.” He sat for a moment. “We let Gangs take it. We have enough on our plate as it is without adding more without cause.” Once the update wrapped up, Trudy headed back to her desk to put the finishing touches on her report on the incident. Since they hadn’t taken the case it could be short, and part of her was glad. But there was something about it that kept nagging at her. The shooting itself. It was too clean. No broken windows or extra bodies. Just the targets. “I can’t wait to get out of here and into a good glass or two of wine.” Gina Calabrese ran her fingers through her thick black hair before sitting down at her own desk. “You get anything out of Miss Tough Girl?” “Eventually. I had to threaten to take away her fake eyelashes and send her through booking without any makeup.” Gina smiled, spooling a report form into her IBM. “But yeah, we got a location for Flash now.” She looked across the desks. “How’d it go in there?” “You mean aside from Gorman staring at me? Fine. Gangs is taking the case, so we don’t have to worry about it.” “But something’s bothering you, and it’s not Gorman. I can hear it in your voice.” Trudy sighed. “The shooting. It was too clean for the 8-Ball Kings. They’re strictly, what does Sonny call it, spray and pray guys. Lots of rounds, lots of collateral damage, and maybe a couple of the right people hit. This was precise bursts, going right where they were supposed to go. And what we get guess was a moving car.” “You’re right. Most of the Kings couldn’t shoot that good. But maybe some of them can.” “I know.” She also knew part of it was how easily they were giving up on a case because of the neighborhood it was in. “But do you think they’d let it go if this was in the Grove?” “They let the one in Brickell go. I get where you’re coming from, Trudy, but the lieutenant only has so many detectives to go around. And we’re still down one. He’d probably like to take every case, but he knows we can’t.” Trudy nodded, the memory of Larry Zito hurting like it always did when someone brought him up. And she knew Martin Castillo of all people wouldn’t let a case go just because it was in Little Haiti. But something like that was either going to be easy, maybe cracked by Patrol when they did a traffic stop on a car that turned out to be the shooter, or it could linger on for months like the Brickell case. Or even longer. She understood it. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. “The opening was wonderful! And we’ve been packing them in ever since. I never would have thought…” Miguel smiled, enjoying Holly’s happiness as if it were his own. In some ways it was, but in others he was still thinking ahead. At least Esteban had dealt with the punks who tried to ruin things, but it reminded him the past was never truly gone. Not until you buried it yourself. Holly was talking about music acts now, her thick hair swirling as she pointed first to one poster and then another. “If that Fire and Ice place can get them, we should, too. We can charge cover, and make more in one night than we do normally in three or four.” “Do you want established artists or new bands?” He didn’t care either way, but knew the value of looking like he did. “Both. I was talking to a friend at KROX the other day, you know, the oldies station, and he said Caitlin Davies might be going on tour again. She lives in Miami. I might see if we can book her. Now that she’s writing hits again…” He nodded, vaguely remembering some news story about Federal payola case and her giving testimony. It had been months ago, though. But increased sales in the club meant he could wash more money through it. And that was something he paid attention to, especially with profits climbing again. “You’re not paying attention.” “Of course I am. If your friend at KROX says she’s going to tour again, he’s probably right. So get in now before she gets booked out through next year. We can meet any fee she asks, so money won’t be an issue.” “If we can get her, and this hot band from LA called Ratt, we’ll be well on our way.” “Good. Acts mean people, and that means money. Just be sure to watch the balances. You may have to raise drink prices a bit if they start slipping.” “I’ve got it, Miguel. Don’t worry.” “I’m not, darling. It’s just alcohol is about the only thing I know about clubs. It is my day job, after all.” She giggled. “I know. And don’t worry. We’re tracking every bottle that comes in. So far we’re not seeing much wastage, and the balance sheets are good.” He nodded, letting her talk about possible changes to the menu as they sorted out the food side of Shock. But his mind was still on the Haitians. He hoped they’d either take the hint and stay away from Shock or fall for the misdirection and start some kind of feud with the Dominicans. Either outcome was good for him, especially now that he had other things to consider. Cocaine sales were up at The Palm, and Kilowatt was starting to climb again, too. So were the other clubs they had sales lines into. He’d been able to increase buys from his two Peruvian sources, but much to his annoyance he still needed some from Santos. With any luck that would change soon, but for now he still had to use the bastard. And it was risky on the water, with the Manolo and Gutierrez organizations jockeying for position. With that many moving parts the chances of an accident were high, and Miguel didn’t like accidents. They cut into profits. But he’d been hearing rumors about Sonny Burnett trying to broker some kind of truce between the two organizations, something he couldn’t have imagined with Calderone or the Revillas just a few short years ago. He’d told Esteban to keep Lupe on it. Truces tended to create winners and losers, and he knew which side he needed to be on.

They closed the deal on the restaurant and gallery just before two, and Enrique still sounded drunk when Miguel called to tell him. “That’s good,” he slurred into the phone. “Makes for a nice change, don’t it?” “Are you still drinking, brother?” “Naw. Don’t need to. Guess I’m still drunk. But don’t worry. Pasqual got me home an’ Tiffy put me to bed. I’ll be good for that run tomorrow.” “I don’t doubt it. There’s still some things to finish, and I don’t think I’ll be done before six. But tomorrow or the next day I’m going to pay a visit to Jesus. Did you want to come along?” “Naw. He saw me, an’ that didn’t impress him. Maybe you’ll have better luck.” Miguel looked down at the finger he’d used to squeeze the trigger on his grandfather’s Colt. There was no shake, no sign of nerves. “Oh, I think I can make him see reason.” “Was that Ricky?” Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Holly. “Yes. He’s got a major hangover from last night. Something about a boat race, I think.” “He doesn’t do that as much as he used to, does he?” Not where anyone can see him, at least. “No, but don’t believe him if he says he’s outgrown in. Racing boats is like breathing to my little brother. He’ll do it without thinking and then say he doesn’t do it.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Enough about him, though. We need to start looking at plans and arranging contractors if we want Shock to open within the next eight months.” “That soon?” “The sooner it opens, the sooner it starts paying for itself.” He smiled. “Not that money’s any worry, but you know about return on investments…” “You know, I want to pinch myself sometimes. Four months ago I would have been happy getting to promote a club like this, not running one.” “And I would have been hanging around the bar of that club just to get a look at you.” “You’re sweet to say so.” She smiled. “I still wonder why you’re doing all this.” “Because I need someone who knows clubs to watch over mine. Because I don’t have time to do it myself or learn the business.” He paused, knowing what he wanted to say but not sure if he should. Then the swashbuckler took over. “And because I love you.” “I…” He saw the change in her face. Or thought he did. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s foolish.” “No, it’s not. What’s foolish is that I didn’t tell you first. I’ve been in love with you for weeks, Miguel. But I thought you…” He took her in his arms. “Then none of that matters. We’ll just be fools together.” Enrique stared at the phone. “Well, he’s got his club now.” Pasqual looked up from the boat magazine he’d been flipping through. “What’s that, boss?” “Miguel’s got his damned club now.” He hung up the phone, forcing his drunk brain to sort through everything. “You know, I can’t really say that. It’s not a damned club. It’s a damned good idea. Gets us off Jesus’s tit, and anyone else who’s washing money for us.” He laughed, the lingering alcohol making it louder than he’d intended. “He was always a smart one, that brother of mine.” “Sure, boss.” “Stop with the boss shit, Pasqual. We’re buddies, right?” He shook his head, the motion making him wince. “And at least we can start using the third boathouse again now that dipshit Victor has ben dealt with.” “I heard about that. They say it was Miguel who did it.” “Word travels fast when we want it to, doesn’t it? And yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he was the one who put two into that prick Victor.” “So what do we do now?” “Get back to work, that’s what. We keep cultivating our new source, and good old Oswaldo. Maybe see if we can scare up a couple more who are reliable. The more we get, the less we have to depend on that prick Santos.” Enrique blinked and sat down. “Maybe soon Miguel will put a couple in him, eh?” “You should get some rest, Ricky.” “I know. But I still feel bad about Gustavo, you know? He wasn’t very damned bright, but he was family and he did make the boys laugh.” Enrique rubbed his temples. As the buzz faded, his head started to pound with a familiar urgency. “And yeah, I’m gonna go lie down now. Wake me up a couple of hours before the run, ok?” “I’ll do that. And maybe get a lead on that boat that was messing with us the last time we met Pepe. One of the guys thinks he saw something like it in one of the smaller marinas.” Mention of the boat with the green stripe tickled something in the back of Enrique’s brain. The part not totally fuzzed by rum and tequila. “You do that, mano. And let me know. Be good to answer one question out of all this mess.” Enrique’s head still felt like mush, but a shower and a session with the toothbrush made him feel a touch more human and got rid of the roadkill taste in his mouth. Pasqual had been right about sleeping, too. He was just pulling on a turtleneck Tiffy had gotten him when Pasqual came in. “Your lady let me in. She’s a hell of a door guard, you know that?” “Yeah. I’m almost ready.” “Good, but we might be a minute or two late getting started. I think you’re gonna want to call Miguel when I tell you what I dug up this afternoon.” “What’s that?” Tucking in his shirt, Enrique pulled his own Colt out of a nightstand drawer and tucked it into the back waistband of his Levi’s. “One of the guys did get a registration number off that boat. He could see where it had been taped over and used his head for something other than keeping his hat out of his eyes.” Pasqual chuckled. “And I had our friend over in vehicle registration run it down. Guess who it tracks back to?” “Don’t tell me. Jesus Estevez?” “Yep. Not directly, though. He’s got it in the name of one of his senior pilots. But we both know he don’t pay those boys near enough for one of ‘em to own a SCARAB. And I mean flat-out own. No lien or anything on it.” Enrique stopped dressing and reached for the phone. “I’ll let Miguel know. Any other tidbits your boys pick up?” “Just that the word is Jesus was asking around about that Burnett character. But he’s gone up in price quite a bit since the old days. Makes runs for Gutierrez now and then from what I hear. Anyhow, Jesus decided Burnett was too rich for his blood. Maybe too mean, too. I hear he’s got a temper on him these days.” “Jesus always likes to keep things in house unless he needs a sacrifice for something. Might have been this Burnett’s lucky day.” Enrique hit the numbers and waited. “It’s me. We got a situation.” “I don’t care where he is. You tell him I need to talk to him today, not tomorrow. And if he tries to make me wait until next week, he’s not going to enjoy what happens. Yes, I know who he is. And you damned well know who I am.” Miguel slammed down the phone with a muttered curse. Taking a moment to get his breathing back under control, he snatched up the receiver again and dialed a number. “Esteban? I’m going to need two of your biggest men on call. Jesus is at it again.” The study was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. Holly was off somewhere, looking at flooring and paint samples. He was glad for the distraction. With this news he doubted he could keep his anger hidden from her. He was still debating how much to tell her about what he really did. Some of it he figured she already either knew or had guessed. Holly was smart, and she had to know no distribution company in the state of Florida could make as much money as theirs did. But he also knew he had to tell her at least part of it. Just not today. Today was about business. The phone disturbed his thoughts, and he snatched it up to hear Jesus’s smooth voice. “Miguel! I think you gave my office girl a heart attack. She said it was important.” “I need to see you today. In the next hour would be best.” He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got another charter going out in twenty minutes. Then another this afternoon. Can we…” “I said today.” The words were clipped. Sharp. “I’ll be over there in an hour. Don’t try to dodge me, Jesus.” “That sounds like a threat.” “No. A promise. I’ll see you then.” He ended the call, then dialed Esteban again. “Send those men over with one of the Mercedes. Jesus wants to play.” He could feel the Colt heavy in his waistband. “But this ends today. One way or the other.” Jesus Estevez was sitting behind his oak desk when Miguel walked into his office, feeling the two big Cubans behind him like trained attack dogs waiting to be unleashed. The smile slid from Jesus’s face when he saw the two men. “I thought this was a friendly call.” “It might have been. Except for that boat with the green stripe on it. You know, the one your boys have been using to shadow Pepe. The one that tried to close with Enrique not long ago. The one you whore out to the Columbians, trying to play a game you have no seat in.” “How dare you…” “Shut up.” The words hissed out of his mouth, and he saw the shock in Jesus’s dark eyes. “Just shut up and listen. You didn’t restore the Mendoza name. We did. Enrique and I. Hell, we’ve been paying for your little charter fleet for years. You continue running cigars and rum because I let you, not because it’s your right. And as far as I’m concerned you can keep running cigars and rum. But if you ever go near cocaine again, you will answer to me.” “Look, you little shit…” “You know, I used to admire you.” Miguel kept his voice even. Low. Holding the anger deep inside. “Really, I did. All your stories about the sea. Outrunning the Coast Guard. All that shit. But then I started learning about my grandfather and discovered you stole those stories from him. You’re a fine smuggler, Jesus. So long as you stick to cigars, rum, the small things. The old things. But cocaine? You don’t have the discipline.” “I was just trying to expand. To grow with you.” “The hell you were. I’ll only say this once. If I ever hear you’ve been messing with cocaine after today, there will be consequences. The money will dry up. Think about what that means.” Reaching down, he pulled out the old Colt and slammed it on the desk top. “And there are other, more direct remedies as well.” He allowed the older man a smile. “And think about this. A Columbian would have shot you just now with no warning. It’s how they do business. Once they know your routes, your plans, they’d blow your head off and take your boats. Because you have no security. No idea of what this world you want into looks like. Stick with your cigars and rum, uncle. It’s the best way for you to survive.” He stuffed the Colt back in his waistband. “Don’t forget this conversation. There won’t be another one.” Turning, he nodded to his men and left the office. He didn’t want to see the shaking shell of a man who’d once been his uncle. Spring 1988 After The Golden Touch, Like a Hurricane “Check it out.” Ricardo Tubbs flipped open the ‘nightlife’ section of the Herald and pointed at an article. “They got another club opening in South Beach. Place called Shock.” “Hope you enjoy it, partner.” Sonny Crockett chuckled and looked back at his notes. “I’m a married man now. Can’t go hang out at flashy clubs with disreputable characters anymore.” “Even when they’re as well-dressed as yours truly? And how could I forget you hooked up with a fox like Caitlin?” Rico grinned, but it was still taking some adjustment. He scratched his chin through his trimmed beard and watched Sonny out of the corner of his eye. The man had been nothing but smiles since they’d gotten back from New Zealand. It just didn’t seem natural. “And no, I didn’t hit my head on the honeymoon. I’m just happy, Tubbs. You know…h-a-p-p-y.” “I can spell, man. Guess maybe I’m a little jealous is all.” He waved his hand toward the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. “Jealous you got to skip out on all this paperwork and the mayor’s latest ‘get tough on hookers’ campaign. I bet Gina and Trudy put another couple hundred miles on their high heels making those busts.” “Yeah, and with Frick and Frack taken care of Cait can get back to her music. Can you believe they’re even talking about a tour?” Sonny shook his head. “Don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this celebrity stuff. Anyhow, you ever dig up anything else on Gustavo Mendoza?” “The streets are dead. As in dead quiet. ME confirmed it was a 9mm that did him in, but no one’s talking. If the Dominicans did it you’d think there’d be chatter. But not a word.” Rico flipped back through his notebook. “And that chump who was trying to muscle in on Rizzo’s up and vanished from the face of the earth, too.” “Vanished as in the Mendozas took him out or vanished as in the connected guys at Rizzo’s sent him through a car crusher?” “Not a word. But my money’s on the car crusher.” He was about to continue when Castillo’s office door opened. “Crockett. Tubbs. We just got a call. Homicide just found a dead hooker at The Tropical. Her working name’s Cinder. They want us to take a look.” Rico thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Yeah. Cinder. I remember her. Slinky little number with something like twelve arrests.” “Thirteen.” Castillo started to turn away. “Get over there and see if there’s anything making it our business. If not, give it back to Homicide.” OCB shifts to Baseballs of Death Miguel Mendoza stood in front of the manager’s desk in The Palm’s main office. “It’s a simple offer,” he said, a thin smile on his face. “Since Frankie got put away the club has been suffering significant losses. You want to remodel, but can’t get any financing. Until now.” Mitchell Troost shifted in his overstuffed desk chair. He looked like an aging hippie who’d gone corporate, and while he might be good for appearances Miguel knew he didn’t know squat about running a club. The balance sheets proved it. “I don’t know, Mr. Mendoza. We’ve got prospects here, and with a little patience…” “You’ll be out of business. This place will be turned into a boutique coffee shop for old tourists and you’ll be managing a second-rate hotel if you’re lucky.” He smiled again. “With my financing you can continue to pretend you run The Palm. You’ll be the face, just not making major decisions. I think that’s how you really like it, yes?” “I…” He sighed. “Frankie was the one who really kept the place jumping. I had some money and put it in, and he turned it into more. When he got busted…” “Exactly. Under this arrangement, I’ll take on sixty percent ownership. You’ll still get your take, and things will go on like they did when Frankie was in charge.” Reaching into a crocodile leather attache case, he pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. “I had my lawyer draw this up earlier. Look it over, and if it’s satisfactory go ahead and sign.” Troost flipped through the pages, but Miguel didn’t think he read a word. I can smell the desperation on him. The stink of someone who’s in over his head but doesn’t want to give up the life that goes with it. “I guess this looks ok, Mr. Mendoza.” “Good. Now go do what you do best. Look decorative. My people will be reviewing the employee list and send you any changes. Don’t look so worried. We’re not going to cut much if anything there. You’ve got good people, even if you treat them like shit. You’ll also get plans for the remodel. Sign them and don’t make a fuss.” He took the signed papers and stuffed them back into the attache case. Holly was waiting for him in the back seat of the Mercedes driven by one of Esteban’s men. “That didn’t take long.” “No. I just needed to convince Mitchell he needed an investor. Which, of course, he did.” “So we control The Palm now.” “Yes, but not in public.” He placed his hand over hers, letting his fingers touch her nylon-clad thigh. “To the club scene it’s still his show. It’s better that way. But all the major decisions are ours. Starting with his staff and the remodel.” She leaned over and kissed his neck. “You know it turns me on when you talk like that.” “Maybe we’ll have to invest in another club.” He slid his fingers up her thigh, nodding as the driver closed the smoked glass partition between the front and back seats of the Mercedes. Not for the first time he appreciated the training Esteban put into his men. It was late afternoon by the time the black sedan pulled into the long dive leading up to the Mendoza estate. No, the hacienda, Miguel thought as he straightened his tie and looked out the tinted, armored window. Holly is right to call it that. He smiled as she tugged at her pencil skirt. No reason to give Enrique too many ideas. He met them on the wide porch, a wide smile on his face. “I don’t know what you told Uncle Jesus, but it did the trick. He’s been doing nothing but hauling fat fishermen into the Keys since that meeting.” He stopped and turned a light red when he saw Holly coming around the side of the car. “Good afternoon, Holly. I don’t mean to bore you with business.” “It’s ok, Ricky. I was going to go file these papers and look over the plans one last time. Our big opening’s tomorrow, you know. You and Tiffy have to be there.” “We will.” He gave her a quick hug before turning back to Miguel. “Can we…” Miguel waved him to the side of the porch. “I should have warned you. But we just got done buying control of The Palm and there wasn’t time to call.” “So we have that dump, too.” “Yes. I’m leaving Troost in as a figurehead, but I’d rather have one of your people sitting close by. If you’ve got someone who’s up to it, of course. This would have been perfect for Gustavo. I should have shot that prick Victor after he hit the Dominicans.” “What’s done is done, brother. At least that’s what you always told me after I lost a race. Granted, I didn’t hear it very often, but still… And yeah, I’ve got a guy who would work well there. He’s been handling most of the product in any case, so it’s not a big step.” “Good. I’ll send you a bit more security, too. Another two men, if that sounds like enough.” “It should be. Unless the Double Treys or 8-Ball Kings get ambitious. My guy says they’ve been sniffing around off and on.” “Let me know. If they are, we’ll handle it.” “I’ll do that.” Enrique ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I’d better let you get in there. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted you to know Jesus has backed the fuck down.” “For now, at least.” Miguel reached out and gripped Enrique’s shoulder. “He’s a proud old man. Stubborn, too. I tried to put the fear of God into him, and it might have worked. But it might just be temporary. Have your boys keep their distance from his crews, and we’re not putting anything extra into his operation. No matter how much he complains. And if he complains to papi…it won’t do him a bit of good.” “I’ll let them know. Not that we do anything with his people now.” Enrique grinned. “Most of his guys who know their stuff jumped over to us months ago anyhow. What’s left are the house cats who like running charters. Nothing wrong with that…it puts food on their tables. But it means he don’t have much in the way of home-grown talent if he decides to try to cut in on our dance again.” “I told him if he tries it again, it will be the last thing he does. I just hope he understood I’m serious about that. We have too much invested in this, brother. You and me. And the family name.” Miguel stood on the porch, watching Enrique climb into his Corvette and head out. He really did hope Jesus kept his head down and did as he was told, but somehow he doubted the old man would. Pride was a dangerous thing, and Jesus Estevez had more than his share. He also knew he couldn’t waste much time on the old man. With Shock and controlling The Palm he had two clubs to worry about in addition to the distribution business. At least Enrique could mind the narcotics side of the operation. One more club and we stop for a bit. Breathe and see how it works. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of Newton Blade and take on too much too soon. Another lesson from Otis Forsythe, who’d managed to stay in the game longer than anyone else Miguel had ever known. He thought of Holly and smiled. Things were moving fast in many areas now. At least they had reached a kind of understanding with the Dominicans, and the Haitians appeared to have forgotten about them. That left the Columbians, but with a handful of exceptions they had short attention spans and life expectancies to match. He’d heard rumors through Esteban of a fight brewing between the Gutierrez and Manolo organizations, and so long as they steered clear it shouldn’t impact his business at all. Even the rogue Manolo, El Gato or whatever he called himself, was more a distraction than a real threat. Let them shoot each other and move in the pick up the pieces. Plus their fights kept the police focused on them and away from his activities. Holly was leaning over the desk, making notes on a small pad as she went over the guest list one last time. “I think we’ve got it nailed down, honey. All the right people in all the right places. A good band…it’s gonna be a great opening.” “Of course it is.” He’d had Esteban go over the security plan with a fine tooth comb. Twice. At least five of his best men would be in the crowd, in addition to the normal security people. As far as he could tell no one knew of his connection to the club, but it was better to be safe than identifying bodies in the morgue. “With you behind it how could it be anything else?” “I still have to pinch myself sometimes, you know?” “I do. But this will be good. Both for us and the business.” “Just tell me you won’t be moving product in the club.” He blinked at the question, then smiled. I knew she was smart. “Of course not. Shock is going to be clean. Anyone who works there who’s caught selling will be fired on the spot.” “Thank you.” She looked down. “I don’t know everything you do, and I don’t know if I want to. But it means a lot to me that you’re keeping all that out of the club.” “Any club you work with will be clean. That’s my promise to you. And I’m a man of my word.” “I know you are, Miguel. Is that why you left Troost in charge of The Palm?” “Yes. If anything happens, he goes down. But it’s something he understands and accepts as the price for keeping his place and the large cut he gets from the club’s operation. But Shock is yours, my darling. To do with what you will. And it will be a clean operation. That I promise you.” Just don’t ask about the money. “Why a club?” He shook his head. “It’s like this. We make more money than we can put in a bank or really invest without questions being asked. Clubs, real estate, charter fishing operations…these are all cash businesses. Money moves in and out all the time with no questions so long as the books are in order. A wise man I know suggested clubs as one way to invest and have something to show for it. But I don’t know clubs. You do.” She smiled and touched his hand. “I won’t ask again, baby. Your word is all I need. And tomorrow night we’re going to have the best opening South Beach has ever seen.” Pasqual hefted the duffle bag and tossed it across the gap between the boats. “It’s 80 percent pure, boss,” he shouted over the engine noises and wind. “All good.” Enrique nodded, keeping one eye on the radar screen and the other on the big Cuban standing in the open cabin of the SCARAB with a Mini-14. It was their first big buy from the new Peruvian, and he didn’t want to take any chances. “The money’s all here.” The Peruvian’s man was a reedy nose-picker who could have been from Panama City or San Juan. It was too dark to see his face clearly, and his accent was lower street trash with just enough big words to hint at education somewhere. “Boss wants me to tell you it’s been a pleasure doing business.” “Likewise. Does he want to do the same in two weeks?” The skinny man looked back toward the fishing boat’s cabin. “Yes. The coordinates will come over low marine band. Just like tonight.” “Good.” Enrique waited for Pasqual to jump back on board before pushing the throttles forward and turning away from the larger craft. The big V-8s roared, and in seconds the fishing boat was lost in the gloom. “That damned boat smelled like rotten ass. It’s gonna take three showers to get rid of it.” Pasqual handed the bulging duffle to the Cuban, who hefted it as if it was nothing and headed below. “I bet the Coast Guard never boards that damned thing.” “Might be the reason they keep it so rank. Now watch the radar. I don’t want any surprises before we get in the shadow of the coast.” The exchange had gone off without a hitch, and another of his crews had made a similarly successful deal with The Bat the night before. Enrique smiled as the boat cut through the water, the prow rising as he increased power. Good to be back at work again.

“You’re sure he didn’t see you?” Hector nodded, his longish black hair bobbing with the movement. “No, Victor. He didn’t see a damned thing. He was too busy makin’ his calls.” “Good.” Victor shifted on his bar stool. Much as he hated Aces, he kept having his crew come back to the dump. It was their best option for meetings like this. Then he turned to Charlie. “Anything new at Rizzo’s?” “Naw. They still got that skinny chucklehead with the stupid glasses running the music, but I’ll be damned if he don’t make them money.” Charlie sipped at his beer. “I’d say we can get an easy two to three g’s a week out of that place once we start digging in.” Victor nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing, especially after he’d beaten the snot out of their head bouncer. Well…ambushed their head bouncer was more accurate but it didn’t make for as good a story. It didn’t sound the same when you said you waited for a guy to go off-shift and then smacked him upside the head with a baseball bat. Still, he was out of commission and that was what mattered. “They get a new head bouncer yet?” “Naw. They are talking about what happened, though.” He paused. “Seen a couple new faces, though. One of ‘em’s that Sonny Burnett guy.” “The boat guy? Didn’t he get busted with that Cash asshole?” Victor scratched his chin. “Maybe he’s lookin’ for some payback.” “Could be. He’s been in a time or two, once alone and once with this sharp-dressed black guy they say is from New York. I guess he uses Burnett’s boat quite a bit for moving product.” “You think they got some connection with Rizzo’s?” Charlie shook his head. “Naw. Looked like they might know that idiot DJ, but that ain’t surprising. Guy’s been there for a bit, and he’s got a reputation as a fixer besides. I’d be surprised if someone like this Burnett didn’t know him.” Victor nodded, working odds in his head. “Ok, we leave this Noogie moron alone. And I mean alone. He’s got too many connections, and it would take too damned long to figure out who they all are. But that doesn’t mean we still can’t put the squeeze on the place. We just do it from outside. Hit guys comin’ out of the place and then offer outside security.” “It’s a neat trick. Don’t know how long it will last, but it gets us started anyhow.” Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?” Charlie shrugged. “Just that they can bring in some muscle and push us back from the door if they want. If they can afford that, at least. Hell, I don’t know. Place seems to be a dive, but then you dig a bit and start hitting all kinds of stuff.” Victor started to speak, then clamped his jaw shut. He knew there was no point. At least not right now. He’d need to look things over again and come back with a different plan. Or at least an option or two. He knew once Charlie got something set in his mind it took some doing to get it out. And if he had doubts like that, Hector would start echoing them soon enough. No, it was time for the other project. “We’ll figure it out. But with that other thing, Hector saw our pal Gustavo making calls again.” “Not only that…I heard some of what he said. Dipshit wasn’t watching an’ didn’t see me get close to the payphone.” Hector grinned like a kid who’d just won at hide-and-go-seek. “It sounded like he was talking about one of those buys from The Bat or whatever that moron calls himself.” “How do you know?” “He kept saying five. Even I know The Bat’s deals are usually small. Enough to keep Brickell jumping and maybe some left over for Liberty City.” “Any chance he was talking to the boss?” “No.” Victor’s voice was firm. “The bosses don’t talk to Gustavo. Not like that. They call him in and have a sit down. Just like Esteban does with us. And Julio said he saw him doin’ the same thing the night you were checking out Rizzo’s.” “And he kept lookin’ around like he was afraid someone was watching him.” The grin appeared on Hector’s face again. “I was careful, though. He was always lookin’ out at the street and didn’t think someone inside would be the one tracking him.” “So what do we do about it?” “We do what all good plumbers do, Charlie. We plug the damned leak before the basement floods.” Victor grinned at his own comparison. He’d been thinking of and discarding lines ever since Hector came to him with the news over an hour before. “We’ll use Hector’s 9mm so nothing comes back on us. Hector even grabbed a car. Right, Hector?” “Yeah. A crappy Buick Century. Gotta be thousands of ‘em on the roads. No one’s gonna notice a thing until it’s too late and we’re clear.” Stan Switek was tired. Well, not so much tied as hung over, but it felt pretty much the same. While Sonny Crockett had been out working the gun runner case and its aftermath, he’d been left holding the fort as soon as the initial surveillance was over. They’d brought him in for the final bust, but still… Rubbing his eyes, he turned the corner and walked into the squad room, vaguely aware of Gina at her desk. Trudy was still on leave after that whole houseboat thing, and Crockett and Tubbs were out somewhere doing glamorous cop things. Or hanging around Rizzo’s trying to get the scent of some muscle crew who supposedly worked for the Mendozas. It meant things were quieter than usual, and his head was thankful for that. Dibble was manning a desk close to the doorway, and he looked up when Stan came in. “Got a message for you, big guy.” He waved one of the yellow slips in the air. “Some Mexican or whatever called in about an hour ago. Sounded like he was gonna wet himself and he left this for you.” “Thanks.” Stan took the slip, but didn’t look at it until he was safely behind his desk. Right away he saw it was from Gustavo, and his lips turned down. He’d been his CI until the lieutenant took him away right before the whole thing with Sonny shooting that kid. Stan knew CIs got moved from time to time, especially when they weren’t producing, but it was hard to think of it as anything other than a slap in the face. He read the scribbled lines once, then again. Then he sighed. There was no way around it. Getting to his feet, he headed for Castillo’s office. “Dibble gave me a message from Gustavo Mendoza, lieutenant,” he said after he knocked once on the open door. “The little screwball called about an hour ago and was babbling something about a deal with The Bat worth five. You talked to him last, so I figured I’d give it to you.” Castillo looked up, and for a moment Stan saw the bottomless fatigue in the man’s eyes. Then the hoods slipped down. “Thank you, Switek. I’ll follow up. Did he say anything about calling again?” “Not according to the message. My routine with him was to call him back at the number I wrote on the bottom of that slip if I hadn’t heard anything after two hours.” Stan shrugged. “Of course, the little bozo didn’t call that much.” There was a nod. Then Castillo looked up again. “How have you been doing, Stanley?” Stan winced. Only his father had called him ‘Stanley,’ and only before he whipped his ass for some transgression…real or imagined. “I’m fine, lieutenant. But I’m starting to think we should pull Gustavo out. He’s not built for this kind of thing. Even if he has to eat it for the car stereos. He’s never gonna give us the kind of intel Crockett wants.” Not expecting a reply, he turned and headed back to his desk. He still needed to inventory the gear from the Holiday bust, and then there was bound to be something else coming down the line requiring microphones and cameras. There always was. “You see him?” Victor waved his hand. “Yes, I see him,” he hissed, hoping Hector would keep his door closed until Gustavo was close enough for them to grab him with no real effort. They’d gone over it at least ten times, but once Hector got excited he forgot everything but the target. “Sit on your damned hands, Hector. Don’t give us away.” “Sorry, boss.” There was shifting in the back seat, and when he checked the mirror Victor saw Hector was actually sitting on his hands. In the driver’s seat Charlie snickered. “It’s a figure of speech, dumb ass. You don’t really gotta sit on your hands.” “If it keeps him from bouncing around like that girl I had last night, let him sit on his damned hands.” Reaching down, Victor felt the cool metal of the door handle under his fingers. It was almost time. “Stay close, Charlie. We’ll take him as soon as he turns the corner.” Night gripped the area around The Palm, and the streetlights were surrounded by swirling balls of insects. A typical late spring night in Miami, humid but still cool enough to leave windows open. Gustavo walked with a loose, almost bobbing gait, tapping his fingers on his thighs as he moved. Looks like the bitch is in a good mood. Musta just turned some more information over to his cop buddies. Victor turned and nodded to Hector. He had all the proof he needed. “Let’s do it.” The turn took them away from the main drag and onto a side street heading deeper into South Beach. Gustavo still wasn’t paying any attention, lost in his own thoughts. Victor held up his hand, letting a couple wander by as they headed toward The Palm. As soon as they were clear he folded his fingers into a fist and opened his door. The dome light came on, flooding the interior with pure white light. Either the flash or the click of the doors caught Gustavo’s attention, and he started to turn. But he was too late. Victor brought his fist up and around, catching him hard on the chin. Right behind him came Hector, more muscle than brain, wrapping his big arms around Gustavo’s upper body and tossing him into the back seat like a sack of coffee beans. Then the doors slammed and rubber burned as Charlie floored the Buik and got them out of there. Victor paid no attention to Charlie. The wheelman knew where to go, and how to get there without drawing police attention. Instead he leaned over the seat, watching Hector lay another two good punches into Gustavo. “Easy, Hector. We don’t want to kill him yet.” “You…you know who I am?” Gustavo’s voice was even more annoying coming through a mouthful of blood. “Yeah. You’re the bitch bastard who’s been ratting us out to the cops.” “I’m a Mendoza! They’ll…” “And we work for them, asshole.” Victor turned away. “Stuff a rag or something in his mouth. I don’t to hear him talk until we get where we’re going.” The air on the edge of the swamps was thick and dead, hanging over everything like a shroud. For Victor it felt right. He sent Charlie over to the car they’d driven out earlier. “Get the ride ready. We’ll want to get the fuck out once this is done.” Then he turned back to the Buick. “Get the bitch out and on his knees.” Hector grinned and hauled Gustavo Mendoza out of the back seat, grabbing him by the hair and kicking hard at the back of his knees. “You heard the man.” “Take that damned rag out.” Gustavo was coughing blood, but Victor couldn’t tell if it was from his mouth or some internal injury. And he didn’t care. “What…what I do?” “You’re a rat. That’s what the fuck you did. My boys saw you rat us out. Heard you squeaking on the phone to the cops.” “I’m…I’m no rat. I…” “Rats lie. It’s what they do.” Victor took three steps forward, the Browning Hi-Power light in his big hand. “You know what else rats do, asshole? They die.” The single shot crashed out, taking Gustavo in the back of the head. Flicking on the safety, Victor looked at the twitching body with a slight smile on his face. “Get that trash in the trunk and follow us. We’ll drop him by the Expressway so the trash collectors can find him.” “Who did it?” Miguel’s face was without expression. “We don’t know for sure, but I think I have an idea.” Esteban Mendoza tried hard to keep an ‘I told you so’ tone out of his voice. “I think it was that idiot Victor and his crew. He’s been making noise about how he thought your cousin was a rat. I told him to back off, and he said he would. Obviously he lied.” “Find out. If it was him, I’ll deal with him personally.” “You got it, boss.” Once he was outside, Esteban made the call. “Lupe? Pick up Charlie. He’s the only one on Victor’s crew who’s got more than two brain cells. Do it so they don’t notice, and hold him for me.” Stan Switek was almost shaking as he stood in front of Castillo’s desk. “Patrol confirmed it all right, Lieutenant. The body is Gustavo Mendoza. They had to do it with prints, though. Someone shot him in the back of his head, so facial recognition wasn’t gonna work.” And I put him in that damned car. Goddamn Crockett anyhow. “Are there any leads?” “Not yet. But the ME thinks it was a 9mm..” “Sounds like he got careless.” Sonny Crockett sent a trail of smoke toward the ceiling. “Or maybe someone made him careless. That little bozo didn’t have the stones for that kind of work.” “Easy, Stan it’s what we do.” “Is it? Seems like you got a pretty high body count for what you do, Sonny.” “Enough.” Castillo’s voice was final. “I put the pressure on Mendoza. He wasn’t producing. It wasn’t the right call. Now we move on. What other leads…” Stan turned on his heel. His hands were shaking now, and he knew he was seconds away from an outburst that would get him sent to parking meter duty until the next century. “You two figure it out. I gotta go do the formal identification.” Without another word he was out the door and heading for the parking lot. He needed a drink. Or maybe six. “Switek! Wait!” He recognized the voice. “Not now, Gina. I don’t need to hear more excuses for them. Gustavo’s dead, and it’s because Lar and I roped him in as a CI. I gotta own that.” “You didn’t kill him, Stan. Maybe the Mendozas did, but you didn’t.” He stopped right before the double doors leading to fresh air and maybe a few double bourbons. “No, Gina. I DID kill him. I got him into this. Maybe that’s the difference between me and them. I can see that. It’s not just what we fucking do.” He felt his voice rising, and knew he had to get out of there. “If they ask, tell them I’ll be back tomorrow.” Then he slammed through the doors and was gone, leaving Gina in his wake. He never saw the tears forming in her eyes. It was quiet in the boat house. Victor looked around, wondering who’d decided to stage a prank. “Hey! I’m here! What’s this all about?” “Sit down.” There was no give in Esteban’s voice. “Boss? What’s this about?” Still, Victor had enough sense to find the straight back chair and sit down. “Gustavo Mendoza.” “You been talking to Charlie, right? Little bitch can’t tell anything straight. Look, we caught him ratting us out to Metro-Dade. Heard him on the phone at The Palm more than once. So we…” “So you. You decide.” Esteban stepped forward, and Victor felt the first worm of fear turning in his belly. The slap came out of nowhere, rocking his head back against his shoulders. “You fucking decide. Who says you get to decide anything?” “I did it for the bosses! You know…” A new voice came in now, and Victor’s fear tripled. “You decide this in my name?” Miguel Mendoza came into view, his narrow face looking like the pirate on the rum bottles. “And who the fuck are you to decide anything in my name?” “Boss…jefe…I…” “Shut up. You are only alive because I decided once to let you live. After that cock-up at Kilowatt. And this is how you repay me? By murdering my cousin? My blood?” Miguel’s voice get lower with each word, and Victor was shaking now. All his bravado was gone, running down his leg in a warm stream. “This is what you do?” “Hector…” “Hector is an idiot. A trained dog. And only an asshole blames his dog for doing what he trained it to do. At least Charlie had honor and confessed his mistakes.” Victor saw Esteban was hanging back, arms crossed over his chest. “Esteban! Man! You know what Gustavo was up to! He never was any good. He…” His head rocked back from another slap. “Gustavo had limitations, yes. But we knew them and worked with them. He would never rat on his own family. Only a cabron without honor would say such things.” “Boss! I know we fucked up with Kilowatt. But those Dominicans, they were there because someone told them we were there. Maybe Gustavo.” “And you know this how? Something you pulled out of your ass?” Miguel turned to Esteban. “Do you have anything to to say that might spare his life?” Esteban shrugged. “You know how I feel about this one.” Miguel nodded. “Yes. And you were right then. I should have listened.” He turned back to the quivering mess in the chair that had once been a man. Or at least an imitation of one. “You know what, Victor? You can still be of use to me. For one thing at least.” Reaching up with his thumb, he flicked off the safety on his grandfather’s Colt. “As an example.” Victor started to scream, but the sound was lost in two quick gunshots. The heavy 230 grain bullets destroyed his head, sending the chair and the lifeless corpse crashing to the floor. The echoes of the shots dominated the room for a handful of seconds. Then Miguel sighed and pushed the safety back on. “Feed what’s left to the fucking gators. I don’t want a trace of his worthless body found. And make sure the boys know…if you disobey orders, you fucking disappear.” Esteban nodded and motioned to the two men waiting near the door. “You heard the boss. Drag this piece of shit out and make the gators happy.” Once they were gone, he turned back to Miguel. “Boss, I…” “You have nothing to apologize for, Esteban. I was the one who thought that idiot still had uses. The mistake was mine, and Gustavo paid for it. Never again.” It didn’t matter if Gustavo had been snitching or not…what mattered was the wrong person had made the call. It was that simple. “Come on. Let’s get back to the city. I’ll need to help Enrique tidy things up. And with Gustavo gone and Frankie still in custody we need a plan for The Palm.” A few calls led him to Enrique, slumped partway across the bar in The Overton. “Miguel.” He barely looked up. “I didn’t expect this. Gustavo was an idiot, but he worked reasonably hard and most of the guys liked him.” “The one who did this paid, my brother. You can let them know that.” When the bartender approached, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. “Rum. And leave the bottle.” “Did you…” “I had nothing to do with what happened. It was the same idiot who thought what happened at Kilowatt was a good idea. He paid for it with his life.” Enrique chuckled. “I thought I smelled death on you. I mean gunpowder.” “It was my fault he was still walking around. You know me, Ricky. I take responsibility for my mistakes.” “The family curse, eh?” Enrique raised his glass. “To noble foolishness!” Miguel touched his glass to his brother’s. “Maybe we should call it a night? Get you home to Tiffy. And I know Holly still has ideas for the club she wants to talk about.” “I heard you were looking at restaurants earlier.” There was a light tone to Enrique’s voice, and Miguel couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not. “Yes. The family’s a bit traditional in that Italian way. I had to promise the widow we wouldn’t turn the place into a bordello.” Miguel chuckled. “That’s even the word she used. I thought I was in one of those bad old Westerns papi used to watch.” “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Enrique started to slur his words, and Miguel knew he was drunker than he looked. “How quickly we’ve gone from running Cuban cigars to buying real estate and opening clubs.” Miguel nodded. The adrenalin was starting to fade from his veins, and when he closed his eyes the image of Victor’s head exploding played like a movie across his eyelids. “It is hard, Ricky. Like when we were happy for the scraps that fell from Uncle Jesus’s table.” “That old fuck. I heard back from some of my people. He is trying to climb into bed with Columbians again. Even his own guys don’t like it, but he don’t care. He just starts talking about all the money sitting out there. Old bastard don’t realize he makes more easy money hauling fat tourists around than he could getting into our business. And those tourists aren’t out to cut your balls off and steal your boat.” Miguel nodded, smiling when he caught a glimpse of Pasqual out of the corner of his eye. He’s to Ricky what Esteban is to me. Good. “Very true. And it looks like Pasqual’s here. Maybe we should call it a night. After a final toast to Gustavo.” “Don’t wanna drink to Gustavo. But I’ll drink to revenge for Gustavo.” Nodding, Miguel raised his glass. “To vengeance.” The rum was smooth down his throat, and he slammed the empty glass on the bar. Holly was still up when he walked into the entryway. “I was worried…” “I’m sorry. I should have called. Something came up, and I had to run to the warehouse to check on some stock. One of the guys backed a forklift into a pallet of cognac.” He smiled, the lies rolling easy off his tongue. “It was a hell of a mess. At least insurance will cover the damage.” “I saw the news tonight. They said something a Gustavo Mendoza being killed. Is he…” “I’m not sure. He might have been a third cousin on my mother’s side. I heard the same thing on the radio, but my mother’s family was always scattered. Too many divorces and affairs.” He smiled again. That much was true. “If he was a relative, I didn’t know him.” Nodding, she got up and took his hands. “You smell good.” “Polo.” He chuckled again, thinking back to Enrique’s offhand comment. “I didn’t want to come home smelling like a wine cellar.” Or a shooting range. Another of grandfather’s tips…keep cologne in your car. “How did it go with the gallery?” She smiled and started talking animatedly about her dealings with the bank. He nodded as he guided her toward the stairs, paying just enough attention to follow the conversation and reply when needed. He could feel himself coming down from the shooting, and soon he’d be ready for sleep. This one felt different because of Gustavo. He never should have put the kid in that situation. And then there was Jesus… “Are you sure things are ok?” “Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just been one of those days. I’ll be glad when we can close on those two properties and get the club moving.” He slid his arm around her waist. “Have you thought of a name?” “Yes. Shock.” She looked up at him. “It’s simple, will look good in lights, and doesn’t tie us to any one thing or theme. It can be whatever we want it to be, and we can update as things change.” “I like it.” In truth he didn’t care what she called it. So long as it had a name. And maybe it was time to put some money in other clubs, too. It wasn’t like they had a shortage of cash. And the situation at The Palm created an opening he didn’t want to let slip away. But that was for tomorrow. He felt Holly press against him, and knew there were better things to focus on tonight. Sonny Crockett looked at the golden Black Jack in his glass and sighed. The air coming off the water was nice, and he wasn’t ready to go belowdecks yet. That and Rico was still nursing his own drink. “Switek took it kinda hard, didn’t he?” His partner’s voice was pitched low so the nosy old woman on the next boat over couldn’t hear. “Yeah, I suppose he did. But what did he expect? Gustavo was small-time at best.” Sonny took a drink, feeling the bourbon trace a warm path down his throat. “Besides, odds are it wasn’t his own people who did it. According to Homicide it was a 9mm, not a .45. And I can’t think of a single hit involving the Mendozas that didn’t use a .45.” Rico was looking out over the water. “Yeah. Maybe. You thinking payback for the hit outside Kilowatt?” “Could be. I can see the Double Treys doing something like that. Or maybe some of Zorro’s guys. It’s not like the Haitians to let bygones be bygones, and as far as we know they never hit back for what happened in Liberty City.” “Yeah. Too many players and not enough score cards. You still want to try to nail whoever’s making waves at Rizzo’s?” Sonny nodded. “Yeah. I do. Word on the street is it’s someone connected to the Mendozas who’s got ambition. Or delusions. Not sure which word you’d use for someone who wants to strike out on their own from that bunch. But if we can get a bead on them, maybe it’ll take us right back to the brothers.” “I gotta be honest, Sonny. It feels thin. Any chump dumb enough to try to lean on Rizzo’s isn’t gonna be smart enough to know it’s in their best interest to roll over on their bosses.” “We gotta do something, Rico. Homicide’s getting nowhere on those bodies. Bodies going back years. And all you gotta do is look at the money. There’s no way Mendoza Distribution pulls in enough green to support what those two are doing, but we can’t find anything else.” “Just rumors and smoke, partner.” Rico drained his glass and set it down on next to the cockpit rail. “I gotta admit it…these chumps are good.” “Yeah. But they’re gonna slip up sometime. And when they do, I want to be there.” Sonny looked at his empty glass and considered another. Then he looked up at the stars, partly washed out by the city lights. “I think we’d better pack it in, partner. I want to go over the surveillance again before we head back to Rizzo’s. Maybe Trudy will be back tomorrow. Be good to have another set of eyes.” “Yeah. Just don’t ask her about close encounters.” Sonny chuckled. “I won’t. But you gotta promise to leave the peanut butter at home.” Even with the jokes, he had to wonder just what the hell had happened to her on that boat. And what Lou DeLong had to do with any of it. But that was a problem for another bottle of Jack. After they’d taken down the Mendozas.

“It’s not good enough. You’re going to have to give us more if you want those charges to go away.” Martin Castillo scribbled a note in the open case file on his desk as Gustavo Mendoza’s voice filled his ear through the receiver. “No. You need to put them with the drugs. Not keep telling stories about how you heard someone say something. That isn’t good enough.” “Look, man. I…” “I’ll say this once. If you don’t give us something soon, we will hand your file over to Robbery and let things take their course. I’d rather not do that, Gustavo, but you don’t leave me with much choice.” The whining continued, and Castillo tried to tune it out. He hated dealing with CIs. It never felt right, cutting one man a deal so you could send another to prison, but he knew it was a necessary evil. The only way to get some of these people was to have someone on the inside, and it was rare they’d give up what they knew without something in return. He didn’t like it because it reminded him of his time with CIA. Gustavo’s voice changed pitch. “Look. Can I talk to Stan?” “No. You deal with me now.” He’d taken Gustavo because Switek was stretched too thin with the gun runner surveillance. And he didn’t want to let Crockett near their only line on the Mendoza brothers. “So far you’ve given us nothing. We’ve been patient, but there are others above me who want results. And they are not patient.” It went on for a few more minutes, but Castillo only added a few words to his notes. When he hung up Gustavo’s promises to try harder, to get them something they could use, still rang in his ears. “Did he give you anything?” Castillo looked at Gina Calabrese, sitting across from him. “No. He did not. He says he will.” “And you don’t believe him.” “No. I believe he’ll try. He’s scared. But he’s also loyal to his family. He’ll try to give us someone close to them, but also someone who can’t hurt them. I don’t think he knows who that is, though.” “Maybe if Sonny tried…” “No.” Castillo didn’t want to think about Crockett’s record with CIs. “Maybe you and Trudy can talk to Moreno. He was involved in the original sting. He might know something.” “Noogie was in on that, too.” “Crockett and Tubbs are working with him on the possible situation at Rizzo’s.” Gina nodded. “The guy who claims he’s an enforcer for the Mendozas. I remember.” She got to her feet. “I’ll let Trudy know, lieutenant. At least Izzy’s always good for a laugh.” “Just be ready for the operation tonight. We can’t let those guns hit the streets.” Enrique Mendoza looked at the assembled faces in the boat house. “So we’re on for tonight. This is a first meeting, so I want everyone on their toes.” He picked out the Cubans. “We’ll be using two boats, and I want two guards with me. It’s just a short run up the coast to one of those old fishing docks, but you know our business…” The main Cuban, a big man of few words who called himself Chi Chi, grinned. “No problem, boss. Felix and I will be ready.” “Good. Now this guy’s a Peruvian, not one of those bloodsucking Columbians. Word is he cuts a tough deal, but he’s a straight shooter. Hasn’t tried to rip anyone, but there’s always a first time, right? So be careful.” “Why the second boat, boss?” Enrique grinned. “Something I want to try. Tino, you’ll be taking the second boat and staying a bit behind us. Close enough for radar and radio, but not easy to see. Chi Chi will pick a team to go with you. You’re our cavalry.” He grinned again. “If anything blows up, you come in and save the day. I don’t think this guy would expect something like that.” Pasqual whistled. “I know I wouldn’t expect something like that.” “Where do you want me?” Enrique picked out Gustavo. “Back at The Palm. With Frankie still locked up, we need someone we can trust watching the place. Don’t look so down. It’s an important job. Getting product in is only half the job. It has to move once it’s here or it’s no good to us at all.” He caught Pasqual’s eye and saw the man shrug. But what can I do? He’s family, even if he is an idiot. They idled out of the boat house once the sun died below the western horizon, red and green navigation lights blinking on the new boat. After the deal with Pepe, Enrique had adopted it as his own. It wasn’t much of a run to the buy location, and he kept the engine low so his chase boat could keep up without drawing attention. At least the Peruvian had wanted to do this first deal on land. It made coordination easier. Chi Chil checked the duffle bag of cash again, nodding to himself as he did. Enrique didn’t know where Miguel got his muscle, and for the hundredth time told himself he didn’t care. They were mostly top-notch, with the exception of an idiot called Victor and his crew of half-wits. But so long as they were at the third boat house he didn’t care. All he cared about right now was securing a new line of supply for the family business. Gustavo Mendoza waited until he was safe in his Camero heading back into Miami before letting out a long string of curses. “Watch The Palm! What am I, a fucking babysitter? Frankie got his own dumb ass busted. Why they gotta come down on me for that?” Still rattled from talking to the cold cop on the phone, he decided he was glad they’d decided not to take him on the buy. He wasn’t sure if he could keep his cool. Some days he wished he’d just taken his lumps. Gone down for the stereos and done his time. But then he thought about prison and knew he wouldn’t make it. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. All he’d wanted was to make enough of a name for himself and be noticed by his cousins. Now… He had no doubt the man he talked to earlier meant what he’d said. Stan he could hold at arm’s length, pacify with a few modified stories about deals he’d been in on or things he’d overheard. But this new one…it was like he could see you through the telephone. But even with that, he wasn’t going to give up Enrique. “Too damned obvious,” he muttered as he took the exit leading to South Beach. “I’m the only one not there and he gets busted? No. Sure way to get whacked. Gotta find something else to give him.” The Palm was packed, the line at the door stretching halfway down the block. It had been like that ever since Frankie got busted. Gustavo couldn’t figure it out. Personally he’d stay well clear of a club that had just been the target of a major Metro-Dade bust, but what did he know? Maybe they were hoping to see someone else get arrested, or they just figured the cops would stay away now that they’d taken their ‘bite out of crime’ or something. All he knew was profits were up. Both at the bar and in the bathroom stalls where the deals went down. The doorman nodded and let him through, silencing curses from people still waiting with a glare. Gustavo took a second to let his eyes adjust to the pulsing strobes from the dance floor before heading to the far end of the long, plexiglass-fronted bar. “Hey, Donnie. How’s it hanging, man?” “Long and loose, bro.” Donnie was The Palm’s main dealer now that Frankie was on vacation. A tall Black man with a loose ‘fro and dark eyes, he looked more like a pimp from “Starsky and Hutch”’s casting than a dealer. To Gustavo that was part of his charm. “You got more of the good stuff comin’ in?” “That’s what they tell me, man. You know me. I’m into sales, not transportation.” He looked around the club again. “How’s it been tonight?” “Damned busy. I got people workin’ anyplace you can do a deal, and they’re tellin’ me they need more product.” “Seriously? Man, it’s only ten.” “Partying ain’t no nine-to-five gig, Gus. You know that.” Donnie leaded down and smiled. “Any chance you can scare up some more party favors?” Gustavo sighed. “I’ll make a call, but I can’t promise anything.” Stepping back, he headed for the entryway and the pay phone. That was one of Miguel’s rules: always use payphones to call for delivery. His other rule was to always have change for those phones. Digging through his pockets, Gustavo fed in a quarter and punched in numbers. “Yeah?” He recognized the voice. “It’s Gus. I need a small package at The Palm in half an hour.” “No problem.” The was a pause. “Usual cut?” “Sure. Just make it quick. It goes to Donnie.” Gustavo hung up and headed back to Donnie. “I got you a couple ounces coming in half an hour. It’s the 70% cut, but you gotta make do. Times are tough.” “Hell, these fools ain’t gonna notice so long as it’s not pure baking soda.” Donnie clapped him on the shoulder with a huge hand. “I pay you?” “Nope. It’s like pizza. Pay the delivery guy. And don’t forget to tip.” Gustavo grinned to show he was joking, then moved down the bar to order a beer. He wanted to remove himself at least a bit from the scene of the deal. Just in case. He looked around. Place is damned busy like he said. And some of those ladies… Entranced by a slim girl who might have been Cuban doing some exotic moves on the dance floor, he didn’t notice someone else heading for the payphone. Victor smiled as he hung up the phone. “I told you leaving someone in that damned club would pay off. Julio just saw that puto make a phone call.” “So what?” Charlie took a deep drag on his cigarette, sending the smoke out the open window of the boathouse. “Maybe he’s ordering in more product. Or a hooker for later.” “And you think he’d use a pay phone for that?” Charlie nodded. “You forget the orders? Boss says we always use pay phones for business.” Victor felt his shoulders sag. He knew Charlie was right, but he also couldn’t put down his own suspicions about Gustavo. Or his desire to get back in the good graces of Miguel Mendoza. No matter what it took. If he impressed the boss, Esteban would have to take notice. “So who’d he call, genius?” “You know who I think he called. One of the stash houses for more product or a hooker. Come on, Vic, none of us like the asshole, but that don’t mean…” “It means what I say it means!” Victor slammed his hand down on the table, making empty beer bottles jump. “Look, Chi Chi said the punk was supposed to go on some buy tonight, but he shows up at the club instead makin' phone calls. What does that look like to you? To me it looks like a freakin’ rat.” “Maybe there was a change in plans.” “Or maybe our rat saw a chance to get himself some good cheese. You really think they’d put Gustavo in charge of product for a place like The Palm?” “Someone’s gotta do it is all I’m saying.” “All I’m saying is anything bad happens tonight, we know who the damned rat is who squeaked to the cops.” Thoughts were starting to come together in his head, and he smiled again. “Look. If we have to handle it, we set it up so someone else takes the fall. Hector, you still got that Browning Hi-Power?” Hector nodded. “Yeah. Don’t carry it, though.” “Keep it close, mano. We might need it.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “What you got in mind?” “Look, we have to take out a rat, best to make sure some other cat gets the blame, right? We always use Colts. It’s like…our sign or something. Those Dominicans, the Columbians, they all use 9s, right? So if we drop a rat with a 9…” “Someone else gets the blame.” Charlie smiled, but Victor could see his eyes were still working. “It’s a nice plan, Vic. Good way to get the cops chasing their tails.” Enrique was still smiling when they let the boat drift into the shelter of the boat house. Sitting beside him, Pasqual grinned. “Went like a dream, boss.” “Yeah. I think this is a guy we can do business with.” He thought back to the test kit results. “Product is good, he’s not a nutjob with a stupid nickname, and most importantly he’s not some Bolivian who used to be a cop.” “Does this mean we’ll dump The Bat?” “Naw. I think we’ll still do business with him. He’s dependable if nothing else.” Enrique scratched his chin. Good for filling in the gaps between bigger loads. And if this guy can move as much product as he claims… “Look, you mind seeing to the boat? I need to make a call.” Miguel’s voice was guarded on the phone, so he guessed Holly was somewhere close by. “And the samples?” “High-grade, brother. I tested each kilo, and they were all 85% pure. At least. And he says he can move at least a hundred of the same every two weeks or so. If we alternate that with what we get from The Bat…” “Good old Oswaldo.” Miguel chuckled. “Yes. And if we stagger them, we might not need our Bolivian friend any more.” “That will require some handling.” “I know, brother. I’m just telling you what I saw tonight. This Peruvian, he’s professional and discrete. Had just enough men with him to show he meant business, but not enough to threaten. He said he’s looking to deal with us because he’s tired of Columbians trying to rip him off. He also said he’s heard of our reputation. That we’re dependable.” “Good. I trust your judgement in this, Enrique.” There was a pause. “Holly wants me to say hello.” “Tell her I said hello as well.” Enrique smiled. I was right. And this thing is getting serious. “Look, I’ll finish up here and maybe we can meet tomorrow morning and go over the details. Pasqual will take the merchandise to one of our warehouses.” “Sounds like the boss is pleased.” “He is.” Enrique hung up and looked over at Pasqual. “Take the product to the stash house in the Gables. And use the Mercedes, ok? We don’t want to attract any attention.” “That’s Domingo’s house, right?” Pasqual hefted the gym bag. “He’s usually pretty low key.” “It is. Tell him he can cut that powder a bit, but nothing below seventy percent. I’d like to move it in Brickell if we can, but if not it can go to Liberty City and maybe Little Haiti.” “You sure you want to mess with them?” “We can always sell it to people who want to mess with them.” Enrique chuckled. “Friends of friends and all that.” “Sure. And they aren’t as riled up as the Dominicans are now in any case. At least not about us.” Once Pasqual was gone, Enrique sank back in the office chair and looked through the open door at the boat. At his boat. He was honest enough to admit his own vanity there. She’d done well on her first two runs, and he was starting to see the low-slung beast as something of a lucky charm. But something Pasqual had said wasn’t willing to go away. The Dominicans. How long would they keep sniffing around what had happened at Kilowatt? And how long would that moron Victor keep quiet and behave himself? Sighing, he leaned forward. It was easy to understand why Miguel was frustrated. They were so close, and each time some little asshole popped up and created a problem. And this time it was one of their own. Or maybe two if you counted Uncle Jesus. He’d almost forgotten about the old man in his happiness about the Peruvian deal and annoyance at Victor. But he was still there, like some ghost from the past. Always overreaching. “Can you believe that shit?” Hector pointed with his beer glass at one of the televisions above the bar. “Some damned cop shot a kid.” “So what else is new?” Victor gave the screen a passing glance. His thoughts were elsewhere. “Probably some punk from Overtown who was trying to be a big shot.” “I don’t know. You’re right about it being a black kid. They got some preacher on there now beating his gums.” Victor nodded, more to shut Hector up than to show he was paying attention. It had been two days since they’d seen Gustavo making his call, and nothing had happened. Of course, the shooting and all the press coverage had Metro-Dade distracted. Maybe they were sitting on whatever their little rat had told them until after the smoke cleared. “Can you believe they ain’t giving the cop’s name? Something about him being a detective.” “You know what, Hector? I don’t much care. Just means there’s one less punk kid out there tryin’ to take shots at us or cut in on our business.” Victor grinned. “Dude might have done us a favor.” “Maybe. I guess that makes sense. But with them all fired up and all…” “Means they aren’t looking at us. Cops are busy circling the wagons and covering their asses. Means we get some breathing room.” Victor took another drink of his beer. Aces wasn’t his kind of place, but it was off their beaten path and close enough to Wynwood they could blend in and speak Spanish without drawing much attention. And unlike Little Havana there was almost no chance of running into anyone who’d been through the camps in the swamps. “Maybe make some moves to get us out of that damned swamp.” “I can see that.” Hector finished his beer and waved for another. “But why send Charlie over to Rizzo’s?” “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on things, and after you got into it with that bouncer I figured you should stay away for a couple days.” Plus he’d wanted to get Hector alone, but the big guy didn’t need to know that. “Charlie’s good at seeing stuff and not being seen. We gotta get a better feel for that place before we lean on it.” “Yeah. Did Esteban say it was ok?” Victor shook his head. “Not yet. I wanna get a good plan going before I take it to him. That way he can’t say we’re just idiots wasting our time.” Hector nodded, sipping his fresh beer. “I been thinking. I think you’re right about that punk Gustavo. Cousin of the bosses or not, he’s a pain in the ass and don’t know when to keep his mouth shut. And he was always goin’ on about Frankie.” “Damned right.” Victor didn’t know one way or the other, but he could tell Hector had convinced himself it was true. And maybe that was enough. Lies became true if you repeated them enough, and only a few people needed to believe it in any case. “You think he knows about our plan with Rizzo’s?” “He could. He’s down there enough he might have seen us.” “You think that’s how the cops got onto that guy?” “Cash? Naw. I think the damned Dominicans screwed that one up somehow. But I still don’t like Gustavo creepin’ around like he does. Makes me nervous.” “Julio said anything new?” Victor thought back to the man he’d left in The Palm. “Not yet. Said Gustavo wasn’t in last night, but that’s it. His pet dealer was, but he’s there damned near every night. I’ve got Julio there tonight, though. Just in case.” “What if Esteban has something for us to do?” “He won’t. Man, we’re on ice. Like frozen. All because of those damned Dominicans! Like we’re just supposed to let them cut in on Kilowatt.” “How did those guys get into Brickell anyhow? It’s not their turf.” “I don’t know. Maybe someone whispered in their ears that it was ripe for the taking.” “You don’t think he’d…” “Naw. Gustavo don’t know any of the Double Treys.” But Victor felt his mind starting to work on the problem. He didn’t really know who Gustavo knew or didn’t know. All he really knew was that the kid had been boosting car stereos before getting his in with his cousins. Maybe there was something there. Finishing his beer, Victor pushed back from the bar. He had an idea where to start asking. But he also wasn’t sure if he cared. It all depended on what Julio had to say. The smell of antiseptic was enough to make his lungs close up, but Sonny Crockett didn’t move. He just sat unmoving in the chair, watching the machines around the bed flash and make an assortment of noises. Doing what they could to keep the boy alive. At least he knew his real name now: Gordon Cavis. The whole Jeffrey McAllister thing had been a lie…just like so much of this case. He looked over, seeing the bandages over the boy’s eyes and the tubes pushing air into his lungs and keeping him alive. It was easy to see Billy in that same bed, but he was also seeing other faces…other bodies. People he’d killed as surely as if he’d shot them himself. Evan Freed. Barbara Carrow. Eddie Rivera. And Larry Zito. There were others, scattered in the backtrail of his career in law enforcement, but those were the ones he saw in that bed. Larry and Eddie most of all. He wasn’t sure how they’d all gotten tied to the guilt he felt for the boy. Like he’d told anyone who would listen, and quite a few who wouldn’t, it was his gun. His bullet. And he couldn’t pull it back in the barrel. But the others…he’d killed them without squeezing a trigger. And when he was honest with himself he knew Cavis would have shot him without a second thought. But Eddie and Larry had trusted him…and he’d put them both in the ground. Sighing, Sonny looked over at the quiet body in the bed. Alive yet not at the same time. At least there was brain activity. A chance he could wake up and live again. The others Sonny carried inside himself weren’t so lucky. Then the anger came back. He had to do something. Make someone pay for what had happened. Maybe the people who were still lying about who the boy was. Stealing his name to hide their own actions. He knew they’d get Holiday. Castillo was all over him. And maybe McAllister as well. But he wasn’t sure if they’d pay. Really pay. He clenched his fist hard, feeling his fingernails dig into the fleshy palm of his hand. They’d probably slide away like that punk Glantz. At least he’d been able to give the slimy bastard the beating he deserved…slapping him like a bitch across the alley behind his studio. It tamed the anger for a time, or maybe had only added to it. He couldn’t say for sure. Especially not now, looking over at the boy in a coma being kept alive by an assortment of flimsy machines. “Sonny?” Rico stuck his head through the room door. “Come on, partner. We gotta get rolling. Castillo just called. They got a lead on those guns.” “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” Sonny forced himself to his feet, looking down at the boy one last time. Then he turned and walked away, trying to leave as much of his guilt and anger in the chair as he could. But it didn’t work. When he closed his eyes he could still see Larry and Eddie looking at him. Miguel looked at the map and nodded. “It looks perfect. Right on the edge of everything, but still far enough out to feel secluded if that’s what we want. What did you say it is now?” Holly smiled. “It’s an Italian restaurant. A failing Italian restaurant. The original owner died a year ago, and his two kids and the wife have been fighting over it ever since. They change the menu almost every week, and from what I hear most of their regulars don’t go there anymore.” “Is there enough room for what you think we should do?” “Yes. If we buy the gallery next door. It’s been closed for six months, and on its own it’s too small to be used for anything else.” She flipped to the next page in the booklet of maps. “But if you take out the wall…” Miguel nodded, enjoying listening to her talk and the view down her loose top. He’d gone over the numbers the night before, and everything lined up perfectly. Another instance where the business degree proved useful. It let him make sure she knew what she was doing without being obvious about it. “…and I think if we make a reasonable offer they’ll sell to us. The gallery’s been foreclosed on, so that’s even cheaper.” “Good. Did you want to handle the purchases?” She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I can work with the bank for the gallery. But it might be better if you went after the restaurant. The family’s…” “Old fashioned. I know the type.” He smiled, thinking of his father and Uncle Jesus. Old men who need to be reminded their time has passed. “I see their information here. I’ll start making some calls. Let me know what you need to close on the gallery and you’ll have it.” “I’ll call you this afternoon. I’ve got an appointment with the bank in a couple of hours.” He chuckled, reaching out and touching her face. “You were confident I’d say yes.” “Well…I hoped you would. There are a couple of other possible locations, but this one really does what you said you wanted.” He nodded, looking at the street map again. It was a fantastic site, good enough he wondered why someone else hadn’t snapped it up yet. Maybe the family was asking too much for the space, or potential buyers might have fixated on it continuing to be a restaurant. He figured they’d keep some of the equipment, since he planned on the club having at least some food, but that was it. And there was one other thing…the place already had a liquor license. Easy to transfer when you knew the right people, like he did from the distributorship, and he’d pay extra to get it. He wondered if Newton Blade had any idea what he’d started. Somehow he doubted it. The big man was still chugging around in the Caribbean according to Otis Forsythe, shifting his money to stay one step ahead of the IRS and afraid to come back to Miami. ‘He did so love playing with fire,’ the older man had said with one of his trademark chuckles. ‘I guess it finally burned those big hands of his.’ Maybe Blade had gotten greedy, but the idea of a club was a good one. They dealt mainly in cash, and with artist bookings and other assorted events you could move an unimaginable amount of money through one without leaving much of a trail. The club would allow him to cut ties with Blade, reduce by almost three quarters what he funneled through Jesus, and make the operation as close to self-sufficient as he could. Another club or small restaurant and he could cut out Jesus entirely. “Miguel?” “I’m sorry, honey. I was thinking about how we could combine the gallery and the restaurant.” He smiled to cover his embarrassment. “Did you need something?” “Well…we have an hour before I need to start getting ready…” She gave him one of her bashful smiles and let her top slide off her shoulders. “Maybe we…” He cleared the plans off the desk with a single motion. She started to giggle, and then he leaned across and kissed her, letting his arms slide around her upper body. She was right about another thing…they had plenty of time.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Victor looked from Esteban to Lupe and back. “Course I’m sure. He’s the one who got us into The Palm, right? Means he’s the only one who coulda told the cops about that deal.” Esteban Morales narrowed his eyes and looked at Lupe, noticing the man’s faint head shake. “Why would he do that, Victor? What does Gustavo Mendoza have to gain by ratting out one of our own?” He leaned forward. “And why were you at The Palm in the first place?” “I’d been hearin’ stuff from one of my boys. Guy goes to The Overton on the regular, and he heard Gustavo there bragging about how he was gonna up his status. No better way to do that than to have someone take down a rival. And who better than the cops?” Lupe shook his head. “That’s pretty fancy thinking for Gustavo, don’t you think? He might be a cousin to the bosses, but I’m not sure he can find his way home on his own.” “Lupe’s right, Victor. It’s a pretty fancy plan for Gustavo. And he’s already got leverage on the guy at The Palm. He’s not going to gain anything by having the cops bust a deal.” “Look. I’m just telling you what I hear.” “Sure. Of course you are.” Esteban smiled. “And I keep hearing you’re trying to run some kind of game down at Rizzo’s. Funny how rumors spread, isn’t it? Especially since I know you’re not dumb enough to try something like that. Are you, Victor?” The big man shifted from one foot to the other. “Course not, boss. You know I don’t roll that way. I take my crew to Rizzo’s now and again to show ‘em a good time and let them stare at some tits. No way I’d…” “Good. Because Rizzo’s is protected. Protected by people the boss doesn’t want to annoy. I hope we’re clear on that. It might be a good idea for you to find another club for your crew. Jolly’s, maybe, or the Parlor Club.” He looked down at his hands. “Now go to work.” Once Victor left, Lupe cleared his throat. “You know he’s been busy at Rizzo’s…” “Yes. If he doesn’t stop now, we’ll deal with him. He’s been warned.” Esteban looked up. “Do you think it’s true what he says about Gustavo?” “No. But he thinks it is.” Lupe shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s got against Gustavo, but it’s a grudge that’s not going away soon. Look, I know the boss likes having someone like Victor, but…” “He’s turning into more trouble than he’s worth. I agree. Keep him in the swamp until I have a chance to talk to Miguel. Maybe he can have Enrique check on Gustavo. Just in case there’s a particle of truth in what Victor is claiming.” He held up his hand. “I agree Gustavo isn’t smart enough to come up with something like that, but he might be trying to play his own angle. The fool is always trying to impress the bosses. And he doesn’t always make the right choices when he does it.” “How do you think Metro-Dade got onto Frankie?” “His own carelessness. Frankie was always too fond of his own product. Look into it so we can be sure, but I’ll bet he made a sale to an undercover cop within the last week or so, and that got him busted.” Esteban reached out, feeling the cool glass under his fingers, and then took a drink of rum. “Good work with the 8-Ball Kings, by the way. I hear our friend Cash had an unfortunate accident in county.” “I just whispered in the right ear. Nothing more.” “Maybe. But you did it so nothing comes back to us. That’s a talent, my friend.” Martin Castillo returned to his office after the funeral of Father Ernesto Lupe and found the message form on his desk. It seemed odd to him…a small scrap of faded yellow paper containing so much news. But after the turns the Cruz case had taken he supposed it shouldn’t surprise him. He’d hoped for a moment alone, but this changed things. “I just got the call,” he said as he stood in the doorway to his office. “Dixon Walker was killed in the Dade County jail two hours ago. His assailant was a Dominican with ties to the 8-Ball Kings. Corrections thinks it was connected to money laundering work he was doing for the gang.” Sonny Crockett slammed his fist on his desk. “Damn it! Another lead on the Mendozas shot to hell!” “Focus on Cruz. Jorge is making noise in the press. This case needs our full attention. Start by finding Ricky Diaz.” Turning, he stepped back into his office and closed the door. After burying another of his few friends, he wasn’t in the mood for a Crockett tirade. And they’d been wrong about things in this case already. They didn’t need to make any more mistakes. “I think we should use the new boat for tonight’s run. See how she does in close to the coast.” Enrique Mendoza nodded. “I agree. And maybe check out the new radar, too. It’s a cigar run, so we can try a few things without worrying about a timeline.” Pasqual chuckled. “Yeah. I do want to see if the new electronics are as good as their ad copy.” Enrique turned to look at the boat. It was all part of Miguel’s ‘next level’ idea. Faster boats with more gear and the ability to move more product. Radar meant they could spot and avoid the Coast Guard, with enough speed to outrun them if they couldn’t avoid them. Low-slung and painted a light gray to blend in with the ocean at night, she looked more like a warship than a speedboat. “I don’t get tired of it, either.” “What?” “Looking at her. She’s like the woman in the bikini by the hotel pool.” Enrique nodded. “I guess you’re right, my friend.” He looked across the boathouse. “How are the other runs going? Now that we have so many I can’t check them personally.” “Good. Now that the stop is off we’re making up for lost time. Which means lost money.” Pasqual moved his head in the direction of two men working on one of their older boats. “Those two brought in enough last night to cover Liberty City.” “What about South Beach?” Enrique ran his hand over his face. “Never mind. We filled it from one of the stash houses. It’s been a long couple of days.” Then he turned back toward the water. Pasqual didn’t need to know what had made those days long. At least Cash had been silenced. One less thing to weigh on his mind. And Miguel’s. The truth was Miguel was starting to worry him. Not much, but more of a little itch in the back of his mind. He could see the logic in having their own club, and he was sure Miguel had used whatever he used to check Holly’s background. What nagged at him was Miguel had made the decision without talking to him. Of course he couldn’t complain…he’d added a club or two to their distribution routes before letting Miguel know. And his older brother had accepted the decision without complaint. ‘Just make sure the product is there and the money moves like it should’ was all he said. He couldn’t even complain about Holly; he’d been the one who’d introduced them after all. Maybe I’m just tired. That has to be it. Between running the routes and keeping tabs on Jesus Estevez he’d been busy. Too busy, perhaps. And then there was Gustavo, bouncing around like a hyperactive puppy. Always trying to prove himself and do the impossible: move up in the family business. No, one of the many things he and Miguel agreed on was Gustavo was exactly where he should be. “You think we should try to move some of those cigars in South Beach? Smoking illegal Cubans is all the rage with the rich white kids these days.” Enrique laughed. Pasqual always knew how to kick him out of one of his dark moods. “Sure. Why not? Give Gustavo a few boxes and see if he can get them into The Palm. That bastard who runs the bar owes us at least that.” “I’ll make the call. You want to see to our new lady first?” Pasqual chuckled as he turned. “Assuming your current one doesn’t get jealous.” “No chance of that, mano. She knows her place.” But Enrique had to hold back a frown. He knew what Pasqual meant. He’d been with Tiffy longer than he’d stayed with any other woman. “Come on. We need to get moving if we want to make the drop.” Unlike their cocaine runs, trips for cigars were more like pleasure outings. They’d cruise out, meet up with a small commercial fishing boat or sometimes a cabin cruiser holding close to one of the smaller outer islands, and then run back using the same coastlines for cover from radar. This one was no different. Their contact was a crusty old fisherman who didn’t use many words but accepted his money and handed off the cases of cigars with admirable speed. The rendezvous was away from normal commercial shipping lanes, and also avoided normal smuggling routes. Enrique wished they could do the same thing with their cocaine cargos, but the Panamanians and others who handled those ships didn’t know the waters around Florida well enough to make it work. Pepe, on the other hand, had been fishing these waters for maybe forty years. After the last crate was stowed, Enrique looked up at the fisherman in the fading light. “Good doing business with you. Same thing next month?” Pepe nodded. “Sure.” His voice was raspy, like a cable running through a rusting eyehole. “We might have to move a few miles east, though.” He waved his hand in the general direction. “Saw a flashy boat like yours out this way a couple of hours ago. They made an approach, then veered off and headed south.” Enrique felt a cold hand grip his gut. “You get a look at a name or registration?” “Naw. They had it all covered with what looked like painter’s tape. But my deck hand thinks he’s seen the boat before. It’s got this ugly-ass green stripe painted along the hull.” Pasqual was shifting from one foot to the other, anxious to get underway. But Enrique shook his head. “Where did he see this boat?” Pepe sent a stream of quick Spanish at the shorter deckhand, who answered almost as quickly. “Over by Grand Bahama. We put in there to sell our catch, he went for a walk while I argued with the damned locals.” He spat over the side, careful to miss their boat. “Cheap bastards.” “And the boat?” “Getting to that. He said they were taking on some funny cargo. All covered up and in small boxes. Not cigars, though.” His teeth flashed in the gloom. “He knows what those look like.” “Thanks, Pepe. We’ll keep our eyes open.” Enrique shot a meaningful look at the sky. “And you’d better get moving before the Coast Guard starts wondering where you got off to.” “They can bite my hairy old ass.” Pepe cackled at his own words. “You two enjoy. See you next month. You can spot us on that fancy radar rig you got now.” Once the fishing boat was out of earshot, Pasqual cleared his throat. “You think that boat means anything?” “I don’t know. Coke smugglers gotta be as common on Grand Bahama as bikinis are during Spring Break. Funny they’d make a pass at Pepe, though. Most of them run straight through at high speed and try to avoid other boats.” “Maybe the Columbians are sniffing around again.” “They aren’t the only game in town now, Pasqual.” Enrique eased the throttles forward, feeling the boat surge as power hit the propulsion jets. “Any punk with a boat can get in on the action now. Just look at that guy they busted with Cash. What’s his name? Barnett?” “Burnett, I think. Something like that. I hear his name from time to time.” “Yeah. Small time guy with a fast boat looking to move up in the world. Hell, I might have offered him a job if he hadn’t gotten busted with Cash.” Enrique looked at the glowing controls on the boat’s instrument panel. “Check the radar. I want to make sure we’re clear before I take her in.” “Man, this new set is good! I got Pepe’s boat moving off now. We’ll be able to pick him up easy next time. Not seeing anything else, boss.” He looked over at a slip of paper clipped next to the radar display. “Coast Guard doesn’t run through here for another couple of hours according to the latest patrol schedule. We should have plenty of time.” “Unless they shake things up. That new commander likes to do that from what I hear.” “I hear the same…” Pasqual’s voice trailed off. “I got something just on the edge of our range. Coming in from the east, and moving fast. It’s no cutter, though. Too small.” Enrique nodded and shut off the boat’s navigation lights. “No sense in making it easy for whoever’s out there. Speed?” “At least thirty knots judging from how the blip’s moving.” Pasqual hunched lower over the scope. “It’s gotta be a go-fast. Nothing else moves like that.” Something turned in Enrique’s stomach. “What’s its heading?” “Right for us. It might have radar, too.” “Hang on. Let’s see what she can do. And get that rifle, ok? We might need it.” Enrique waited until Pasqual was back in the co-pilot’s chair with a stainless steel Mini-14 slung across his chest before he slammed the throttles all the way open. “And here we go!” The twin V-8s roared, and the boat’s nose seemed to climb straight out of the water. “Holy shit!” Pasqual was grinning like a maniac as he grabbed the rail. “They did a hell of a job on those engines!” “Worth every damned penny!” Enrique kept the boat straight, knowing any deviation risked sending them flipping end over end if the boat nosed down or hit a rogue swell. As he watched the tachometer and temp gauges continued to climb, leveling off as the boat hit its maximum speed. Pasqual was still watching the scope. “They didn’t expect that. Idiots were trying to intercept, and now they’re in a stern chase.” He pumped his fist in the air like he’d just hit a home run. “They’re falling off, boss. No way they can keep up with this beast.” “Keep watching them. We’ll run for a bit and then change course once they’re off radar.” He thought for a moment. It was possible there was someone else out there ahead of them. The boat was fast, but radio was always faster. “There’s been a development in an old case.” Martin Castillo fixed Sonny Crockett with a stare. “The case remains with Homicide for now, but I thought you should know.” “Know what, lieutenant? That Homicide doesn’t know what it’s doing?” “Enough. Ballistics came back from the FBI on the Jaime Belequez case. The bullet they recovered from the victim’s head turned up a match with another Miami homicide.” Ricardo Tubbs snorted. “What took them so long?” “The bullet was apparently misplaced. They found it during a routine audit of the ballistics lab at Quantico.” “Which homicide? And don’t tell me it was those Dominicans down by the waterfront.” “No.” Castillo looked at the interoffice memo, wondering how much he should tell them. We have too many active cases now. The Cruz case may be resolved, but we still need to conduct surveillance on those gun runners. And another tip came in about a major deal in a shopping mall of all places. “The Haitians killed in Liberty City. One of them was killed with the same gun.” “So the same .45 turns up in two drug-related homicides? I don’t like those odds.” “They’re both still Homicide’s cases. But I thought you should know there might be a connection.” “Yeah, unless that .45 ’s a community gun.” Rico turned to Sonny. “We saw them in New York. It’s a gun that makes the rounds, passed off from one bad guy to the next as they need it. Makes it damned near impossible to tie a single weapon to a single shooter. We had one back in the Bronx we used to call Black Maria. Cheap little Colt .38, but it was tied to six homicides and at least thirteen armed robberies.” “So what do we do?” Crockett looked at Castillo and shrugged. “Wait for them to throw in the towel?” “Right now we have no choice. That arms deal is still going down. We need to go over the surveillance plan again. These men are professionals. If they sense anything is off, they’ll go underground and we’ll lose our chance.” “Yeah, but we need to push that CI in the Mendozas harder. He’s gotta give up something.” Sonny looked out the office window at Stan Switek. “He’s a cousin, after all. Not a damned errand boy. The way those guys work, they’d be giving him something to do. He’s holding out on us.” “I’ll look into it.” Castillo kept his voice low. “You two get on that surveillance plan. Those guns cannot hit our streets.” OCB moves into Child’s Play “Do you think someone knew you were there?” Enrique looked at Miguel and shrugged. “I don’t know. But if it was the same boat that shadowed Pepe, we might have a problem.” “And you never got a look at it?” “No. We weren’t gonna let them get that close.” Enrique thought back to their run to the coast and then his turn east and how they’d ducked in and out of the radar shadows thrown by the coastline itself and small islands. “No way I want to risk that boat for a load of cigars.” Miguel nodded slowly. “You made the right choice as always, brother. But if someone was looking for you, how did they know where to look?” “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Not many of my boys knew we were making that run tonight. Pasqual of course. The guys in the boathouse, but they never left.” He shook his head as the memory floated up. “And maybe Gustavo. I think he was sneaking around when Pasqual and I were talking about it.” “Gustavo?” “Yeah. He likes to prowl around the boathouses looking ‘useful.’ At least that’s what he calls it.” Enrique shook his head. “He’s always trying to climb the ladder, but isn’t smart enough to see his head has already hit the ceiling. He does ok with that club in South Beach, but he’s got ambitions he can’t back up. And he likes to talk.” “So you think he’s a problem.” “He could be. I don’t know if he actually is, but the potential’s there.” Enrique recognized the look on Miguel’s face. “I’ll look into it. For now, keep him on that damned club of his and away from any shipments. Maybe push him back to stealing car stereos or whatever it was he did before. And talk to your boys. See if they know anything.” “I’ll do that. But what do you think about Pepe’s guy saying he saw the boat in Grand Bahama?” “I don’t know. Lots of things pass through there. Some legal, some not. You say he said the numbers were taped over? That sounds like a smuggler’s trick. An old smuggler’s trick.” Enrique nodded, remembering the stories. “You think it might be connected to Jesus?” “I don’t know. You still drink with some of his pilots, right?” “Sure. Sometimes, anyhow.” He shrugged. “Now with Tiffy I don’t hit those clubs like I used to.” “I know the feeling.” Miguel smiled. “I can’t say it’s a bad thing, though.” “You’d better sit down, brother. I agree with you.” He shook his head, a warm feeling flooding his chest as he thought of the girl. “Tiffy’s different. I can’t put words to it.” “See if you can run into a couple of those guys. See what they know. We already know he’s trying to dance with the Columbians. Maybe he’s trying to move up again.” “I’ll do that. And I guess you’ll be asking your mysterious questions again.” “No mystery about it, brother. Just common sense.” They were sitting in the study of the big house, the clock on the wall ticking away an hour while they talked. Enrique looked back at it, remembering all those nights growing up when he listened to that same damned clock. Wondering when it would be safe to come out from under the big desk and make a run for his room. Afraid of the man who now spent his days in a beach house, cowed by the authority and power of the sons he used to beat. “I think of the same thing when I hear that clock. Sometimes I think about getting rid of it, but then I always decide to keep it. Just another sign we beat him.” “We did, brother. Both of us.” Enrique looked at his watch. “And I’d better get back to my place before I fall asleep in this chair. I’ll let you know once I talk with a couple of Jesus’s boys.” “Good. And go ahead and do a buy with that Peruvian you mentioned before. I want to see how it looks. And now that Cash is taken care of we can move on with business. With Frankie in custody The Palm is slowing down, but we can always move product into Brickell. Kilowatt is running again.” The drive from the compound to his condo wasn’t long, and went faster when he stomped on the gas and let the Corvette do its thing. For some reason his thoughts kept turning back to Gustavo. In a way he hoped the kid wasn’t up to anything. He was a pain in the ass, but he was family after a fashion and useful in a way. He’d gotten them into The Palm, which was turning into a major money-maker. But he also knew the kid couldn’t keep his mouth shut and didn’t understand his ambition exceeded his ability. Tiffy was waiting for him when he opened the condo door, stretched out on the leather couch wearing a thin silk robe and nothing else. Her blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim light thrown by two wall sconces. “It’s late,” she said, letting the robe slide open. “I thought about getting dressed, but changed my mind.” “I can see that.” He kicked the door closed and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Business took longer than I expected, and then I had to talk to Miguel.” He smiled, stepping closer. “I’ll make it up to you.” “I know you will.” She slipped out of the robe, reaching up for him. Gustavo and Jesus. Two idiots I don’t need to deal with right now. Miguel poured himself another drink the second Enrique left, sorting through things in his head. He knew Esteban was already looking into Gustavo, so there was nothing to do there but wait. Uncle Jesus was another matter entirely. There was a time not so long ago when he’d admired the older man. Wanted nothing more than to be making cigar runs with him, in fact. It was with Jesus he’d first felt the night sea air on his face as a boat slipped through the tricky shoals along the coast, dodging a Coast Guard cutter with ease. It was all an adventure to a sixteen year old boy…one he’d hoped would never end. But now he sat where he did, and Jesus was becoming a threat to the family business. He’d been warned once now, and still he persisted. Maybe it was time for him to meet with Jesus and lay it all out for the older man once and for all. Tell him exactly what would happen to him if he kept steering this reckless course. Jesus might know fish migration patterns, and he might know how to smuggle cigars, but he was a total novice when it came to cocaine. And novices didn’t last long in this new world. And he knew he had to do something. With the club moving forward he couldn’t afford any distractions right now. The Palm bust had been unfortunate, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Nothing there could track back to them, since Frankie never knew where the product came from. He just sold it. But he did know Gustavo. I never should have let that idiot come on board. But he shook his head at the same time. He might be an idiot, but he was also family. You had to give family a chance. And he’d done ok. Not spectacularly, but Miguel hadn’t expected miracles. He’d wait for Esteban to report back before making a decision. “Is Ricky still here? I heard his car.” Turning, he saw Holly coming into the study. She was wearing a longish t-shirt and nothing else, and her hair was still tousled from their earlier lovemaking. “No. He had to get back. I’d have had him wait but I thought you were asleep.” “I was. But I woke up and missed you and then I heard his car.” Rubbing her eyes, she walked over and sat down on his lap. “More business?” “Yes, but nothing important.” He smiled and kissed her neck. “I got to thinking about where to put that club and couldn’t get back to sleep.” “I think you’re more excited about it than I am.” “No. I’m excited because you’re excited.” In truth it was a combination of both, but he figured she didn’t need to know that. “But we do need to find a property soon. Construction is prone to delay, after all.” She sighed as he kept kissing her neck. “You know what that does to me? And yeah, I’ve looked at a couple places and have one you need to see.” “Good. We’ll go first thing.” He reached around and touched her body. “But now I think we need to head back up to bed. Don’t you?” “Come on, man. We don’t know he dropped the dime on them.” Victor felt the anger welling up in his chest, and didn’t really try to hide it. “My ass! Who else would drop a dime on Frankie? That little bitch has been wanting in for over a year now, and with The Palm wide open he sees his chance.” It was loud and smelly in Rizzo’s; nothing out of the ordinary for a day ending in ‘Y’ in the strip club. The annoying punk with the pink sunglasses was jabbering something over the blown PA. Victor could never follow what he said, but he’d also noticed the place was fuller when the little moron was behind the sound board. He also noticed the better-looking girls liked working his nights and shook their stuff better as well. That he did care about. “I don’t know, man. And Lupe says we need to watch him and wait.” “Lupe.” The name came out as a sneer. “What does that bitch know about the streets? The moves we have to make?” Victor grinned, showing big teeth. “I seen that punk Gustavo sneaking off to the payphone at The Palm. And you know he ain’t calling his lady.” Another of his crew nodded. He could always count on Hector. “Yeah. I seen him do that, too.” “Look, man. Esteban hasn’t forgotten about Kilowatt. Why do you think we’re still stuck swatting mosquitoes most nights? And those damned Double Treys been sniffin' around, too.” “You worry too much, Charlie. Like a woman.” But Victor knew he was right about the Double Treys. He’d underestimated their desire for revenge. “You want to go against Esteban, you’d better dig your grave now is all I’m saying. We got lucky with those Dominicans. And we can’t forget who Gustavo’s related to.” That brought Victor up short. “Yeah. I ain’t forgotten he’s a Mendoza. But if we prove he’s a rat and deal with him, that’s all to the good for us.” Still, the mention of Esteban sent a chill down his spine that wouldn’t go away. For all his cool act, Victor knew Esteban was more than capable of vicious violence with no warning. “Forget that punk, Vic! Man, look at those tits!” Hector waved his beer bottle in the direction of the second stage. “I could spend all night just doin’ them.” “All in good time, Hector. We still got plans for this place.” At least Victor did. It felt good to stop thinking about Gustavo Mendoza and instead concentrate on Rizzo’s. He knew the rumors about Rizzo’s being connected, but he just didn’t see it. Not enough blow moved through the place, and the bouncers were strictly all meat and no brains. All he had to do was find his angle. And then he and his crew could ease out from under the thumb of Esteban and the Mendoza brothers. And maybe he’d take care of Gustavo on the way out. A parting gift of sorts.

“You know, lieutenant, we could use the money I got from those cigar runs for Otis Forsythe to front the Cash operation.” “It’s all been vouchered?” “Every crumpled dollar bill.” Sonny chuckled. “Actually it’s all in fresh twenties and fifties. I think dirty money offends Otis’s code or something.” Sitting next to him, Rico nodded. “It makes sense, Lieutenant. It’s money we already have in property, it doesn’t require any special permission, and it’s using their green back at them.” Sonny watched Castillo’s eyes as Rico spoke. He knew they were close, but he also didn’t want to overplay his hand. Getting Cash would take them one step closer to the Mendozas. Maybe not the whole thing, since Cash was strictly small time and the Mendozas would need to launder more money than he was capable of handling. But it was a way in. “What about the CI? Gustavo Mendoza.” “He’s getting us nowhere, lieutenant.” Sonny sighed. “He just keeps telling stories about how he might have heard something or maybe seen something, but none of it ever pans out. Maybe if we…” “Switek’s workin’ him as hard as he can.” Rico shot Sonny a quick look. “But the kid’s still loyal. In the end he’ll give them up…” “But it’ll take too damned long. Those bodies outside Kilowatt are the Mendozas’ work. I’d bet my badge on it.” Castillo looked up, and Sonny saw the heat in his eyes. “You might be, detective. Have the paperwork ready for me to sign by this afternoon. And if you arrest Dixon Walker, do it the right way. It has to stand up in court if we hope to turn him.” “How do you want to work this, partner?” Sonny thought as he scrolled the requisition form into his typewriter back at his desk. “We gotta wait for old Two-Tone to page you, right? As soon as that happens, we’ll set up the meet. I don’t know if you want Cooper there, since this isn’t supposed to be his thing.” “Solid. Maybe we can get Gina and Trudy to make the arrest. That way Burnett don’t get burned, either.” “Yeah. Better them that Gorman and Dibble. I don’t think there’s a polyester convention in town this week. They’d stick out even in Rizzo’s.” He started to say something about Switek and Zito, then caught himself. “No. Gina and Trudy are our best bet.” “Castillo’s gonna want a wire.” “Yeah. I guess he will. I’ll get with Switek and set something up.” Hitting the last keys, Sonny punched return a few times to roll the form out of the battered IBM. “You take that to Castillo, and I’ll talk to Stan. And let me know the second Paulie pages. We can’t miss with this.” “Sonny? Be cool with Switek.” “Yeah, yeah.” Getting up, Sonny handed Rico the form and headed for the small lab attached to the squad room. He found Stan Switek sitting at the small workbench with a small soldering iron, making what he guessed were final adjustments on some new gadget or another. “Hey, Switek! You gonna have time to wire me up in the next day or so? We got a meet coming with a money guy, and…” “Sure. I’ll just drop everything I’m doing and get right on that.” There was a bite to Stan’s voice that brought Sonny up short. “Thing is, I don’t know when the meet’s gonna be. We’re still waiting on a time and place from Rico’s CI. I wanted to let you know so you could get something ready.” Stan set down the soldering iron with a sigh. “See all that?” He waved his hand in the general direction of plastic bins filled with unidentifiable bits of electronics. “Got any rig you could need in there. What do you need?” “Something small with decent range. I don’t know if the lieutenant’s gonna have you run it or not, so if you’ve got something Tubbs could run it would be handy.” Grunting, Stan dug through one of the bins and pulled out a small microphone connected to what Sonny assumed was a small transmitter. Then he turned and found a modified tape recorder/receiver combination. “That should do the the trick. They’re already linked, so there’s nothing to tune or adjust. Leave Tubbs in the car and you’ve got range of maybe five hundred feet give or take.” He sat back down without looking up. “Just take it with you and drop it off when you’re done.” Sonny looked from the jumble of electronics to Stan and back again. Before they would have bantered back and forth, maybe cracked a joke or two. But this… He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but could tell from Stan’s posture there wasn’t any point in asking. Instead he gathered up the gear and muttered something about maybe seeing him later before heading back to the squad room. Rico was waiting by his desk. “Signed and ready to deal, partner. Looks like Stan set you up right.” “Yeah, but there wasn’t much talking. He said you could run the thing.” Sonny set the recorder and wire down on his desk. “He wasn’t in the best mood.” “Would you be?” Sonny started to snap, then took a deep breath. “No. No, I probably wouldn’t be, Rico. But we were just doing our jobs.” “Maybe he’s got a different idea of what that means.” Rico raised his hands. “Look, I ain’t taking sides. But Zito did get killed. And you pushed too hard.” “It’s part of the job, Rico. Making the hard calls.” “Yeah. But you also gotta take the heat for those calls, partner. We don’t get to pick which ones.” Rico was about to continue when he stopped and grinned. “And the pager just went off. I think we’re in business.” “And that’s the short of it, lieutenant. Cash wants to meet at Rizzo’s tonight.” Sonny looked at his watch. “It’s Wednesday, and Noogie says the girl he’s hot for always dances tonight.” Castillo nodded. “Switek is on assignment. Tubbs, you’ll run the wire. Gina, Trudy, you’ll go in before Crockett and provide backup.” Trudy snorted. “Remind me to wear my armored panties. We’re gonna get the hell pinched out of ourselves in there.” “Stay close to the bar. The guy at the door won’t let anyone get carried away.” Sonny chuckled. “It’s bad for business.” “What about LaMonte?” “Noogie won’t blow anyone’s cover, lieutenant. He knows the drill. Besides, he’ll be focusing on his DJ gig.” Sonny shook his head. “Little freak’s good at it. From what I hear, club revenue goes up at least 25% when he’s in the booth.” “Once the deal goes down, Tubbs will send Gorman and Dibble in to make the arrest.” Castillo looked up. “That’s not open for negotiation. We bring him in and avoid a scene. Walker has an active warrant from Financial Crimes, so it’s natural for them to take him in. Have them arrest Crockett, too. We need to preserve his cover.” ‘Maybe we should play him a bit…” “No. Bring him in. Walker isn’t the kind who does time. He’ll turn on all his clients to avoid Radford.” Sonny nodded, but inside he was fuming. Leaving Cash in play might get them to the Mendozas with something they could act on. But he knew the look on Castillo’s face all too well, and getting a shot at the Mendozas his way wasn’t worth a suspension. Back at their desks, he gave Rico a look. “I’ll go pull the money out of property. You might want to set Stan’s rig up in the Caddy and make sure it’s good to go. I’ll have Lester tape the wire up for me. I think he’s somewhere back there.” “Solid.” Rico checked his watch. “We got a couple hours before the meet.” “Yeah.” He looked over at Gina. “When I get back, you wanna get together with Trudy and go over the game plan? I don’t want to stick the two of you in Rizzo’s any longer than necessary.” Gina nodded, and he thought he saw a familiar glint in her eyes. “I appreciate that, Sonny.” If she was going to say anything else, it disappeared in a cloud of cheap cigar smoke. Gorman, his bald head shining in reflected fluorescent light from the ceiling fixtures, ambled across the squad room. “Lieutenant says we’re making the arrest this time out,” he announced in his grating voice. “Dibble’s down drawing the shotguns. Where do you want us?” “We’re gonna go over it as soon as I get back from Property, but Tubbs will be running the tape outside Rizzo’s. He’ll give the go order. Maybe you two girls can set up in a van close by so you can see him flash his headlights.” “Sounds good to me.” The tip of his cigar glowed bright red as Gorman drew in smoke. “Be good to get off stakeout duty, even if it’s only for a couple of hours.” It took ten minutes to go over the details with Gina and Trudy, and an extra ten to make sure Gorman and Dibble knew who to arrest and make them understand they had to take Burnett in as well. “I gotta keep that cover going,” Sonny said, trying to hide his annoyance as he gave the explanation for the third time. “It’ll go down in court as mistaken identity or some bull. Enough to look good on the record but not fake enough to raise eyebrows.” “Sure. I get it.” Dibble chuckled and slapped Gorman on the shoulder. “We get to arrest a sergeant.” Sighing, Sonny pushed back from the conference room table. “I gotta get moving. Let Tubbs know when you’re in position and wait for his signal. We only get one shot at this, girls. Don’t mess it up.” Rico was waiting by his desk. “Chumps,” he muttered. “They know what they gotta do?” “I hope so, Rico. Just make sure they get in position and know when to move in.” He looked at his watch. “And that took longer than I’d planned. Gina and Trudy are probably already in position, and you and Mutt and Jeff are gonna have to haul ass if you want to get in position.” “What’s your signal?” “Let’s make a deal. You hear that, send ‘em in. If there’s gunfire, something went wrong. Gina and Trudy will clear just after the arrest.” In the end it went better than he’d hoped. Cash had gulped down the bait, and screamed about his innocence when Gorman and Dibble hauled them both away in cuffs. Sonny kept up the act until Cash was shut in an interrogation room, then he had Rico unlock the cuffs and rubbed his wrists with a wry grin. “Couldn’t have gone better if we’d written it ourselves.” “Yeah. I guess we’re about due, aren’t we?” “Pretty much, Rico.” He kept rubbing his wrists. The cuffs hadn’t been that tight, but something about the feel of the cold metal against his skin kept lingering. “Did anything else come in about those bodies outside Kilowatt?” “Not that I heard. Last I saw Homicide was still twiddling their thumbs.” “Yeah, and we didn’t turn up squat on Zoro, so we ain’t doing any better than they are.” He shook his head. “I just can’t shake the feeling, though. The Mendozas had to have a hand in it. No one else uses .45s. Or is that particular about how they off someone.” “They’re still ghosts, Sonny. Not a whisper of anything illegal anywhere.” “That’s how you run a, what do they call it, multi-generational criminal enterprise. You’re careful.” Rico laughed. “You been reading a dictionary again, partner?” “No. Just watched The Godfather the other night when Elvis had a belly ache. He gets grumpy when he’s off his feed.” “I bet he does.” Rico scratched at his chin through his trimmed beard. “So you think the Mendozas are the mob now?” “No. Nothing like that.” They were in the squad room now, and he nodded to Gina and Trudy. “Great work, ladies. Hope you didn’t get groped too much.” Trudy shook her head. “One fool tried, and now he’s gonna have to adopt if he wants kids. You got Cash squared away?” “Dibble and Gorman are taking a run at him in interrogation now.” He shook his head and turned back to Rico. “I’m not saying they’re mob, but they’ve been in the game a long damned time. They know how to move. Hell, the grandfather was one of the best of the rum runners.” “It’s gonna take more than a family tree to convince Castillo, Sonny.” Rico waved his hand toward the stack of folders on his desk. “And we got too many cases as it is. Gun runners. The investigation into the Cruz family. Some random tip about a big coke buy. You name it, it’s in there.” “I know. And you’re right, Rico. I just…I just can’t shake this one.” Slumping in his desk chair, Sonny closed his eyes. He knew Rico was right on every level. They had too many cases, not enough people, and nowhere near enough time. He also knew Rico had been damned lucky with Internal Affairs during the whole Proverb case. From his own experiences with the goons in IA, he knew you came away a bit gunshy for a time. And the last thing he wanted to do was drag his partner down a rabbit hole he was digging himself. “Anyhow, maybe the lieutenant will drag something out of cash or Gustavo might come through.” He shook his head. “How’s the Cruz case coming? I heard you got a meet coming up with the older son.” “What do you mean they picked him up?” Esteban Morales gripped the receiver hard, his knuckles turning white. The voice on the other end of the line was hesitant. “I…I don’t know why, boss. Just that we saw Metro-Dade hauling that halfwit Cash and some other dude out of Rizzo’s in cuffs. Two detectives, and they stuffed them in squad cars.” “Find out why and report back. And Carlos? Do it quietly.” Esteban ended the call, then punched in the number. “Jefe? We have a problem.” The night was perfect. The moon was a silver disk in the sky, bathing the balcony in soft light. Miguel Mendoza sat in one of the wicker chairs, watching Holly Martin look up at the sky. “You can actually see the stars out here,” she said, tipping her head back. “Yes. Although some of the newer houses have obnoxious lights in their back yards and along the water. I don’t know how long it will last.” He paused, letting his mind wander back. “Growing up there were only a handful of houses here. Enrique and I used to pretend we lived in the middle of nowhere. A ranch house or some kind of colonial plantation, depending on which old movie we’d seen the night before.” “I…” The buzzing of the cordless phone cut her off. Snarling, Miguel snatched it up. “This better be good.” Esteban’s cool voice filled his ear. “Jefe? We have a problem.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I won’t be a moment, Holly. It’s an issue at the warehouse.” Getting to his feet, he stepped back inside the house and partly closed the glass door. “Speak.” “Metro-Dade picked up Cash and another man at Rizzo’s tonight. I have a man looking into the arrest, but I thought you should know.” “You did well.” Miguel clenched his jaws, glad he’d cut off all dealings with the money launderer. “Was is about that stripper or something else?” “We don’t know. It was detectives who made the arrest, though. Not uniforms.” “Let me know when you have something. I’ll let Rickey know.” Ending the call, he dialed Enrique’s apartment number. When it rolled to the answering machine, he snorted. Of course he’s out. It’s Saturday night. Where else would he be? “Ricky, it’s Miguel. Deliveries might be late Monday. There was an issue at the warehouse.” Anyone else listening to the message would think it was normal distributor business, but Enrique would know to stop all runs until further notice. He stood in the gloom for a moment, composing himself. Walker didn’t actually know enough to do any damage to his organization, but it was still a problem. He doubted the man would hold his tongue, or if he did it wouldn’t last past booking and his first night in Dade County. Looking out, he saw Holly’s slender body highlighted by the moonlight. Much to Enrique’s amusement he hadn’t slept with her yet, even though she’d made it clear she wanted him. No, there was one thing he wanted to do first. One last thing to accomplish before the family business went to the next level. And then…she’d be his reward. No, his prize. Because without her, the step couldn’t happen. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost…” “No. It just took longer than I thought.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, feeling her body warm and firm against his. “There’s been an accident at the warehouse. No one was hurt, but it’s going to throw our schedule off by at least a day.” She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “So you have calls to make…” “Eventually.” Her long hair tickled the backs of his hands. “How do you like working for those clubs?” “It’s ok, I guess.” She smiled up at him. “I mean, I’m good at it, but with three clubs it’s hard to focus on one thing. And the owners are always changing their minds. Most of them don’t even come to their own clubs, so they don’t know what’s going on.” “I imagine that’s frustrating. Especially when they don’t listen to you.” “How did…” “I felt the same thing with my father before he stepped away from the business. He wasn’t talking to the clubs or bars, but thought he knew what they needed. And he ignored me, even though I was the one getting the sales.” “I don’t know why he’d do that. You’re good at what you do.” “Pride. An old man’s pride. You can’t underestimate what it does. And so many of those clubs are just ways for rich men to spend their money and pretend to be young men again.” He smiled, touching her cheek. “How well do you know South Beach?” “I know every inch of it. Clubs, coffee shops, galleries. You name it.” “Find me a spot.” “What?” “Find me a spot for a club. Someplace close to things people want to see. Someplace where there hasn’t been a club before. I’d rather start fresh than try to erase someone else’s mistakes.” “Why me? I…” “You know the area. You know the business. The clubs you work with all got more successful when you started promoting them. And I trust you.” She looked at him for a long moment, and a cold feeling started balling up in his stomach. She’s going to say no. She’s going walk out and… And then she kissed him. Hard. Ricardo Tubbs switched off the interrogation room’s speaker and grinned. “Another couple of minutes and that chump will be pissing himself.” Sonny Crockett nodded, sending a thin steam of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah, but none of it’s helping us. This guy must have washed cash for every lowlife in the greater Miami area who couldn’t swing an offshore account.” Rico scratched an itch through his beard. He was still adjusting to the look, but the ladies seemed to love it and it felt like it made Cooper a shade more menacing. Something he needed these days with the new crop of dealers. “Yeah. But that raises the question. Why would the Mendozas use a punk like this?” “Insurance. A way to clean cash in a hurry. Hell, maybe they just like his cologne. But the word we keep getting is they’re using him somehow. We just gotta figure out how and then convince him to roll on them.” Rico looked through the glass at Dibble and Gorman. “At least those two make convincing Financial Crimes cops.” He looked at his Rolex and frowned. “I’d love to watch the whole movie, but we gotta get moving. We got the briefing on the Cruz meet coming up. You know…prime time.” OCB shifts to God’s Work, Child’s Play and Missing Hours “Do you think he’ll keep his mouth shut?” Esteban looked at his fingernails for a long moment and shook his head. “No. Maybe at first, but as soon as they threaten him with prison he’ll talk. No question. They’ll put him in Dade County first. We don’t have people there, but most of his other customers do. Especially the Dominicans.” Miguel Mendoza nodded. The Lame Bull was almost empty this early in the day, and he appreciated the quiet. Last night with Holly had been nothing short of amazing, and he’d been reluctant to leave the bed the next morning. But business was business. “It sounds like you already have something in mind.” “I do. We can let the Dominicans know discretely that we heard Cash was going to give them up. I know he handles money for the 8 Ball Kings. They’re a viscous bunch, and if they thought he was going to give them up…” Miguel nodded. He’d heard of the Kings. Not as organized as the Double Treys, they still moved a reasonable amount of product and defended what they considered theirs with a fury. They’d been feuding with a couple of smaller Columbian gangs for the past year or so. “Do it. It’s always better to have someone do our dirty work for us.” “Exactly. I’ll have Lupe reach out.” There was a pause. “I’m worried about Victor, boss.” “I know. He exceeded orders at Kilowatt. I thought you’d parked him at the third boathouse?” “I did. But I’m hearing things. It seems Victor likes to talk. A lot.” “Maybe we should give him something to do.” Miguel paused, then smiled. “But he’s your man, Esteban. I let you run your people your way. I trust you’ll handle the situation. But first we need to take care of this Cash.” “Once Lupe makes contact I think it might take a couple of days for things to move forward.” “That’s not a problem. We don’t have any major shipments coming in. Just a load of cigars.” Once Esteban left, Miguel let his breath out in a long, slow hiss. Almost, but not quite, a sigh. Cash was a problem he didn’t need. Not now. Not when he was about to take the next step. “Deep in thought as always, brother.” The sound of Enrique’s voice made him jump, then laugh. “You know me too well. And when I think I lose track of everything else.” “But not Holly. You forget one thing. Girls always talk. And from Tiffy’s end of the conversation I think you made an impression last night.” Miguel felt his cheeks turning warm. “I thought you’d stopped seeing her.” “No.” The younger Mendoza slumped into the chair recently occupied by Esteban. “Oh, I thought about it. But there’s something about her. No, it’s not just one something. It’s several somethings.” “How much did she tell you?” “Just that the Mendoza talent for love-making didn’t seem to pass my older brother by.” Enrique laughed. “And she said something about a club.” Damn it. Ah, well. “I was going to tell you once things were further along.” “I know. To be honest, I knew you were up to something when our cash flow was going up and you weren’t running around like a madman trying to find a banker.” “I’ve been watching those assholes, Ricky. The old, rich men who throw their money at those places like they do strippers. And then I remembered what Newton Blade had said about clubs and concerts being the best ways to clean money. Why should we pay someone else to do something we could handle ourselves?” “A fair point. But we don’t know the first thing about clubs.” “No. But Holly does. South Beach clubs at least.” Miguel leaned forward in his chair. “Look. We can buy booze from ourselves, police the product moving in the club, and book acts and stuff as we like.” He narrowed his eyes. “But we keep product in the place to a minimum. If we don’t draw attention, things work better.” “It makes sense. It will take time, though.” “I know. But we have plenty of money to throw at the problem.” “You amaze me, brother. I think you’re the first man I’ve ever known who is building a club to get a girl.” Miguel laughed. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but in some ways it was true. “I’d been thinking of this before Holly, but I think this works even better. If she appears to be the owner…” “Less attention. We’re just, what do you say, investors.” “Discrete investors. It also means we don’t have the rely on Jesus as much.” “True. He’s been quiet so far. Keeping to his end of the deal. But I don’t know how long that will last. I’ve been talking to a couple of his pilots. Guys who want to move over to our crews instead of shuttling fat fucks who think they can fish. They say he’s starting to look at go-fasts again. And to talk with people he shouldn’t. Like Columbians.” “Are they still trying to cut into his cigar trade?” Enrique shook his head. “It turns out that was a lie. He’s been cutting them in on the trade. A ‘I help you if you help me’ kind of thing. At least that’s what the guys I’m talking to think. One of them had his brother killed by the Revillas, so he don’t care too much for the boys from Bogota. Jesus is being more careful than he was. But…” “First Santos, now our own uncle.” Miguel clenched his teeth, fighting to keep anger off his face. “That is one bit of good news. I think we might have located another source. He’s Peruvian, and says he can get top-grade powder fifty kilos at a time. I met him in the Bahamas on our last run that way. He comes recommended by Montoya and one of the Carreras.” “How much?” “He’s reasonable. Thirty grand a kilo, but he guarantees eighty-five percent pure. At least. We might be able to talk him down if we buy bulk. My impression is he’s got more supply than people can handle right now.” “Good. Make a buy and see how it feels.” “Even with the halt?” “That will be taken care of in a couple of days. It seems the Dominicans don’t like the idea of one of their bankers ratting them out.” Enrique chuckled. “I bet they don’t. Do we know how Metro-Dade got onto him?” “No. And that does concern me. Check your people, but do it quietly. I don’t think we have any rats, but with a ship our size…” “…One might slip aboard anyhow. I get it. Should I check the Cubans, too?” “If you like. But I’ll be looking them over, too.” “I’ll leave it to you, then. Last thing I want is to piss one of those quiet bastards off and have him feed me my eggs. I’m still using them too much.” Miguel chuckled. Then his eyes got serious. “We’re at a next step, brother. I think we’re about to move past what grandfather accomplished for the family. This club will be our Pelican’s Nest.” “I think you’re right. Hell, I know you’re right.” Enrique reached across the table and gripped his brother’s forearms. “And like grandfather, we fight to keep what’s ours.” “That we do, brother.” Miguel smiled, aware of a warm feeling filling his chest and touching his eyes. “That we do.”

Maimi, 1987 After Payback “I think the only way we’re gonna get him is to throw some money his way.” Ricardo Tubbs looked across his desk at Sonny Crockett and nodded. “Yeah. We been watchin’ him for weeks now, and he’s done nothing but drool all over that stripper’s legs and other assorted body parts. I was hoping something might break loose while we were shutting down Joe Dalva, but…” Sonny nodded, and Rico saw a familiar gleam in his partner’s eyes. “Yeah. And right now he’s our only way into the Mendozas. Old Gustavo just isn’t willing to take that next step.” “We don’t have enough on him. Pure and simple. But we also haven’t seen good ol’ Cash doing much in the way of laundering money for anyone, let alone the Mendozas.” He waved his hand toward a file on his desk. “And Financial Crimes doesn’t have squat on them. The distribution business looks clean, and they don’t have any of those suspicious shell companies or offshore accounts.” “There’s gotta be something, Rico. I don’t get it. They have to be moving weight. Serious weight. Didn’t Castillo say that punk Bolivian was in town a few weeks back? Santos? Now he might have been mixing with those business types who were funding Maynard’s Central American party, but he also had dinner with one Miguel Mendoza. At least that’s what the head waiter at Santos’s hotel said.” Rico nodded, trying to slow his partner down. “But we don’t know what they were doing, Sonny. According to his file, Santos just bought shares in some distillery down that way. Maybe Mendoza wants to expand into Bolivian booze. All I’m saying is we gotta be sure before we go charging off.” “You mean before I pull another Guzman.” Rico paused for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Something like that. The Mendozas are careful. You said that yourself. We gotta be sure we got the goods before we make a move on ‘em.” He wasn’t sure how hard he wanted to push, but he knew Sonny was on thin ice with Stan, and even Trudy had concerns. Gina might be firmly in his corner, but Rico knew that wasn’t enough. “So what’s your big plan?” Sonny grinned. “You got that ‘I got a plan’ look in your eyes.” “We need to dangle some cash in front of the chump. But I can’t, ‘cause Rico Cooper is always flush. So we send in Sonny Burnett with a briefcase of money he got for moving more product than normal. It don’t have to be much…just enough to get ol’ Mr. Cash interested. And from what that file says it don’t take much to get him interested.” “Yeah, but who’s gonna put Burnett on to him? Come on, Rico, we know the guy’s careful. I don’t think he takes on clients without an introduction.” He tapped a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes and fired it up. “And I’m not going in there with Noogie, so don’t even try.” “Not a chance. Look, I got a cat I use now and then when I want to get a feel for how the money’s moving. He might know Cash, and if he does he’ll set it up.” He paused. “We could try your pal Otis Forsythe, too. Moving money is his thing.” “Yeah, but I don’t want to burn Otis. And if we take down Cash whoever set it up might get crispy. Especially if he’s working for the Mendozas. Those brothers don’t seem to like loose ends.” Rico nodded. “Yeah. My CI’s not very high up on the food chain. Strictly a middleman. No way he gets burned if anything happens with Cash.” Sonny sent a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Ok, let’s do it. I’ll go talk deal money with the lieutenant if you want to set a meet up with your guy.” “Solid. We’ll go for the Overton. He digs the dresses the waitresses wear.” They were sitting at the long bar of the Overton when Sonny Crockett got his first look at Rico’s contact. His jaw dropped, accented by the alternating pink and blue neon above the bar. “What the hell…” “That, my friend, is Paulie Two-Tone.” Rico grinned. “He’s…unique.” Paulie’s hair might have been brown once. It was hard to tell when one side was dyed bright red and the other a deep blue. His suit was immaculate, a conservative brown, but his shoes matched his hair…one red and one blue. But the right side of his head was red, and he wore the blue shoe on his right foot. His eyes were hidden by massive sunglasses, and Rico wondered if he’d finally gotten around to getting tinted contacts to match his hair and shoes. “Paulie! How’s it been?” Paulie had a deep voice, not what most people expected from his thin fame and exotic appearance. “Mr. Cooper! Long time no see, my friend. Been busy, and I expect you’ve been the same.” He paused and looked Sonny up and down, his head moving slowly. “Who’s the paleface?” “Sonny Burnett. He deals with quite a bit of my transportation.” Paulie nodded. “Yeah. I heard of you, Burnett. Fast boat. Fast gun. Neither are my thing, but I can appreciate skill. Thing is, I don’t need anything moved.” Sonny nodded, and Rico could sense his annoyance just underneath the Burnett smile. Stay cool, partner. “Yeah, but I ain’t here in that capacity. Cooper here tells me you’re something of a wizard with money. Or know people who are.” Paulie grinned and plopped down on a bar stool. “That’s what they say, Burnett.” He turned to the bartender. “My usual.” Then he turned back to Sonny. “Look, I don’t know you. But I know Cooper, so I’m willing to make an exception to my rules.” “Yeah, well so am I. I’ve got some cash that could use a good cleaning, and I’ve heard through the grapevine that a guy who calls himself Cash is the one I need to see. Thing is, he won’t deal without an introduction.” “Cash is a might particular about who he deals with.” Paulie snorted. “I got no idea why. He’s mostly small time. But since you do transport, I bet you’re not looking to move Calderone money. That leaves out the big players. It’s not worth their time.” Rico relaxed on his stool, watching the two men dance around each other. He had to hide a grin when Paulie’s drink arrived…a layered blue and red mess of alcohol and food coloring. Someone had fed quarters into the juke box filling in for the DJ until the evening crowd came in, and the pulsing beat of the Eurythmics filled his ears. All he could do was hope Sonny didn’t push Paulie too hard. For all his multi-colored looks, Paulie had serious backbone. “Look…I can’t go to Cooper here. His ties are all up north, and I need a quick return on this money. Got some mechanic’s bills to pay. And before you ask, the guy is particular about his payment. So I gotta wash the money.” “Quick service isn’t cheap, my friend.” Paulie sipped his drink and regarded Sonny from behind his sunglasses. “Look Paulie. I’d take it as a favor.” “How much are we talking?” Rico shrugged when Sonny shot a look in his direction. “Don’t look at me, Burnett. I don’t balance your checkbook.” “Ten grand. I know it ain’t much, but..” “It’s right in Cash’s sweet spot.” Paulie ran his hand through his multi-colored hair and chuckled. “I think next week I’ll try yellow and blue. Gettin’ kind of tired of red. But look, for five hundred I’ll put you in touch with the man. He usually takes about ten percent, but he can turn in two days…sometimes less. Or so I’m told.” “Done.” Rico watched as Sonny pulled out a wad of bills and extracted five hundreds. But his eyes didn’t stay fixed on the bar. You could never tell who was watching in a place like The Overton, and it paid to be careful. It helped knowing Paulie worked alone. Anyone moving close was hostile and not security. “Hey Cooper. I’ll page you once I got a time and place for your pal here.” Paulie inclined his head in Sonny’s direction. “That way our numbers ain’t crossing paths.” “Fine with me.” Sonny’s voice was tight, and Rico knew he was at the end of his limited patience. “Come on, Cooper. Let’s blow this pop stand.” They were halfway to Sonny’s new Ferrari when he finally lost it. “Who is that psycho? And what the hell is up with his hair?” “Chill out, Crockett. Paulie’s a good source. He’s got a finger in most of the mid-level money laundering going on in Miami. Sort of a downmarket version of Otis.” Rico chuckled. “And if you think he looks freaky, I gotta get you up north to Times Square.” “I’ll pass. But old ‘two-tone’ better come through with Cash, or I’ll be looking him up again.” Rico nodded, settling into the passenger seat of the Testerossa. He wasn’t sure what he thought of Sonny’s new ride, but at least his partner’s mood was better since he’d gotten rid of the truck. They were pulling into traffic when Sonny spoke again. “So how did you meet that freak show? And don’t tell me it was a blind date.” Rico laughed. “Naw. Nothing like that. I was workin’ a case while you were sidelined with the grand jury a few months back…” Sonny Crockett guided the Testerossa through traffic, nodding from time to time to keep Rico thinking he was listening. Getting his partner talking about his CI was the best way he knew to keep Rico from asking other questions: questions he didn’t want to answer. He still found himself occasionally starting to ask Larry Zito a question before his brain reminded him Zito was gone. They’d taken Guzman down, which was what he wanted in the end. But was it worth it? Before he would have said yes, but now there was a little corner of his mind that said no. It was just a little whisper, coming out late at night when he was sitting on the deck of the St. Vitus’ Dance with Elvis and a beer or some Black Jack. And if he was honest with himself, the whisper had started soon after Moon was killed. Maybe he’d pushed so hard to make up for Frank Hackman pulling the wool over his eyes. How could I have been so stupid? First he cons me, then I send Moon and Zito into a buzzsaw. The thought stung, and he pushed it to the back of his mind. Hackman fooled lots of people. Not just me. This is what we do. The words haunted him, even though he’d used them to justify Moon’s death to Zito…and to himself. That and the lie. We’ll do it another way. Sonny knew he wouldn’t have done it another way. He would have kept pushing Larry, just like he had, and the result would have been the same. He’d made his excuses to Castillo, but from the look in the lieutenant’s eyes he knew the words weren’t believed. He also knew he was still in the field because they were short a detective and there was no way to replace him. Still, they’d taken down Oswaldo Guzman and gotten some good ink for the department and an ‘attaboy’ from at least one Federal agency. He was proud of the outcome, except for that little voice. “Earth to Sonny.” “What? Oh, sorry Rico. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna burn Paulie. If we can get this Cash to even touch the money we’ll scoop him up and lean on him. Hard. He doesn’t look like the type who’d do well in prison.” “And you really think he’ll give us the Mendozas?” “Hell, he’s got to. It’s his only ticket out of the joint.” “He’s been at it for a long time, Sonny. He’s got other clients he can give up.” “Yeah, I thought about that.” Downshifting, Sonny changed lanes to cut around a Metro bus. “And there’s always the chance the brass will settle for a few of them. But if we get to him first, we might be able to sweat the Mendozas out of him.” “You really think they’re that big?” “They gotta be. Why else would they be meeting with some Bolivian player like Santos? And there’s the bodies that keep turning up around them. Jaime. Chuckie Stokes. And an assortment of Haitians and other clowns who tried to mess with their business.” Sonny drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “No, there’s something going on there, Rico. We just gotta find a way in. Or find a way to lean on that cousin. Gustavo. Maybe Switek and…I mean Switek can put some more pressure on him. So far he hasn’t given us squat.” “I think Gustavo tells us just enough to keep himself out of jail. But he’s gotta be moving up. Like that twenty kilo deal? Change a few words. He was there instead of just hearing about it. And I keep hearing talk of him making some moves in South Beach. Maybe Stan can pull something out of him about that.” Sonny nodded. “Why don’t you ask him when we get back to OCB? I’m gonna check with the lieutenant and make sure we have the bait money for our buddy Cash.” The excuse sounded thin even to him, but he also knew he didn’t want to talk to Switek. Not yet… He was about to make the turn into the OCB lot when the car’s phone buzzed. Rico answered, then turned to him. “Skip the check-in. We just got a call about bodies over near Brickell. Patrol thinks there might be a narcotics connection. Castillo wants us to head over.” Esteban Morales took another sip of rum as he looked out his apartment window at the last red remains of the sun. It had been a long day, filled with checking on his men at various boat houses and stash locations and ended with a long drive to the swamp to see the latest products of the camps run by the old men. He figured he’d earned his drink, especially since Miguel Mendoza had been pleased with his update. With Cristobal Santos back in Bolivia where he belonged things were settling down again. Still, there were changes in the wind. Miguel asked him to bring more men on board, which only happened when the operation was about to expand. But nothing was said about how or where they were expanding. Esteban took another drink, feeling the rum warm his throat. What worried him wasn’t a lack of men. It was a lack of men who could lead other men. Lupe was the one exception, but his intelligence skills were too valuable to waste leading a single crew. Carlos was developing into a dependable, if limited, leader…good providing security for buys and guarding stash houses but not likely to think on his own. Esteban went down the list in his head, knowing most of his crew leaders were more like Carlos than Lupe. And then there was Victor… Victor was a capable leader, but he always went for the violent solution to any problem. And the more violent the better. So far Esteban had been able to keep him under control, but as their holdings expanded so did the need to let him out of his sight. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. He was pouring his second drink when the phone rang. Picking up the cordless headset, he hit the button. “Yes?” “Jefe.” Lupe’s even voice echoed out of the receiver. “We have a problem. There’s been a shooting in Brickell. Outside Kilowatt.” Esteban nodded. It was one of the clubs they’d been moving product in for months now. “What happened?” “I’m hearing it on the police scanner, so I don’t know much. But I do know Victor was running security down there this week. And that we’d been getting word that some Dominicans might be trying to cut in on our territory.” “Shit.” The warm feeling from the rum left his stomach. “Has Victor called in?” “No. I was hoping he’d contacted you.” “He won’t. Not if he did what I think he did. I’ll let the boss know. See if you can find him, Lupe. But don’t take any action.” Esteban ended the call and punched in Miguel’s private number from memory. “Yes?” “Boss, we might have had a problem at Kilowatt. I just heard about it, but it’s possible Victor’s crew might have gotten into a gunfight with some Dominicans.” There was silence for a handful of heartbeats. “They were trying to move in on that club?” “So it’s been said. But we never had enough to act on. I know you don’t like action until we have a sure target.” “Just so. But if they were trying to move in, this might work in our favor. A sort of preemptive message.” There was another pause. “Look, I know you think Victor is reckless. And I agree. But sometimes a little recklessness isn’t a bad thing. Look into it and let me know.” “Of course, Jefe.” Esteban ended the call and threw the handset across the room. “Shit!” The single word was as much of a display as he’d allow himself, knowing he had to stay in control for when he met Victory. Still, before shooting the Haitian, Miguel would have been preaching caution and restraint, even if it cost them a marginal bit of territory. Something’s changed in him. I need to remember that and adjust my methods. There was a side table by the chair, and he reached into a drawer and pulled out his custom .45. He needed more information, and there was only one way to get it. Sonny guided the Testarosa into an open spot about fifty feet from the first line of yellow crime scene tape. Forcing a grin on his face, he pulled out his gold shield and draped the chain around his neck. “Let’s go see what the fuss is about and get out of here before the TV crews show up.” He shot a glare and the six squad cars and their rotating lights. “Looks like they rolled half the damned force for this party.” “Yeah. Ain’t too often the fat cats in Brickell get shot up.” Rico climbed out of the low-slung white car, his own badge on display. “And Kilowatt ain’t low end.” “You been here before?” Rico shot him a wicked grin. “A time or two. They got a damned good dance floor an’ a fine selection of pretty dance partners.” Chuckling, Sonny headed for a knot of uniforms clustered near the main door. “What’s the score, gents?” he asked, making sure they saw his badge. “Detectives Crockett and Tubbs, OCB. Our lieutenant said we got the call.” A senior patrolman appeared from the middle of the pack. “Guess so, detectives. I hear Homicide’s on their way, too. We got the dispatch call about twenty minutes ago. Shots fired. Jackson here was first on scene.” Jackson was a skinny kid who looked like he’d rather be anyplace else. Bet he drops his badge tomorrow morning Sonny thought. “That’s right, detective. Me and my FTO got here first.” His head jerked toward the sheets. “They were just layin’ there…” An older officer standing just behind Jackson took up the story. “I know two of ‘em. Local dealers. Mainly small time, but wanting to move up.” He snorted. “Same old story. The third’s new to me.” “So we got three dead bodies. Anyone else hit? Suspects? Witnesses?” “Most of the people in the club did a runner as soon as the shots were fired. That includes whoever was supposed to be on the door.” “I know this cat.” Rico had walked over and lifted the corner of each sheet. Checking faces. “He’s a corner boss for one of the Dominican gangs. The Double Treys.” Sonny looked over. “Well I’ll be damned. Someone finally caught up with old Zorro.” “Zorro?” “Yeah, kid. That’s his street name. Always favored a knife over a gun, so the boys started calling him Zoro. I think he even got a ‘Z’ tattooed on his chest.” Sonny started to chuckle, then froze. “You seeing what I’m seeing?” “Yeah. Heavy caliber headshots on all of them.” Sonny turned back to Jackson. “I need to you remember. Did any of the witnesses say anything about how many shots were fired?” “Maybe six shots.” He closed his eyes and started working his fingers. “Yeah. Six. The bartender in there claimed to have been in the Army, and he said it sounded like three 9mms and three .45s.” “We found three 9mm casings over by the two guys we recognized. They both had Berettas, and the crime lab will check to see if they were fired.” The older FTO shrugged. “But no .45 casings.” “And you won’t find any.” Sonny turned to Rico and shook his head. “It’s gotta be the Mendozas again. No one else does that kind of shooting.” “The lieutenant’s gonna want more than your gut talking, Sonny.” “Yeah, I know. And he’ll want it to go to Homicide first.” Sonny looked out toward the street and shook his head. “And it looks like their green Ford just pulled up.” He turned back to Jackson. “Any of those guys have drugs on ‘em?” “No. Seemed funny to me, but they didn’t have any.” “Come on, Rico. Let’s hand this mess off and get back to the barn. I want to see what we’ve got on old Zorro and his possible playmates.” Almost a block away, Esteban could see the red and blue from rotating police lights. He pulled over, shooting a glare at Lupe. “And they’re already here.” “The call was quick. Gunshots in Brickell aren’t the same as gunshots in Overtown.” “I know. Did you locate Victor?” “He’s waiting for us in The Lame Bull.” “Good.” Starting the car, Esteban turned down a side street that would take him to Flagler. “Be ready. Miguel seems ok with what happened, at least for now. But Victor doesn’t need to know that. He got lucky this time.” The Lame Bull was dim and thick with cigar smoke when Esteban and Lupe walked in. The old men were sitting at tables toward the back as usual, lost in their rum and old dreams. He spotted Victor at the bar, talking with his hands and in the middle of some grand exaggeration. The hands stopped moving when Esteban started a slow, steady clap. “Bravo, Victor.” “Boss. I…” “You didn’t expect to see me. That much is obvious. Why you wouldn’t expect to see me isn’t.” He nodded toward a table to the side of the door. “Sit. We need to talk.” He didn’t see any of Victor’s crew in the place, which made him wonder what was going on. Had they disagreed with the order? Or were they off whoring somewhere? “I can explain.” “So start with why you carried this out on your own authority.” Esteban sat with his back to the wall, leaving the exposed chair for Victor. Lupe remained standing, his back to the wall and positioned so he could watch the door. “Me and my crew were keeping an eye on a deal going down in Kilowatt. Six ounces. Those bastards from the Double Treys came busting in like they owned the place. Demanded their cut of the deal. Their cut! So we defended our spot.” “That makes for a good story. Except the men were all killed outside the club. We saw the bodies, Victor.” Esteban thought of the Colt tucked in his waistband. It would be so simple… “It’s not wise to lie to me.” “Ok…they didn’t make it inside. I had one of the boys outside watching the door. The guy Kilowatt uses likes his blow too much. He’s usually fried by nine. My guy tipped us that a car had just dropped off three Dominicans, and that they were packing heat. I left one guy inside to watch the deal and took my other man outside to have a look-see. They were starting to shake down the doorman when we let them have it. They got off a couple of shots, but didn’t hit a damned thing.” He smiled for the first time. “But me and my crew took care of business.” Esteban felt his eyes go cold. He leaned forward, whispering so Victor had to lean in, too. “Yes. In public. With no blessing. And with witnesses. It was sloppy, Victor. And sloppy in a place where that kind of thing is noticed and investigated. We will have to stop operating in Kilowatt for a time. Because of you.” “I didn’t…” “No. You didn’t. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. And you didn’t consider what comes after the shooting stops.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Those old bastards have a lot of foolish ideas. But their training is outstanding. What you did tonight wouldn’t draw a second look in Overtown. Or Liberty City. Or Little Haiti. But in Brickell? It draws cops like flies to shit. And they stick around.” He paused. “I’m moving you and your crew to the third boathouse until further notice.” “That’s almost in the swamps!” “Be glad you’re not ending up IN the swamps, Victor. It puts your crew out of the way in case someone comes forward who saw your faces. They do that in Brickell.” He looked down at the table. “You’ll start your new duty tomorrow. I’ll let the crew who’s there know to expect you.” Lupe waited for Victor to slink away before sliding into a chair with a grin. “Idiot doesn’t know how lucky he is.” “I think he does at some level.” Esteban nodded toward the bar. “He knows what he would have done to someone who broke procedure like he did. But he might mistake it for weakness. We need to watch that one closely.” “And the jefe likes him?” “He doesn’t even know Victor. What he sees is a useful tool in a box full of tools. The trick is using that tool in the right time and place. It’s possible Victor had no choice but to do what he did tonight. How he did it is the problem.” He leaned forward again. “Look into it for me. See what you can learn.” Back in his apartment, Esteban called Miguel after letting the crew at the third boathouse know they should change places with Victor’s people tomorrow. “…and I sent him to the third boathouse. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, so there’s little chance he’ll be spotted and recognized.” “You think he made a mistake.” “I don’t know yet. What I know is he cost you money. We will need to stop moving product in Kilowatt until the police stop sniffing around. Brickell isn’t Overtown.” Miguel sighed. “No, it isn’t. It’s wise to get him out of sight for a bit, Esteban. And if he overreacted, I want to know.” “I’m sure the Double Treys were trying to make a move there. They’ve been making moves on the edges of Brickell for a couple of months now. But never anything that aggressive. Usually it’s gram sales to the stockbrokers and business types. This must have been their big move.” “Stay on it. And Esteban…we need to meet soon. There’s a big project coming up, and I’ll need your advice.” Sitting in silence, Esteban poured himself another drink and looked out the window. The splash of neon from the club across from his building played over the windows, and for a moment it tempted him. But only for a moment. The tone in Miguel’s voice when he mentioned a new project had Esteban intrigued. What did the boss have in mind this time? He wondered if it had any connection to the recent visit by Cristobal Santos. Or maybe Jesus Estevez. The old man had backed off his cocaine dreams, at least for now. Shaking his head, Esteban drained his glass and reached for the bottle. It was all a problem for tomorrow in any case. And he’d survived in this life by focusing on today and what he needed to do to get to tomorrow.

Miami early 1987 “And you’re sure he’s coming in tomorrow?” Miguel turned to glare at Enrique. “Did I stutter? No, he’s coming in tomorrow. Commercial flight from the Bahamas of all things.” “Guy’s got balls, I guess.” “That or a death wish. I haven’t decided yet.” They were sitting in one of the club rooms at Pelican’s Nest, the remains of breakfast scattered on the table between them. It had been Enrique’s idea, and Miguel couldn’t complain. The food was excellent, and it gave them the kind of privacy they couldn’t get even at home. “You want me to keep upping the buys from The Bat?” “So long as you think he can deliver the weight on time. But it might be good to explore some more options, too. Gustavo finally got some product moving in The Palm, so we need to keep the high-end stuff moving. Between that and the Brickell clubs…” “Yeah. Liberty City is good with sixty or seventy percent pure. Stretches the product farther.” Enrique sipped coffee and looked out the window at the yachts tied up along the club’s dock. “I’ve got a meeting with Uncle Jesus today.” “Good. You learn anything more about what he’s up to?” “Yes, and not much of it’s good. Pasqual says he’s hired at least four new pilots, and we know he doesn’t need them for his charter and fishing routes. He still hasn’t bought any more go-fasts in Miami, but I’ve heard mutterings about a couple of sales in Lauderdale that connect back to him.” “I havem’t heard anything about new mid-level dealers on the streets.” Miguel scratched his cheek, thinking back to what Esteban had told him. If Lupe can’t find anything, it’s not there. “So he must be trying to cut in one someone who’s established. And he doesn’t know this game well enough to understand what happens when you do that.” “I’ll push and see what falls out. Maybe take Felix or someone with me to help get the point across.” “Go easy on him for now, if you can. He’s still family. That and we need him to clean our money.” Enrique nodded. “Speaking of family, I hear papi finally moved out of the house.” “Yes. I was going to mention that. He moved out almost a month ago.” Miguel shook his head. “Said he didn’t want to be in the way or know too much about our business.” “Maybe he did grow some brains.” “Maybe. I’ve got people looking into some things there. He said he was proud we were restoring the family name.” “Must be those old farts he drinks and plays bridge with. I never did like them.” “They were big men once, Ricky. No longer, maybe, but once. I try to remember that. But I won’t let it cloud my judgement.” Enrique nodded and looked at his watch. “Crap. I gotta go. Don’t want to be late. Look, you and Holly should go with with me and Tiffy this week. You are still seeing her, right?” “Yes.” Miguel nodded, amazed at the rush of feelings the single word brought. Still…he wondered if she’d ever been with Enrique. His little brother did have a way with women. “I can see the question in your eyes, brother. No, I never slept with her. Never event took her out. She’s Tiffy’s friend. And not my type.” “I…” “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a legit question, and I know you don’t date near as much as I do.” Enrique laughed. “You were always the serious one, remember? The one with the books and studies while I was racing boats and banging cheerleaders.” “And look how we ended up.” Miguel chuckled, reading across the table and taking his brother’s hand. “Let me know how things go with Jesus. I’ll try to keep Santos away from you and Pasqual. We don’t need a repeat of his last visit.” “Don’t I know it. Asshole almost got Pasqual arrested when he beat up those hookers. We’re just lucky they couldn’t firmly trace it back to him.” After Enrique left, Miguel sat for a time enjoying the quiet of the room and finishing his coffee. He had a meeting with Esteban in twenty minutes and wanted to get his thoughts in order. Otis Forsythe answered on the second ring. “Forsythe.” “Otis, it’s Miguel. I’m expecting a Mr. Morales in about fifteen minutes. Could you have him shown here?” “Of course, dear boy. Oh, and I wanted to extend the club’s gratitude yet again for the splendid service. Mendoza Distribution exceeds its well-earned reputation.” “Thank you.” He smiled as he hung up the room phone. They’d been moving a fair amount of money through the club, an arrangement suiting them both. He suspected the majority of the club’s cut went right into one of Otis’s many offshore accounts, but didn’t care. The Forsythes had been in the game as long as his family, if not longer, and understood how things worked. Unlike people like Newton Blade, who was still chugging around the Caribbean trying to elude the IRS. There was a sharp knock on the door and Esteban Morales came in, dressed in his habitual dark suit. Since they’d expanded their operations he’d taken to dressing better, a habit Miguel approved. Helping himself to coffee, he sat in the chair recently occupied by Enrique and started in on his report. “We’re as ready as we can be for the arrival of Cristobal Santos. I’ve got a protective detail ready for you, and I’ve increased security at our main boat and stash houses as well. We won’t be able to do much else while the bastard is in town, but I thought it wise to protect our valuable assets.” “Good move. Enrique is going to confront Jesus today about his little games. See if there’s anything to it or not.” “I think there is, but that’s not our biggest problem.” “Explain.” Miguel leaned forward. “The man with the bank connections…Cash. He’s developed an interest in one of the strippers who works at Rizzo’s.” He paused. “It’s a second-string club downtown. A common meeting place for small time dealers and the like. Anyhow, he’s been going there every night she dances for the last month or so, and I think he might have attracted police attention.” “Metro-Dade?” “I think so. I don’t know what unit, but there have been some inquiries run on him. Our source in the administration office is still working, but I think he’s starting to lose his nerve.” “Remind him just how much his cocaine habit would cost if he wasn’t helping us.” “I will. And Cash…” “We cut him off at once.” Miguel smiled. “I think I might have figured out another way to deal with some of our cash flow. It may take a bit of time to start, but we can take the hit until it does. Still…he knows a bit too much about us.” “Only a couple of names.” “Which is too much. Do you think they plan to arrest him?” “Our source doesn’t know. And wouldn’t know. He doesn’t have direct connections to any of the special units, and they’d be the ones requesting the arrest warrant.” Esteban sipped coffee. “You’re sure you want us to stop leaving money?” “Yes. He’s not to see another cent. We can’t take the chance that his drop’s still safe.” Miguel paused. He knew he needed to give his next order, even though he dreaded what might be uncovered. “One more thing. I need you to have Lupe check the background of Holly Miller.” Esteban nodded. “Your woman?” “Yes. I need to know if anything isn’t right there.” “We’ll do it discretely, jefe. You have my word.” “Good. Thank you, Esteban.” The knot was still in the bottom of his stomach, but Miguel knew he had no real choice. I need her for my plan, but I need to know there’s nothing damaging in her background first. For this to work, she has to be clean. “And now I need to get ready for that pig Santos.” “Are you sure you want me to wait outside?” Enrique looked over at Pasqual. “Yes. Play the driver, but keep that pistol handy.” He looked over his shoulder. “Felix will watch my back in there. Right?” The big Cuban nodded, his eyes hidden behind almost black sunglasses. “Of course.” “It shouldn’t come to that, though.” At least Enrique hoped it was true. But you could never be quite sure with Uncle Jesus. It was like a switch flipped inside him, turning his mood crazy with no warning. “Let’s get this done.” They were meeting at one of the small cafés dotting Bal Harbor, a concession to Jesus while still keeping the meeting sight neutral. Enrique spotted the old man sitting at an outdoor table shaded by one of the garish umbrellas coming into fashion. And his damned shirt matches the umbrella! He must be losing it. Forcing a smile on his face, Enrique covered the distance in a few steps. “Uncle! It’s a fine day. Good to see you again.” Jesus Estevez returned the smile, but even at this distance Enrique could see it wasn’t touching his eyes. “Good to see you, boy. Have some coffee and we’ll talk.” He nodded toward Felix. “Is that your date?” Enrique felt the smile melt away. “Only if that one sitting next to you is yours.” “Fair enough.” Jesus waved his hand and the wiry Hispanic man got up and moved one table over. “Now we can talk.” Enrique nodded, and Felix remained where he was. He didn’t sit, standing so he could see everything going on around them. I don’t know where Miguel finds these guys, but they know their shit. No question. “So let’s get down to it, yes?” “Ricky? Why do you and Miguel ask so many questions about what I’m doing?” “Because we’re worried about you. About who you might run into out there.” Enrique rested his elbows on the table, feeling the warming metal against his skin. “I don’t think you know…” “I’ve been doing this since before you were born!” “No, Uncle. You haven’t been. You’ve been dealing in cigars and liquor when you’re not conning tourists out of their money with those fishing and sightseeing trips. No. You need to listen to me. These men you’re dealing with, they aren’t like the old days when guys thew burning bottles at each other’s boats. You cross them, they blow up your fucking boats. Two for every one of theirs you destroy. They kill your people. Maybe your family as well.” “I think I…” “You’re not thinking. If you were, you wouldn’t be buying go-fast boats in Lauderdale. Or poking around in the southern waters. You know who likes that territory? Columbians, that’s who. And those bastards play for keeps, Uncle.” He paused, hoping at least some of what he’d said would sink in. “Look. I know what you want to do. But the family name is already being restored. By us.” “You two bastards? You and Miguel?” Jesus spat. “What I hear of you…” “It’s what you don’t hear that should concern you. The business has changed, and we change with it. Stick with what you know. If it’s money you need, we can increase what we route your way.” “You dare speak to me this way! If Miguel were here…” “If he were here things would go much worse for you.” Enrique thought back to how his brother had looked after the hit on the Haitians. “Trust me on that. Miguel is not the bookworm you think you know. You do not want to push him, Jesus. I say this as your nephew.” “These Columbians have been trying to cut in on my cigar trade. I…” “If that happens, let us know. We’ll deal with them.” Enrique jerked his head in the direction of Felix. “We’re well-equipped to solve those problems.” Jesus nodded, and Enrique could almost see the older man shrink before his eyes. Deflating like a balloon inflated for too long. “You know I spoke with your father the other day.” Even his voice was thin now. “I’m sure that was fun.” “No. Not for me. He said what you just said. That we’re getting old and our time is passing. He…he also warned me about Miguel. I never thought I’d hear Rodrigo talk like that.” “It’s for your own good, Jesus. Really.” “I know. Look…I’ll stop trying to expand into cocaine. Hell, I wouldn’t even know where to sell it.” Enrique nodded, but a corner of his mind doubted what his uncle said. He’d been asking the kind of questions a man asks when he’s looking for someone to move his product. Still…he was family. He deserved a chance. “See that you do. And I say that as your nephew. Because next time you’ll probably be talking to Miguel.” They were back in the car before Felix spoke. “Slick old bastard, that one.” “He is.” Enrique sank back against the leather upholstery as Pasqual guided the BMW out of the crowded lot. “And I don’t think he’s done. He’ll stop for now, maybe even a bit extra. But he’ll push again. I’m almost sure of it.” “And if he does, the jefe will deal with him.” Felix’s voice contained a certainty Enrique hadn’t heard before. “Yes, he will. And Jesus can’t say he wasn’t warned.” Turning to look out the window, Enrique wondered again just how he’d missed this side of Miguel. “Take us to the house, Pasqual. I need to update Miguel.” Cristobal Santos looked around the hotel dining room and chuckled. “I wonder how many of these idiots know whose company they’re sharing for dinner?” Miguel Mendoza just shook his head. Still annoyed by what Enrique had told him the day before about Jesus Estevez, he wasn’t in the mood for Santos and what passed for his humor. “I don’t think they care. You’re not a movie star. That’s what these people like.” Santos started to glare, then laughed. “You’re right, Miguel. Besides, we have business to discuss.” He raised his wine glass and took a drink, reaching for the bottle as he emptied the glass. “I hate to rush things, but I have meetings most of tomorrow and the next day and then I must return to Bolivia.” “You’re a busy man.” “It happens from time to time, yes. Some of the local business leaders want me to consult on a…shall we say enterprise…for them. Since it also involves an old friend, I decided to come. Plus we can meet again and discuss our next moves.” Miguel nodded. Esteban’s people had been busy, learning one of the people involved in the sudden influx of mercenaries was a shadowy man named Maynard. A man who’d spent time in Bolivia as well as other places over many years. He wasn’t in Miami now, but had been a few weeks ago. “Of course.” He looked around. The dining room was only half full, and sound carried far too well for his liking. But he had no interest in going to the man’s room, either. You never knew just who might be hiding in what closet or bathroom. “This might not be the best place, though.” “I agree. I just happened to be hungry after my trip. The hotel has an excellent bar with many quiet booths.” They spoke little during the meal, and soon Santos got to his feet and headed across the lobby to the bar. The lights were low, the decor mostly red and black, and it could have been named discretion instead of whatever fluffy name was smeared above the doorway in flickering neon. They found a booth toward the back of the place, and Santos ordered rum for them both when the waitress appeared out of the gloom. “You see what I mean?” he asked as soon as she headed back toward the bar. “I do. Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?” “Straight to the point! I like that.” Santos slid into the booth, his long fingers stretched out on the table top. “Our relationship has being going well, yes? No more mistakes with deliveries after that one unfortunate event.” “Things are good on my end.” Miguel kept his voice even. Things hadn’t really been that smooth, but he wanted to see what Santos was after. He doubted it was more money…between what he had likely stolen during his time in government, what he made from all his shipments, and what was sure to be a massive retainer from whatever right-wing businessmen he was meeting with, Santos didn’t need money. No, it had to be something else. Access, maybe. Or more frequent shipments. Something putting Miguel’s assets at risk while exposing none of his own. “As they are on mine. But look. We both know the market in Miami is heating up.” He grinned, a thin thing that avoided his eyes. “Demand is starting to exceed supply. At least normal supply.” “If the Columbians would stop shooting each other for ten minutes the problem would be solved.” “I agree. But we know they’re not going to do that. Without men like Calderone or the Revillas they run wild. Like small children. They lack discipline.” “Which I cannot give them.” “Of course not. You’re wise to keep your distance from them. Every few weeks the police round up yet another gang and trumpet their success on the evening news. It’s a game I used to play, too. Smoke and mirrors.” He leaned forward, close enough Miguel could see the heat in his eyes. “But smoke and mirrors create excellent hiding places for men with discipline. Men with plans. With ambition.” “But such men also need to know their limitations, yes?” Miguel’s thoughts drifted back to Jesus for a heartbeat, then refocused on Santos. “We are successful compared to the Columbians because we grow slowly. Planning for each expansion. It’s been the way of our family going back generations. It’s served us well.” “So you’re not going to increase traffic?” “Not at this point. Look, we have enough boats and people to manage what we’re bringing in now. And demand through our people is matching supply. Unlike the Columbians, I don’t like having stash houses. They’re just big targets for the police to find and parade on the nightly news.” He raised his hand. “That doesn’t mean we won’t be expanding in the future. Just not right now.” Santos pursed his lips, then smiled. But it was another of his fake smiles. “Of course. It’s a sensible way to do business. I just wanted to give you first option on a new supply we’ll have access to soon.” “And I appreciate that.” Miguel was tiring of the dance. “Would you consider an exclusive supply line?” So that’s it. He wants to tie us to him. “I’d need to discuss that with others.” He leaned back in his chair, fighting back the anger welling in his chest. Who does this bastard think he is? “Of course. I’ll be in town for two more days, but you know how to reach me if discussions take longer than that.” Santos finished his drink and got to his feet. “It was good talking with you again, Miguel.” They shook hands, and then the former Bolivian policeman was gone. “Who the fuck does he think he is?” Esteban Morales slid into an empty chair next to Miguel. He’d been watching the meeting from two booths over. Ready to intervene if things got rough. “A typical policemen. He’s so used to pushing people around he doesn’t know any other way to conduct business.” He sampled his drink, finding the single malt scotch harsh on his tongue. “How many people did he have with him?” “Two. I think they were the same two apes he brought last time.” Esteban shook his head. “He didn’t ask about girls, did he?” “No. And I didn’t make the offer. He can find his own hookers, or use the ones his rich friends send him. I think we need to keep our distance until he leaves town.” “A wise choice. Lupe says there was a reporter sniffing around Maynard. Called himself Ira Stone, and Lupe says he seemed more strung out than anything else. Kept talking about Gringo mercenaries in Nicaragua. Someone shot him, I hear. But any time you get a reporter…” “You get more reporters. Attention we do not need. And if these idiots are going to Nicaragua there will be law enforcement sniffing around eventually. Federales, Metro-Dade, who knows.” “My thoughts exactly, jefe.” Esteban smiled. “Now can we get the hell out of here and go someplace that serves good rum?” “I was about to suggest the same thing.” Miguel looked at the glass and made a face. “I don’t see how they can drink this shit. I’ll call Enrique before we go. Let him know to be careful around Santos’ people for the next few weeks.” “I…I finished that other task.” Miguel nodding, settling back in his seat. “And?” “She’s exactly who she claims to be. Holly Miller. No boyfriends or girlfriends. She works as a promoter for a couple of South Beach clubs, but nothing major. She went to Florida State University and has a marketing degree. Two brothers who live in California. Her parents have a house in Tampa Bay.” “Thank you, Esteban. I know this isn’t the kind of thing your people normally do…” “If she’s important to you, you need to know if she has any skeletons. That’s what we do.” He nodded. The truth was Holly was becoming very important to him. Both personally and as a possible solution to one of the organization’s problems. “Come on. I owe you at least two drinks.” “There was one more bit of news. Do you remember Oswaldo Guzman?” “The name is familiar. He was a big distributor at one point…before Calderone if I remember right. Didn’t he get into sports betting?” “He did. He’s dead now. My people don’t know if it was cops or the Mob who did it, but he’s dead.” “And that’s why we stick to what we know.” Miguel snorted. “Only an idiot tries to take sports book away from the Mob. Guzman must have started using his own product if he thought that would work.” He paused. “Wasn’t he backing that Sykes kid? The one who was winning big.” “Maybe. You’d have to ask Victor.” Miguel heard distain in Esteban’s voice. “He likes watching sweaty men hit each other.” “Still, it’s good to know we don’t have to worry about him trying to get back into his old game. Things are tense enough as it is.” He got to his feet. “Now let’s go find some rum.” After Down for the Count/The Final Bell “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Trudy Joplin looked up from the report she was typing. “I know. It doesn’t seem right looking back there and not seeing him.” Gina shook her head. “No one could have known…” Sonny should have. But Trudy didn’t say anything. It was bad enough watching Stan slowly falling apart without adding Gina’s constant apologies for Sonny Crockett into the mix. She still wasn’t sure what she thought about the whole situation, but she did know Sonny had pushed too hard and too fast, likely contributing to the death of Moon and eventually Larry Zito. But IA had cleared him, and Lieutenant Castillo had him back on cases without missing a beat. She should trust that judgement. But… “Trudy!” “What? Sorry. My head was in this report. Trying to make it sound like we shut down all the hookers in South Beach when all we really did was nab one part-time pimp who had maybe three girls who listened to him.” “I asked if you wanted to get dinner tonight.” “I don’t know, Gina. It’s been along couple of weeks.” Trudy looked over the edge of the form and gave her partner a wicked smile. “Why? Did Crockett back out?” “What? No! I mean…” Gina’s cheeks turned a deep red and she sighed. “I never can fool you, can I? Well, he’d asked if I wanted to have dinner with him. He was meeting with some Panamanian or something and needed help with the cover. But I guess the Panamanian cancelled the meet.” Sure he did. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’m just gonna go home, put some jazz on, and maybe order Chinese.” Anything to help me forget the last few weeks. “I understand.” Trudy started to speak, then changed her mind. I’m not gonna suggest she ask Stan. She’d just talk about Sonny, and that’s the last thing Stan needs. Turning, she looked at the empty desk in the far corner of the room. I wonder where he is. I don’t think anyone’s running surveillance. It had been three months since they’d buried Larry Zito. Oswaldo Guzman was also dead, but that didn’t matter as much. Trudy kept replaying the case in her head, even though she and Gina had been on the sidelines most of the time. And each time it ran through her head, the less she liked what she saw. “Can you believe Sonny and Rico are going to Rizzo’s again?” “Still chasing that money guy? At least we’re not stuck going with them.” “Just don’t give the lieutenant any ideas. He might decide they need some local color.” “I hope not. There’s diseases in that place medical science hasn’t discovered yet.” Trudy hit five more keys and then ‘return’ with a flourish. “Finally! The downfall of another two-bit pimp is now part of the official record.” She scrolled the report form out of the battered IBM and tossed it in the ‘out’ basket on her desk. “You think they’ll get anywhere?” “With Cash?” Trudy snorted. “Only if Rico puts up some money, an’ you know that’s not his style. Cooper’s strictly an out of town guy. And Sonny? Burnett never has ready cash. Just a fast boat and faster story.” Motion in the corner of her eye made her turn her head just a bit. “Stan! You been back in the lab?” “Something like that.” Switek’s voice was slightly slurred, and even at this distance Trudy could see the stubble on his face. “Just got a couple reports to type up and I’m outa here.” “More wiretaps?” “Naw. Just got an update from that Gustavo goof.” Stan flopped in his battered desk chair, doing his best to not look in the direction of Larry Zito’s empty desk. “Still claiming he’s only hearing about these little deals going down.” “You know he’s not gonna roll on his family. Not yet, anyhow.” Trudy nodded, understanding the motive. Growing up in Overtown, she’d seen too many boys like Gustavo Mendoza. Chasing some stupid family legacy and ultimately bleeding out forgotten in a gutter. “Maybe if Sonny…” “Screw Crockett.” There was a sharp heat in Stan’s voice that made Trudy look up and shook Gina a warning look. “Why? So he can get him killed like he did Lar? Or Moon? Gustavo’s a moron, but I don’t hate him enough to turn him over to Sonny Crockett.” Gina’s face went red, and Trudy could tell she was about to say something she’d regret later. “Hey, Gina? Maybe I will take you up on dinner after all. Come on. Let’s get going. See you tomorrow, Stan?” “Yeah. Like I have anyplace else to go.” Turning back to his desk, Stan started typing, the keys sounding like distant machine gun fire. How the hell he can type that fast is something I don’t understand. Onside the squad room, Gina stomped her foot. “Damn Stanly Switek sometimes! Sonny was…” “Look, Gina. Stan lost his best friend in the world, and even you have to admit Sonny Crockett had a big hand in that. I know you have feelings for him, but he pushed that operation too hard and too fast. You know it, I know it, and I think even the lieutenant knows it. Larry shouldn’t have been working undercover alone against someone like Oswaldo Guzman, and Sonny put him in that position. Maybe he was trying to make up for getting that Hackman asshole released. I don’t know.” She laid her hand on Gina’s forearm. “Nothing you say will change that for Stan.” She thought back to the dark weeks after her brother was murdered. When she hated just about everyone and everything in the world. “You gotta give him space, girl. And don’t fight Sonny’s battles for him.” “We should have been there.” “I know. But the lieutenant kept us on other things.” And I don’t know why. “So we need to stay clear of this one.” She hooked her arm through Gina’s and headed for the door. “Now let’s go have two drinks too many and eat some good food.”

Martin Castillo looked around the conference table at the faces of his team. It had been a rough few weeks, starting with the protection detail on Hector Sandoval and ending with the mess involving the IRA. Gina Calabrese was still on leave while Internal Affairs mucked around with the wreckage of the case, leaving him short a detective and Trudy Joplin stuck on administrative duties until her partner came back. Add in a couple of possibly drug-related homicides in Liberty City and Little Haiti and it was understandable they were tired. Even Gorman and Dibble, who’d had to pick up more cases because of the Sandoval detail. More than anything he wished he could give them a break, but… “Report.” Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs shook their heads almost as one. “We’ve been out of touch with our usual sources because of that Sandoval detail, Lieutenant,” Rico said with a shrug. “Yeah. We’re hoping to get in this week. I’ve got a couple of leads that might be worth following up on…people reaching out to Burnett to move product.” “Good. I also got confirmation that you turned in your Bren-10 and drew a Smith & Wesson 645 to replace it.” “Yeah.” Sonny sighed. “Wasn’t happy to see that 10mm go, but I know replacement parts were gonna be impossible to come by now that the company went under. I shot in the 645 last week and it’s good to go.” He gave a thin smile. “Kinda nice to get back to .45, though. And it’s stainless, so it keeps Burnett’s image intact.” Castillo nodded, noticing Switek and Zito shifting in their chairs. “Detective Switek?” “We might be able to give Crockett and Tubbs something to do.” Stan grinned and looked down at a note pad. “We got two tips, and they both track back to the elusive Mendoza brothers. One came from Gustavo, but I think he’s lying about most of it. The other one came from Noogie LaMonte, and I don’t think he’s lying about any of it.” Sonny started to say something, but Castillo raised his hand for silence. “Explain.” “Simple, Lieutenant. Gustavo claimed he heard some guy talking about a twenty kilo load that might have been related to his cousins. I think he meant he’d been involved in moving a twenty kilo load for his cousins. He was trying to play us…act like he was cooperating so we’d leave him alone.” Stan grinned. “What I think he really told us is they trust him with moving product now. He’s in. But he’s shaky enough I think we need to give him some room.” “And the other tip?” “I know you guys don’t think much of Noogie, but the goofball gives us solid information most of the time. And this one might be pure gold. He says there’s a money guy who goes by the really original street name Cash who’s got a major stiffy for one of the strippers at Rizzo’s. Noogie overheard him the other night bragging to the girl about how he’s got a new client…the Mendozas. According to Noogie the guy seems to think they’re his ticket to the big time.” Sonny nodded. “It makes sense. They can only run so much through that distribution business and their uncle’s charter company, and with Newton Blade on an extended tour of the Caribbean they’d need to find someone else to launder money for them.” Castillo thought for a moment. “Do we have a way to lean on Gustavo Mendoza?” Larry shook his head. “Not really, Lieutenant. He hasn’t given us enough yet. Only thing we could do is threaten to out him as a rat, and…” “A dead CI is useless.” Castillo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off a headache. “Crockett, Tubbs…check out LaMonte’s information. If it plays out, starting working the money man.” Larry looked at his notes. “We checked the alias, Lieutenant. Only guy in our records who uses the name ‘Cash’ by itself is a guy named Dixon Walker. Cash is his middle name. He’s got ties to Florida Trust Savings & Loan, so he’s got the right access to launder money. No record of him moving big amounts, though.” He turned to Sonny and Rico. “I’ll get you copies of what we got.” Stan cleared his throat. “Anything on those three guys we got called out to a couple weeks back, Lieutenant? The Haitians in Liberty City.” “Homicide is still working it.” Castillo drew in a long breath, letting it slip out through his nose. “As far as I know they don’t have any new leads.” “Can’t say I’m surprised. That’s not a neighborhood where you’re gonna find witnesses. Lar and I worked Patrol in Overtown. Saw it there, too.” Sonny looked up. “Wait a minute. Haitians in Liberty City?” “Dispatch routed a call to us in error while we were still on the Sandoval detail. Switek and Zito went, then came back as soon as Homicide arrived.” “It was a mess.” Larry shook his head. “Three dudes shot down outside a bar.” “Spray an’ pray, right?” “No, Rico. Looked like big caliber headshots.” Larry shook his head. “Whoever did it didn’t even break a window in the bar the Haitians were standing in front of.” “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” “It’s Homicide’s case.” Castillo looked up, locking eyes with Sonny. “Unless you find new evidence suggesting it should be ours, they keep it. Focus on Dixon Walker. Switek, Zito. See if you can lean on Gustavo Mendoza. We need reliable information from him, not stories.” He got up from the table. “That’s all.” Back in his office, Castillo leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. Centering himself. Breathing in, then out. He could feel the pain behind his temples receding, and allowed himself a very small smile. He’d hated having the political bomb of the Sandoval detail loaded on his team, but now it was over and maybe things would settle down. He found himself thinking more of Jack Gretzky lately…and wondering how his wife and son were doing. He knew better than to try to contact them, and even asking his contacts about them was still too risky. The rogue British operative had started the thoughts rolling, and now he was having trouble stopping them. Still, he’d seen the glint of obsession in Crockett’s eyes when Switek and Zito mentioned the Mendozas. He knew his lead detective well, and there was no way Sonny Crockett had let go of the murder of Jaime and then Chuckie Stokes. This just added to the pile. It did make Castillo wonder how the Mendozas had managed to stay off the radar as long as they had. And still were, if he was honest about it. Maybe they’d all gotten too used to the blazing guns and flashy tactics of the Columbians. Too focused on the bright lights while the real work went on right under their noses. Rocking his chair forward, he forced himself to focus on the files on his desk. Like it or not, the Mendozas would stay on the bottom of the pile until they made a big splash. Or made a mistake. Sooner or later they’d do one or the other. “So he’s still determined to come?” Miguel nodded. “Yes. He’s excited about whatever meeting he’s got. I think you’re right and it’s with whoever’s hiring and training all the mercenaries. Make no mistake…that’s what they are.” Enrique nodded. “No question. At least his last shipment was without problems. We’re spreading it out now.” He chuckled. “And Gustavo did ok. At least he managed to find their freighter on the radar on the second try and didn’t drop any product overboard. He’s also got some product ready to move in The Palm.” “Speaking of relatives…” Miguel paused for a moment. They were down by the house’s boat dock, well away from prying ears. “My people say Jesus is looking to get into the cocaine trade. It confirms what Pasqual suspected.” “The old idiot. I was afraid of that. Who’s he contacting?” “He’s sent a couple of feelers out.” He thought back to Eduardo’s report. “Small time, mostly. And only on the sales side, which makes me think he already found a supplier somewhere.” “Probably one of those big-mouth Panamanians he likes to hire. Those boys aren’t happy unless they’re trying to bang the wives of his clients or bragging about how they have a cousin who can get coke for next to nothing.” “You’re probably right.” Miguel looked over at the boat tied up to the dock. One of Enrique’s hopped-up Cigarette boats, it was low-slung and dark in the water. “But we need to be sure.” “Do you want me to meet with him again? Explain how things are?” Miguel scratched a spot of stubble on his upper neck. The goatee was growing in thick now, and he was trying to decide if he wanted to let it go below his chin. “Yes. Maybe let Pasqual finish checking into things first, but that’s your decision. But if he seems reluctant to listen to reason, let me know. I’ll have a talk with him then.” He could see hesitation in his younger brother’s eyes. “Are you sure?” “Yes. Things are moving fast now, and Jesus has no clue about the modern world we move in. Or the dangers it brings.” He paused again. “We’ve put too much work into this, my brother. More work than the old man can imagine. We take the risks, and he grows fat on the money and wants to play…what do they call it…cocaine cowboy. It’s not going to happen, and he needs to understand that.” “I’ll make it happen.” Enrique started to head for the boat, then stopped. “I almost forgot. We have another run with Oswaldo’s product tomorrow night.” “The Bat, eh?” Miguel chuckled. “He’s still producing on schedule?” “Yes, and he’s hinted he might be able to deliver more. I think he’s decided we’re reliable enough to take risks with.” “Good. The more he delivers, the less we need from Santos. Still…keep your ears open for new suppliers. Where two is good, three is better. If we want to survive we have to keep our options open.” The roar of Enrique’s boat engines was fading over the water when Miguel turned to head back to the house. He trusted Enrique to handle the situation with Jesus…at least until the old man kicked. Then he’d step in. He also intended to have Esteban check into things as well. Maybe Lupe could dig up something. Pasqual was good with boats, but Miguel didn’t quite trust his information gathering skills. But that was the price he paid for keeping Esteban’s men away from Enrique, and he’d learned to live with it. It kept things insulated. Enrique’s people could only identify a handful of Esteban’s men, and in turn Esteban’s men only knew the routes or stash houses they worked with. He smelled the cigar before he even got in sight of the deck. Shit. He was supposed to stay at the small house this week. Why the fuck did he come back here? Still, he knew there was no avoiding it. Forcing a smile on his face, Miguel walked up to the wide back deck. “Father! What a surprise.” Rodrigo Mendoza’s once dark hair was shot through with gray, blending with the cigar smoke swirling around his head. “Figured I should stop by and make sure you haven’t made a dog’s breakfast of the house,” he said. “As you can see it’s fine. Everything’s fine, in fact.” Miguel paused. He’d wanted to avoid any argument, but his father’s superior attitude struck a nerve. Maybe it was time to remind the old man he wasn’t a scared little boy any longer. “Besides, you’re still getting the dividend checks from Mendoza Distributing every two weeks. And you have the beach house. All without lifting a finger. I’d say your life is going pretty well.” The tip of Rodrigo’s cigar flared bright red. “How dare you talk…” “I’ll talk to you any way I damned well please when you’re in my house. Yes, it’s my house, papi. Or did you forget grandfather’s will? He left it to me when I turned twenty-five. That and Mendoza Distributing. Maybe he didn’t want you making a, what did you say, dog’s breakfast of it.” Rodrigo took a step forward. “I should…” “You should what?” Usually when his father’s voice hit that register Miguel felt fear. Old childhood memories rushing through his veins and slowing his reactions. But not now. “Raise your hand to me and you’ll regret it, old man. I”m not some boy you can slap around any more.” He was surprised when his father stopped in mid-step. The tip of the cigar flared again. “Maybe you’re right, Miguel. I hear things, you know. Even out at the beach house. They say you’re making the family name strong again. Something to be reckoned with.” He paused, sending a thick stream of cigar smoke into the air. “I could never do that. No matter how hard I tried. But you. You and Enrique.” “It’s not…” “No. I don’t need to know. Hell, I don’t want to know. Old men like to talk. It’s all we have left to do. Throw a blonde with big tits at me and I’ll tell her everything I know and then make up some lies to keep her happy. I know my weaknesses, Miguel. At least I do now.” Miguel nodded. At least it saved him the trouble of making something up. “We always had a name to be proud of. I decided it was time to remind people of that.” “And you are. Look, I really came by to get the last of my things. I’m moving to the beach house. You don’t need me underfoot and you don’t need to see how young the girls are I bring home.” He raised a hand. “Don’t worry…it’s nothing like that. But when you reach my age, any woman under fifty is young.” Half an hour later he was gone, and Miguel sat in one of the wicker chairs on the back deck wondering what had just happened. And more importantly what his father had actually heard. He knew the old man still drank and swapped lies with many of the older smugglers still in Miami…relics of the days when runs to Havana involved moving things and people for the Mob. Had he heard something there or somewhere else? Lighting his own cigar, he looked out toward the water. Someone out there one of Enrique’s boats might be making its final approach, carrying cocaine or cigars. The crew would be watchful but starting to relax as they got closer to home. He envied the simplicity of their job in many ways. All you had to do was pick up cargo, avoid the Coast Guard and maybe a rival crew or two, and make the delivery. Your worries were narrow, their duration short. Still, with his father out of the house he could think about having Holly over. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face. They’d gone out twice since that first night, once for dinner at Cafe des Arts and once at Regine’s. He drew on the cigar, wondering what Enrique would say if he knew he hadn’t slept with her yet. They’d mostly talked, about the clubs she worked for in South Beach and her ambitions. And slowly an idea formed in his head. She was beautiful, and he knew himself well enough to know he was falling for her. Maybe it came from being alone for so long, or the look she gave him into a world he’d never known. Where it went from here there was no way to know. But he planned to enjoy the ride, no matter how long or how short. “Man, I hate Rizzo’s.” Ricardo Tubbs shook his head as he wheeled the Caddy into a tight parking spot about a block from the strip club. “Almost as much as I hate having to drive you around.” Sonny Crockett chuckled. “Yeah, but there’s no way I’m bringing that L’il Abner rig down here. You’d think they’d at least have a BMW in Impound.” “Yeah, but you did get the Ferrari blown to hell. Maybe the bosses think you need a time out for that one.” “Like I knew that redneck asshole was gonna use a Stinger on my car! Who the hell does that?” Sonny shook his head. He could still see the yellow-white explosion and bits of the Daytona arcing through the air. It wasn’t his car…his mind knew it. But the pain was still there. Rizzo’s sound system might have been something back in 1971, but now it was mostly blown out and more fuzzy than cheese left on the counter for three weeks in a Miami summer. Still, Sonny could always tell when Noogie was running the mix. Somehow the little freak got the most out of what he had, linking songs to girls in a way no one else at Rizzo’s had ever been able to do. And it showed…revenue went through the roof on the days he was working, and girls even got into fights to work his shifts. The hunk of meat at the door grinned in recognition. “Sonny Burnett! How’s it been, man? Might be a little cramped in there…Noogie’s got his thing goin’ strong tonight.” “No problem, Alex.” One thing Sonny had learned long ago was doormen and bouncers always liked it when you remembered their names. And as sources of information they were hard to beat. “Just lookin’ for a drink and some sights of Miami before getting down to business.” He jerked his head in Rico’s direction. “Out of town company.” “Any pal of Sonny’s is welcome in Rizzo’s.” Alex grinned again, showing missing teeth. “Head on in.” Then his voice changed, dropping almost a full octave. “Not you, asshole. You’re on the ‘get the fuck out’ list.” “Who knew Rizzo’s had a list?” “They don’t Rico. I’d bet that goof just pissed off Alex sometime in the last week or so. And even if they had a list, I ain’t sure the big guy can read.” Rizzo’s had a main stage dominated by a pole and runway leading to the back, two smaller stages off to each side, a long bar that had seen better days in the ‘50s, and a scattering of tall tables and booths along the back wall. Above the booths was a DJ station, dominated by a skinny Black man wearing heart-shaped pink sunglasses studded with fake diamonds. A brunette with long, slim legs was working her assets to what sounded like AC/DC, and Noogie was hamming it up on the PA. “Hey, hey! Give it up for Lucy Legs! An’ don’t do what the song says an’ touch too much or you’ll be out on your asses! If the Noog-man’s lyin’, he’s dyin’! Now head up an’ buy a beer or four. Next up is Foxy Roxy an’ her twins…an’ y’all know what twins the Noog-man means!” Grinning, he shook his fists in the air before turning and leaving the DJ booth. Sonny nodded to Rico. “We got about five minutes before he’s on again. Let’s make this count.” They moved through the knots of sweaty men heading for the bar, reaching the side stage door at the same moment Noogie opened it with a wide, white-toothed grin. “My main men! The Noog-man was startin’ to wonder if he’d done something to offend.” “Naw, nothing like that, Noogie. Been busy is all.” Sonny shot a quick look at Rico. “Can we talk someplace a bit more private?” “Head on over hyar.” Noogie waved toward an alcove stacked almost to the top with battered chairs. “Ain’t sure why they keep the damned things, but the Noog-man ain’t into interior decorations.” “You told Switek you had something for us.” Rico wrinkled his nose. “This place always smell like an outhouse?” “Naw. You got us on a good day.” Noogie laughed, flashing those teeth again. “The Noog-man got a line on a guy. Ain’t the first time I seen this cat around, dig? He cleans money, but only small deals. Then he gets all hot for Red…she’s on after Roxy…an’ starts braggin’ on how he’s movin’ big green now.” “Talk is cheap, Noogie. You told Stan he mentioned the Mendozas.” “Cat did say the name, but the Noog-man ain’t into askin’ dudes who they deal for, if you can dig what I’m sayin’.” The song blasting through the blown speakers seemed to fade a bit, and Noogie shook his head. “I gotta run, son. Time for the Noog-man to spin the tunes that bring the poon. But you stay for Red, hyar? This cat’ll show for her. He’s an average-lookin’ dude an’ usually wears suits he musta stole from that fool Izzy.” Sonny heard Rico swear under his breath. “That mean we gotta wait?” “That it does, partner. We gotta get us a look at this Cash. If he shows. But it won’t hurt to see the girl, either. Might be able to get a line on her though Gina and Trudy.” He paused. “I mean Trudy now. IA’s not gonna be done with Gina for a bit.” “Yeah. That was a bad deal all around.” Rico shook his head. “You think the Mendozas come here?” “No way. Not their scene. Miguel seems to stick to the family liquor distribution business.” They were back at the bar now, finding spots as the men drifted back to their tables when Noogie announced the impending arrival of Foxy Roxy and her twins. “And we’ve never been able to crack that Pasqual guy, let alone little brother Enrique.” “That means our luck’s about due to change, partner.” Rico looked toward the stage, shaking his head as a blonde with massive silicone-enhanced assets strutted toward the pole. “And I think we just met the twins.” “Dear God I hope they don’t explode.” Sonny pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, trying to block the image from his mind. “Hopefully Noogie picked a short number for her. I ain’t sure if those things can take too much shaking without a serious structural failure.” “We got any idea what this Cash looks like?” “Only the general that got sent over from central records. Guy seems to have stayed pretty clean. ‘Course that ain’t hard when you’re not dealing in large sums or with crazy Columbians.” Sonny winced as ‘Mississippi Queen’ hit its aggressive bridge and Roxy started grinding the pole with intent. “Why do I keep thinking of those old classroom ‘duck and cover’ drills?” He was halfway through a Lucky Strike when Noogie’s voice crackled over the PA. “Give it up for the twins, y’all! An’ now we got a treat for you. Blaze is takin’ the stage for an early show. This is one red you don’t want to miss, if you can dig what the Noog-man is sayin’!” His loud laugh was swallowed by a thumping bass intro Sonny couldn’t pinpoint. “I can’t believe Noogie’s playin’ Aerosmith!” Rico grinned and slapped the bar. “And that’s gotta be Red. I can see why this Cash is droolin’ all over himself.” Sonny looked and nodded. Red’s legs started where her flowing red hair ended, accented by curves no plastic surgeon had touched. With flashing eyes and firm, high breasts, he bet she pulled in her body weight in tips any time she took the stage. Business, Crockett. Business. Tearing his eyes away, he started scanning the crowd. “Looks like she’s got all these idiots drooling. How we gonna pick out just one?” “Count me in on the drooling bit, partner.” Rico chuckled. “She can wrap them legs around me any old time.” “We got work to do, Rico. Focus.” Sonny scanned the men surrounding the stage first. If Cash was as into her as Noogie hinted, he’d likely be front and center any time she took the stage. He discounted three men who looked like lost truckers, two slumming frat boys, and thee drunk wannabe gang-bangers from Overtown. “Hey. See the guy in the Sears suit? Looks like something Izzy lost?” “I got him. Seventies-style mustache? That’s gotta be our guy.” “We’ll watch him for a bit and then head back. We’re gonna have to do some more digging to tie this guy to anyone, but at least we know how to bait the hook.” Sonny was about to continue when the pager in his pocket buzzed. “Now who the hell…Aw, no way.” “What? Castillo calling us off?” “No. Ira Stone.” He looked at the information on the pager again. “Goddamned Ira Stone.” OCB resumes after Stone’s War, Down for the Count/The Final Bell and Just a Favor “I can’t get over this view.” Miguel nodded. “It’s the main reason my grandfather built the house here. It was one of the first things he did after he got his citizenship.” Bought his citizenship if family lore is true. And it usually is with him. And he bought the house and land with the profits from one run of Jamaican rum. He leaned against the balcony rail. “I love coming out here. It helps me think.” “I bet it does.” Holly turned to face him, her dark eyes glowing. “I don’t think I’d ever go back inside.” “You’ll feel different when it’s raining. The winds off the ocean are cold, and they drive the water.” She smiled, reaching out and touching his arm. “I’m kidding, Miguel. Going in sounds nice right now.” He smiled. He’d brought her out here to set the mood. They’d spent the early afternoon cruising South Beach, her talking about clubs she worked with and him looking for a spot for what he had in mind. Then they’d come back to the house and the magnificent dinner the housekeeper had prepared. Miranda had worked for the family since he was ten, a stern woman from the highlands of Mexico somewhere who knew when to rule with an iron fist and when to fade into the background. She was long gone by now. “We can stay for a few more minutes if you like. The last of the sunset is worth seeing.” “So what did you think of the clubs? I know you’re looking to increase business…” “Maybe, but that’s not why I asked you here tonight.” “It’s not why I came, either.” She smiled at him again, her hand still on his forearm. “The last few weeks have been…I don’t know…special.” “I think so, too. I don’t leave work behind very often, and I’m pretty rusty at this sort of thing.” “I think you’re doing very well, Miguel.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Very, very well.” He took her in his arms and kissed her back. Hard. Feeling her body press against his and her hands grip at his shoulders. She felt better than he’d imagined. And he’d been waiting so long… “Man! Look at that kid box!” Enrique Mendoza turned to Pasqual Benequez and shook his head. “How did everyone miss Bobby Sykes?” “I don’t know. But it looks like someone didn’t.” Enrique followed Pasqual’s gaze. “Felix Guzman? What the fuck’s he doing here?” “Making book is what I hear.” Enrique chuckled. “Then he’s dumber than those two blondes look. The Mob does all the sports betting down here. Man’s gonna get his balls cut off and stuffed down his throat.” He shook his head again. “You wanna survive in this business, you stick with what you know and don’t step on other guys’ turf. Especially guys bigger than you are.” The crowd roared, and he looked back at the ring. “Man! He just dropped another one. Third round KO!” “Who’s the big guy in his corner? Way he waves that damned hat around you’d think he was some kinda cowboy.” “He’s called Moon. Crazy bastard who’s been training fighters here for years. At least that’s what that Cuban Victor says. He follows this stuff. Me? I watch the ring girls, drink the beer, and take in the sights from time to time.” “So why are we here?” “I told Victor I’d come see the kid so he’d shut the hell up about him. And you got elected to come with me because Tiffy doesn’t like the fights.” Enrique drained his plastic cup and tossed it on the floor. “And now it’s over. Let’s go hit the Overton. I ain’t had my fix of neon this week.”

August 1986 Before Stone’s War and during and after Free Verse Two days later the big Mercedes returned to Liberty City, rolling slow down streets haphazardly lit by a handful of working streetlights. It was the same Mercedes Esteban’s crew had taken from Falcone when they took his crew…a fact not lost on Miguel Mendoza sitting in the back seat. Things often had a way of coming back on themselves. And he was actually glad now the idiot poet Sandoval was still in town. His rantings, and those of the people who wanted to see him dead, stripped Metro-Dade patrols from neighborhoods like this. Eduardo’s voice echoed from the front passenger seat. “We’re getting close, boss. Another two blocks.” Miguel nodded, then remembered the darkness. “Good.” Reaching down, he picked up the old .45 ACP Colt his grandfather had used. Drawing confidence and maybe a bit of strength from what he knew the weapon had done in the past. Unlike the elder Mendoza, Miguel had never killed anyone before. Not personally. He’d given the order many times, but his finger had never squeezed the trigger. Until tonight. “Not a cop in sight.” The driver, a man Eduardo called Chico, laughed low in his chest. “Always better when you don’t have to shoot it out with them.” “Better for all of us.” Miguel kept his voice low. “You kill one of them, they hunt you forever. If it’s just gangsters killing each other…” “They don’t look near as hard.” Eduardo finished the bit of street wisdom. “Sometimes I wonder if they look at all, depending on where the bodies drop. Like here.” “Are they still out there?” “We aren’t quite close enough to see yet, boss. Once Chico turns this corner…yes, I can see them. Damned bar has one of the few working streetlights on the block. All three of them. Standing there like they own the place.” Miguel ran through the moves in his head. He’d tried it on the club pistol range earlier, then later with Eduardo and no weapon, and finally on the range again. The neighborhood might be a combat zone, but he wanted the Mendoza message to be precise as well as vicious. “Remember. Only those three. And no more than two shots each.” “Almost there, boss.” Chico slowed the car even more…down to a menacing crawl. The three playing grab-ass outside the bar still hadn’t noticed them, or if they had didn’t think it was a threat. Eduardo spoke again. “You take the one closest to the street, boss. I’ll take the other two. Don’t get out of the car. Chico, when I say put the windows down.” He could feel the adrenalin starting to flow now, pumping from his heart through his veins. Was it always like this? Or is it like every other first time…exciting beyond words and then becoming dull with routine? Reaching down, he racked the slide of the Colt, feeling a big round into the chamber. The metal on metal sound was loud in the closed car. The car rolled closer, and he could see the Haitians turning now. Reacting to the headlights sweeping over them. Then they turned away with a confidence born of ignorance. No one had challenged their command here before, and they had no reason to think anyone would. In the front seat he heard Eduardo say “Now.” The power windows on the right side of the car hummed down as one. As soon as they pulled even with the three men, Miguel brought up his grandfather’s big Colt. There was a short heartbeat of hesitation, then he swore he heard his grandfather’s sharp laugh and squeezed the trigger. The yellow-orange muzzle flash blinded him for a moment, and his ears rang from the shots echoing in the car. Blinking, his vision cleared and he saw his man fall, blood pouring from a massive hole in the back of his head. Three rapid shots from Eduardo sent the other two spinning away, and then the windows were humming back up as Chico accelerated away from the curb. The burned powder stung his nose, and his ears rang with a thousand church bells from the shots. But Miguel felt his face twitch into a smile. He’d killed his man. Something he never thought he’d do, and something he doubted his father had ever done for all his rages and posturing. Remembering his training, he flicked on the Colt’s safety before setting it on the seat beside him. Now he had even more in common with the man who’d first owned the pistol. Chico was laughing and shouting in the front seat. “That was great shooting, boss! One shot to the fucking head! That’s cajones, boss. Big time.” “Keep your eyes on the fucking road. The last thing we need is to be stopped by some wandering Metro-Dade assholes.” Eduardo waiting for Chico to settle down before turning to look at Miguel. “He’s right, though, boss. That was good shooting. The one you dropped was the boss of that little crew. We’ll keep an eye out, but I think it’ll be safe to send our boys back in to sell some product.” Miguel nodded, still waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. He let his hand rest on the leather upholstery, then smiled as his fingers touched the still-warm shell casing. Picking it up, he tucked it into his pants pocket. It was surprising, really. After all the priests whining about killing, what he’d just done felt more like swatting a fly than taking a life. Maybe it would be different later, but for now… “Let’s get back,” he said, finding his voice. “We need to move fast before the Haitians try to send someone else in to move product.” “Any witnesses?” Stan Switek looked at the uniform, who shook his head. “Didn’t think there would be. Not here.” Larry Zito nodded. “Yeah. So why’d they call us? Not that I mind being hauled off that protection detail.” “Yeah. I had to listen to one more rant from Hector Sandoval I was gonna scream. Let Gorman and Dibble deal with him is what I say.” Stan turned back to the patrolman. “Why’d you guys call OCB?” “We didn’t. Put the call through to dispatch. I thought they were gonna send Homicide. Maybe some of Vallencio’s boys.” He shrugged, the side of his face going red or blue depending on the rotation of the lights on the squad car. “Well, since we’re here I guess we’d better take a look.” Stan chuckled and tuned back to the bodies. “Haitians?” “Yeah. I’d say so. This is my usual beat, an’ they been movin’ in here the last few weeks. Those three cats pretty much pissed on that light pole to mark it as theirs.” He shrugged again. “We’d run ‘em off, but no one will swear out a complaint.” “I hear ya. Lar and I worked Overtown when we were in Patrol.” He looked at the bodies again, sprawled in thickening pools of blood and bits of what looked like brains. “Man. Someone did a number on these guys. Headshots mostly.” Larry nodded, narrowing his eyes as he looked down. “Large caliber, too. Not a .22 or some other popgun.” Stan crouched by one of the bodies, careful not to touch too much. Crime Scene better get their asses out here. Aw, who am I kidding? Not in this part of town. “Looks like they’re packing heat of their own. Berettas maybe. But they didn’t draw. Someone took these goofballs by surprise.” Larry cleared his throat. “Looks like the body wagon’s here. And it’s got Homicide in tow.” “Good. We’ll hand off to them and head back.” Stan got to his feet with a groan. “Hey, Horrigan! ‘Bout time you guys got here. Don’t worry, we didn’t touch nothin’. Let us know if you find any drug connection. We gotta get back to our detail. Turns out dispatch screwed up and sent us first.” Enrique stared at the phone receiver, then hung up. “I don’t believe it. Miguel just pulled the trigger on those Haitian bastards.” “That’s no surprise, boss.” Pasqual took another drink of beer from his bottle. “No. I mean like he literally pulled the fucking trigger. Killed one of them himself.” “No shit? Guess the Haitians know not to mess with the Mendozas now.” “He wants us to get some people over there. Make contact with the dealers we’d sold to before and tell them the product’s still theirs if they want it.” “I’ll send some boys as soon as we’re done here.” “Good. It’ll only take a kilo or so to meet those obligations.” Enrique reached for his own beer, his brain still struggling to process what he’d heard. Miguel actually killed someone. He’d always seen his older brother as a dashing bookworm, somehow above all that. And now he’d stepped right into it without skipping a beat. “Have our guy take one of the Cubans just in case, though.” “I’ll do that.” Pasqual started to push back from the table, then changed his mind. “You think I should send a bit extra product just in case?” “If we have it on hand, do it. Use The Bat’s stuff. It’s already been cut. Go with the standard price. They caved to the Haitians, so they don’t get no discount.” Enrique took another drink. “Then when you get back we gotta plan for the next shipment from that punk Santos.” “He still using freighters?” “Last I heard. Doesn’t bother me, though. Easier to deal with than those damned air drops. Planes draw too much attention. I don’t care how fast they are or how much product they can move.” “Sometimes the older ways are best, right?” “Something like that.” A thought tickled the back of his brain. “You hear anything else about what Jesus might be up to? He buying more go-fasts?” “Not that we can tell.” Pasqual shrugged. “Builders don’t exactly call and let me know who’s buying their inventory. And he might be picking them up in Lauderdale or even Tampa Bay. He’s cagey that one.” “It’s how he’s lasted so long.” That and his ambition only comes in fits and starts. Not like ours. “Anyhow, go get things moving. I’m gonna head out to the house as soon as I’m done here.” Enrique wasn’t quite sure what he’d find when he idled the Corvette up the long gravel drive to the house. But he didn’t expect to see Miguel sitting on the wide porch smoking a cigar. “You heard?” “I did. And I had Pasqual send some product in like you asked. Had him take some extra so we’d be ready if there were new orders. Sent one of the Cubans with them in case there’s trouble, but I don’t think there will be.” “I don’t, either.” Miguel’s face was half-hidden by cigar smoke, but in the dim light from the small porch lamps Enrique could see his dark eyes glittering. “I think we made our point.” As he climbed the front steps, Enrique saw the big Colt sitting on a small table next to Miguel’s chair. “That looks like grandfather’s piece.” “It is.” Miguel looked over at the pistol. “It’s not as fancy as some of the other guns out there, but it’s family. And she still shoots straight.” Enrique sat down, not quite sure what to say. The shock of the news had worn off with the buzz from his handful of beers, and now… “You didn’t expect this from me, did you?” “No. Not really. It just doesn’t seem like what you do.” He paused. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, brother.” “I know what you mean. Miguel is the calm one, Ricky is the hothead.” Miguel laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh Enrique had heard before. “Believe me, this was done with total calm. Not only did the Haitians need a lesson, our men needed to see their boss has what it takes to do what they do. It’s hard to ask a man to do something if you’re not willing to do it yourself.” “No one ever…” “I know they didn’t. But someone would someday.” His voice grew thin. “And you remember grandfather’s stories? About the respect this family used to hold and how they got it? This was part of our way back to that respect.” “Pasqual’s still looking into what Uncle Jesus is up to.” Enrique changed the subject, wanting to get back on more comfortable ground. “He says as far as he can tell Jesus isn’t buying any more go-fasts, but he might be getting them outside Miami.” “Keep an eye on him. Nothing more. Unless he starts causing us problems. If we give up a little, he’ll settle back down into his lazy, swordfish-slaying self.” Miguel took another puff from the cigar. “But if he starts moving into our new business I want to know at once. Cigars and rum are one thing, cocaine is another.” Enrique nodded, watching Miguel from the corner of his eye. He’s sitting different, even. “We’ll do that. And we’re getting ready for the next shipment from Santos. We can definitely use it…most of what’s coming in has already been spoken for. And not by Liberty City. I sent Oswaldo’s product there.” “Good. Has Gustavo made any progress yet?” “It’s early yet, but I think he has. I’m giving him until the end of the week, and then I’ll stick him back on a boat and make his move for him.” Enrique grinned. “And he knows that. That place he’s after? The Palm? It’s just down the road from Club Ovo in South Beach, so there’s overflow money there.” “Good. The Columbians will start sniffing around soon enough, and I want to get there first. Be sure he understands that. If he fucks this up, he can go back to stealing car stereos for all I care.” Enrique just nodded, watching the cigar smoke float up to the rafters of the porch. He’d never seen Miguel quite like this before. He was used to his brother’s confidence, and even some quiet arrogance, but not this. “You’re quiet, brother.” “Sorry. Yes, I guess I am. I just…” “I know. You know, I thought I’d feel badly. Hearing all those priests all these years talk. But the truth is, I don’t feel bad at all. It’s a funny thing, you know. Just one bullet and that puto’s life was done. And he would have done the same to me if he could. Probably would have enjoyed it, too.” “Do you…” “No. I don’t enjoy it. But I don’t fear it now, either. And I think I understand a bit more about grandfather now. Jaime was different…a matter of honor.” Miguel ground the thick Cuban cigar out in the ash tray next to the Colt. “And now I need to see to the pistol. Were you staying for a drink, or…” “I should probably get back. Pasqual can be a bit literal, and he might have sent boys over to Liberty City tonight.” He forced a smile. “That and I told Tiffy I’d call. You wouldn’t believe…” “You’re probably right.” Miguel got to his feet, hefting the pistol. “I’ll call you in the morning. See if anything happened with Pasqual’s boys. I should have the exact time for Santos’s next shipment, too.” He chuckled. “Can you believe father actually went to one of the readings by that idiot Sandoval? You’d think he’d find something better to do.” “You know the old man. He hasn’t been quite right since mama died.” If he ever was quite right. Bastard. Enrique gave his brother a quick pat on the shoulder. “Take care, brother.” Miguel stood on the porch, watching the Corvette’s tail lights receding down the drive. “You don’t know what to think, do you, brother?” he muttered, turing and opening the heavy front door. “To be honest, I don’t know what to think, either.” He cleaned the Colt in the study, rods and patches spread out on a heavy cloth and the sharp bite of gun oil filling his nose. It took a few tries to disassemble the Colt, working mostly from memories of watching his grandfather and the couple of times Esteban had shown him how. Running patches through the barrel until they came out clean was almost restful, allowing his thoughts to flow into the activity and not dwell on the past few hours. Reaching down, he touched his pocket where the empty casing rested. He’d taken it mostly so there’d be nothing left for the police if they found the car, but now he considered keeping it. Making it into a necklace or something as a reminder of the first life he’d taken in the name of the family business. In truth he knew it wasn’t the first. That had been Jaime…when he’d tried to sell their smuggling routes to Calderone. But that was different…had been different. Then he was dealing with a traitor. A man who’d been like part of the family yet turned on his family for money. Killing him had been expected…a family duty. This was different. In his grandfather’s language, Jaime had been in hot blood. The Haitian had been in cold blood. Only Esteban knew about Jaime, but Enrique always suspected. Soon all his men would know about the Haitian. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. The spray of red around the Haitian’s face. The look of surprise turing to panic just before Miguel squeezed the trigger. Opening his eyes, he fumbled with the barrel bushing on the Colt, almost launching the recoil spring across the room before gathering himself. Forcing his mind to focus on his fingers and the pistol in front of him. When it was done he stared down at the pistol resting on the cloth, a thin coat of oil shining in the overhead light. It was late…and he knew he needed sleep. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to part with the pistol. Not yet. Scooping it up, he switched off the lights and headed upstairs to his room in the sprawling house. Miguel woke to sun streaming through the wide blinds on his bedroom window. He’d slept better than he thought he might…no dreams of any kind. Stretching out his arm, he looked at his Rolex and smothered a yawn. Just enough time for a shower and some coffee before the scheduled call from Cristobal Santos. Padding downstairs with hair still damp from the shower, Miguel made coffee in the kitchen before taking a steaming cup to the study. He hadn’t expected his father to turn up, not after a night in the city listening to some crazy poet, and he had the house to himself. The cleaning woman wasn’t due until afternoon, and the gardener kept to himself, happy to wallow in his fertilizer and insecticide. He was glad for the solitude. Talking to Santos was becoming increasingly painful. The hour hand on his Rolex had just touched ten when the phone rang. He picked it up, hearing the faint echo common to international calls. “Yes?” “Miguel, my friend! I trust all is well with the business?” “Of course. If anything was wrong you’d be the first to know.” “Of course, amigo. Of course. The next shipment will be in two days. It’s already left port.” “Good. I’ll let my people know to expect delivery.” He paused. “The usual amount?” “Certainly. And I wanted to confirm I’ll be in Miami in the next few weeks. I have other business meetings, but we should get together. Have a drink. Talk about old times.” As if we have any old times to talk about. “Sure. Let me know when you arrive and I’ll be sure my schedule is clear.” “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You sound…different somehow.” “Everything’s fine, Cristobal. Had a bit of a late night last night is all.” “Ah! Of course! Some fine girl, yes? Like the ones that came when I was last in Miami? Reason enough for a man to sound tired, I say.” Santos’s annoying laugh filled his ear. “It will be good to see you in person again, my friend. We have much to discuss.” Miguel glared at the phone after he hung up, then lashed out and sent the thing clattering to the floor. “Damn the man!” The words slipped out unbidden, then he gathered himself and put the phone back on the desk. For now it was best he keep his feelings about Santos hidden away. But soon, if all went well, the man would be expendable. Smiling, he reached for the phone, hoping he hadn’t broken it. He needed to let Enrique know the date of the shipment. “Any sign of them?” Enrique Mendoza kept his eyes fixed on the boat’s dimly glowing gauges. The port engine had been running a touch hot since they left the dock. Not enough to worry him, but enough to command some attention. It wasn’t the only choice he was regretting on this run. Gustavo Mendoza looked at the radar screen, then peered into the darkness. Enrique wasn’t sure what bothered him more: his cousin’s longish, lanky hair or the damned thin mustache that looked like part of a costume from a really bad movie. He had to admit the kid tried, he just wasn’t sure if he was trying to make good or trying to be an ass. “Nothing on the screen, Ricky. An’ it’s dark as hell out here. If they ain’t got their lights on, no way I can see them.” Sighing, he checked his Rolex. “It’s time. Wouldn’t be surprised if that damned rust bucket Santos uses sprung a leak somewhere and sank, though. That or the engine took a dump.” It was also possible the Coast Guard had picked them up, but he wasn’t going to say it. Even though the hired guns seemed to be done with whatever they’d been doing, patrols were still elevated. And now he had an engine to worry about. The needle ticked another bar higher. “How long you gonna wait?” “Not much longer. Another five, maybe ten minutes. Switch the radar over to medium range. See if they’re out there somewhere.” “Sure thing. Uh, it’s this switch, right?” Moron. “Yeah, that one. Give it a second to adjust, though.” “Got it. Hey, I got something. Coming up from the southeast and moving at…maybe five knots. Maybe five miles away, too.” “Let me see.” Enrique elbowed Gustavo aside and stared down at the flickering green scope. “That’s it.” Moving back to the pilot’s seat he eased the twin throttles forward a hair. Ten knots. And keep an eye on that damned engine. “Get ready to hit the navigation lights. We flash them twice when the freighter’s within a mile.” The freighter, the same rusted tub with Caribbean registry he’d met many times before, loomed a deeper black against the dark night sky less than half an hour later. Dialing the proper frequency into the marine band radio, Enrique triggered the microphone three times, and was rewarded with two hissing clicks in return. “Get ready to tie up,” he told Gustavo as he slowed again and angled the go-fast so it would slide up against the larger ship. “And wake up Chico while you’re at it. You’ll need him to help load the product.” After When Irish Eyes are Crying Stan Switek couldn’t believe his luck. They’d roped in Gustavo Mendoza as a CI over eight months ago, and up until now he’d been pretty much worthless. But now… “Let me get this straight. You heard what last night?” “Twenty kilos of powder, man!” From the traffic sounds in the background Stan guessed Gustavo was on a pay phone. “Came in on some damned rust bucket freighter last week.” “And you heard this how, exactly?” There was a pause. “Some dudes who were there were talkin’. When we were bringing in cigars.” “You really expect me to believe that, Gus? That some of your cousins’ men were just shooting the shit about moving twenty kilos of powder?” “Believe it or don’t. But it’s the truth. That enough to square us?” “No way. You know the deal. You have to give us something we can tie to your cousins. Not this ‘someone whispered in my ear’ crap. Try again.” “What was that all about?” Larry Zito looked up from an old issue of Miami Today. “That, Lar, was old Gustavo. He was trying to convince me he heard someone talking about a twenty kilo deal, but I’d bet a pair of blue suede shoes he was in on the deal somehow. Moron still wants to protect his cousins, I guess.” “You think it’s tied into those bodies we got called to the other night?” “Hard to say. My brain’s still scrambled from listening to ol’ Hector and his politics.” Stan chuckled. “Between him and that mess with the Concorde it’s been an open air freak show around here.” “You got that right. What you need is a good fight to clear your head.” Larry grinned. “Moon’s been after me to go see this kid he’s been training. Says he’s the next big thing. You up for it?” “Sure. Why the hell not? Nothing like I like better than watching two sweaty grown men beat each other senseless. That and the ring girls are hot. It’s been a bit since I seen Moon, too. How’s he doing?” “Same as ever, I guess. But he sure is hot about this new kid. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk a prospect up like he is this guy.” “What’s his name?” “Sykes. Bobby Sykes.” Stan let the name roll around in his head. “Good fighter’s name, too.” He was about to get up when the phone rang again. “You wanna get that?” “Naw. You got phones today, remember?” “Yeah, yeah. Last time I bet on who wins the ‘Best O Face’ award with you, though.” Stan snatched up the receiver. “This better be good.” “Stan my man! It’s…” “What do you want, Noogie?” “Now is that any way to say hey to the man with the plan?” From the fuzzed-out speakers in the background Stan knew Noogie was calling from Rizzo’s, although at least he wasn’t using the pay phone by the johns. “I got some news you dudes can use, if you can dig what the Noog-man is sayin’.” “Come on, Noogie. I don’t have all day.” “Now look hyar. The Noog-man don’t rush nothin’ worth doing.” The white noise passing for music got louder, then faded again. “Sent that dude packin’, you dig? What the Noog-man has is for your ears alone, Switek. If the price is right.” “You get the standard CI payment. More if it actually turns out to be something.” Stan grimaced, then frowned when Larry chuckled. “And we know how often that happens, don’t we?” “Man, I ain’t that freak Izzy! This is the Noog-man! The one an’ only! Anyhow, here’s the tip, flip. There’s this cat likes comin’ down hyar and throwin’ cash at this sweet young thang with red hair. Calls himself Cash, too.” Noogie’s voice dropped, and Stan could imagine him leaning in to whisper like a character in a bad movie. “The way the Noog-man hears things, this Cash deals in cash, as in turnin’ drug cash into clean cash.” “Lots of money laundering goofs in this city, Noogie.” “Not like this cat. Now the Noog-man mighta been leanin’ a little close when he was whisperin’ into Red’s ear the other night, but I did hear him say Mendoza.” Stan sat up straight and reached for his notepad. “Mendoza?” “Figured that would get your attention.” Noogie’s laugh was a cackle. “So Cash was braggin’ about some new client to Red. Said the dude was his ticket up an’ away. You wanna have a look, the dude’s in hyar every Wednesday. The Noog-man sets his damned watch by it. See, that’s when Red shakes her tail, an’ he follows her like a dog on a scent.” “You know we gotta check this out, right?” “Yeah. So, this gonna put the Noog-man in the good graces of the parole man?” “It checks out, I’d say so, Noogie.” Hanging up, Stan turned to Larry with a big grin. “You wanna run down an alias, Lar? Money guy who goes by the really original name Cash.” “Don’t tell me Noogie came through again?” “He might have. And if he did, we just handed another lead on the elusive Mendozas to the Hardy Boys.” Larry chuckled. “And I’d pay good money to see Crockett show up at a meet in that pickup he’s driving now…”

Miguel didn’t sleep much before the scheduled call with Cristobal Santos. He kept thinking about Holly. How she smelled. The firm curve of her breasts under the tight dress. And the fact she worked for clubs in Miami Beach. He knew he should use the contacts. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Not yet, at least. He’d left right after she did, explaining his reason to a distracted Enrique who likely didn’t hear more than two words. Now he sat in the study staring at the phone sitting on the corner of the desk. Waiting for the call. Cristobal Santos’ voice hadn’t improved in the year he’d known the man. “Miguel! It’s been too long since we last spoke. And longer since we met face to face.” “Yes. But it’s difficult with your status.” “Ah, yes. That. I understand that might be changing soon, my friend. Politics and all that.” I’m not your friend, asshole. “Of course. We all know how that goes. Anyhow, what can I do for you?” “How’s the business? Things going well?” “The deliveries have been arriving on schedule and for the agreed amounts. After that one, at least.” “Yes. That. The issue has been dealt with. You can be sure of that.” “Good.” “And aside from that?” “You transport and we pay. What happens after that doesn’t factor into our arrangement. You know that.” “Sure. Old habits. But the quantities are good?” “Yes. We don’t need an increase.” “Good. But there are things we can’t do on the phone. I plan to travel to Miami within the next month. Maybe sooner if things work out.” “Business or pleasure?” Santos laughed his sharp bark. “I like that about you, Miguel. Not once to mince words. Both, actually. I have a couple of meetings. And this time I won’t need any help with accommodations.” He laughed again. “An old compadre is seeing to that.” Probably the same one who’s hiring gunmen. “It’s no trouble if your plans change.” “Thank you, but I don’t think they will. I’ve known this guy for years. Anyhow, I’ll call once I land and we’ll meet and talk. Maybe you can bring your bother, too? The one with the boats.” “I’ll do that.” Miguel was about to hang up when the buzz in his ear told him Santos had beaten him to the punch. “Asshole,” he muttered as he slammed the phone down. “So did you take her home?” Enrique asked the question more to poke at his older brother. He already knew the answer. “No. I”m sure you took that Tiffy home.” “Yes. And it was well worth it, let me tell you.” He grinned before taking a sip of coffee. They were sitting on the flagstone paved back patio of the family home, enjoying the morning before the heat drove them indoors. “But you’ll be seeing her again?” “Yes. Did you know she works with clubs in Miami Beach?” Enrique nodded. “Tiffy said something about that, I think. She works at one, too, but as a bartender and not advertising. You gonna use her to get into the clubs?” “Only if she wants to.” Miguel was looking out toward the water, a sign he was thinking. “Do you really think our cousin is ready for that step?” “Maybe. Gustavo is ambitious. I have to give him that. But he didn’t get any brains from our side of the family. Maybe not from mother’s either.” Enrique set down his cup, thinking back over what he’d seen and heard. “He’s fine with people. One of those idiots like me who smiles all the time and is quick with words. He seems to have balls, too. When the boys tried to give him a hard time he pushed back quick.” “I can hear a but there, brother.” “Yes. He’s too quick to use the family name. Still. Even after Pasqual and I have both talked to him about it. I think he might still be stealing car stereos, too. Something extra to make himself look bigger.” “But he does have an in with a club?” “Yes. That much I know for sure. One of the managers buys his stereos, I think. So he has leverage.” He paused. Trying to remember what Gustavo had told him. “And that manager also deals in his club.” “Good. Have him start there. What’s the club?” “The Palms. It’s on the edge of the Deco District. Been there for a couple of years, I think.” Enrique sipped more coffee. “I’ll send Pasqual to check it out.” “If it looks good, have Gustavo make his play. But keep a close eye on him. If he starts to step out of line…” “I’ll smack him upside the head, brother.” He smiled, but he couldn’t shake one worry. “How did the talk with Santos go?” “Asshole insists on coming here. I think he’s tied in with whatever’s going on in the Everglades, though. So we’re an afterthought.” “That’s not a bad thing, right? We want to be rid of him, after all.” “Yes, but we need to be sure we can replace what he brings to the table. You said this Bat brings good product, but he doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” “No, but very few in his line of work do.” Enrique paused, not sure how far he wanted to go. Then he decided. “Brother, I don’t think we’re going to find many people like us in this business. Or like those we deal with for cigars and rum. The players change every week or two. Especially if you have to deal with the Columbians. So far we’ve been lucky, but I don’t know how long that luck will hold. They’re expanding again.” “How so?” “New crews. It’s not like Calderone or the Revillas…it’s more a death by a thousand cuts. There’s some consolidation going on…I hear the names Manolo and Carrera more and more these days. And of course our old compadres the Boroscos and the Hermanos brothers, but they seem content with their little pieces of turf.” Miguel nodded, and Enrique felt a quick wash of relief seeing no anger in his eyes. “I’ve heard of Carrera, too. Another of the old smuggling crews. But Manolo is new to me.” “From what I can tell they split between here and Lauderdale.” “Still…we’ll let Gustavo try his luck with The Palms. And keep listening for new suppliers. If we have to replace Santos with two or even three, so be it.” Enrique didn’t curse until he was in the Corvette accelerating away from the house. He didn’t like Santos any more than Miguel did, but getting rid of their one dependable supplier didn’t strike him as a good move. Especially if they were trying to expand. But if Santos was getting distracted or messing with something political… “Just stick with the boats,” he muttered, accelerating into traffic and letting the big car have its head. “Easier.” He didn’t envy Miguel one bit, either with the distribution business or the cocaine. All he had to do was take things from point A to point B without attracting attention. And the money was damned good besides. Ever since they’d joined with Santos the green had been flowing in. He’d never seen anything like it, and from the way Miguel talked this was only the beginning. Looking ahead he snarled and downshifted. “Damn tourists.” Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he reached down and turned on the Alpine sound system. Let Miguel deal with Santos and the rest of those apes. I just have to keep uncle Jesus happy. And that’s a damned job some days. Thinking of Jesus brought another snarl to his lips. He couldn’t understand why the old guy just didn’t sit back and watch the money roll in. There was enough of it, both from his straight charter service and the cut Miguel gave him of their business. More than enough since they had to deal with outsiders to clean some of the money. But Jesus Estevez had to meddle…sticking his fingers where they weren’t wanted or needed. Spotting a gap in the gridlock, Enrique accelerated past a line of rental sedans mixed with station wagons hauling squalling children. At some point he knew he’d have to tell Miguel what Jesus was up to, but for now he wanted to handle things himself. Both because he knew what was happening and to show Miguel he could control his own side of the operation. Jesus Estevez ran his charter fleet from a suite of offices close to the Miami Beach Marina. Some of his boats were based there, while others operated from smaller marinas in the Keys and up and down the coast. Enrique swung his Corvette into a parking space, working the numbers through his head. The last time he’d counted, Uncle Jesus had something like ten or twelve boats under his control, ranging from small launches all the way up to seventy foot cabin cruisers and boats rigged for deep-sea sports fishing. And those were just the declared boats. Enrique suspected Jesus kept a handful of more discrete vessels on hand for other expeditions. Once a smuggler, always a smuggler he thought as he shut off the car and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. The receptionist was an older Latina woman Enrique guessed must have been unearthed when Jesus broke ground on the building. She could be friendly enough, but no one got past her without an appointment. Family or no. She gave Enrique one of her withering glances as he came in and jerked her head. “He’s waiting for you. And you’re almost late.” “But not really late, grandma.” Enrique hid a smile as her glare grew darker. Without another word he passed by her desk and into Jesus’s office. Jesus hunkered behind a huge desk designed to look both old and cheap, when Enrique knew it was neither. One of the old man’s conceits was trying to look like a simple, aging fisherman. It worked with most of his clients, but not Enrique. Dragging one of the heavy leather chairs in front of the massive desk, he sat down. “You said you needed to see me.” “Yes, I did. And take those damned glasses off. A man likes to see the eyes of the man he’s talking to.” Smiling, Enrique slipped off the glasses. His uncle’s pale blue eyes were already watering and bloodshot, hinting at an earlier liquid breakfast. “So talk.” “Who are you to tell me what to do?” “Who are you to demand I appear here?” Enrique smiled, lightening his voice a hair. “You seem troubled. What’s the matter? A client skip out on his charter fee?” “No, you ass!” Jesus slammed a meaty fist down on the desk, making the assortment of knick-knacks dotting the wide top jump. “It’s what your people did to stir up all that trouble south of town. Damned small boats and traffic.” “I don’t use a single route in that area, Jesus. You know that. And neither did you, I thought. No good fishing down there was what you always said.” “Maybe things have changed. And if you’re not messing around down there, how do you explain…” “I don’t. It’s not my concern. I have heard talk of some crazy Cubans or something playing around in the Everglades. ‘Training’ or whatever they call it. Maybe it’s related to them. But you can be sure I don’t have a single boat down there. It’s too exposed for my needs.” And I thought for yours. What the hell are you up to, old man? “Cubans? Shit! Last thing I need is those crazy bastards mucking around.” “We all feel the same, I think. Miguel isn’t sure who it is, but he’s heard talk of Nicaragua as well. And some former Government people. The kind of thing we stay far away from.” “Of course.” Jesus took a deep breath and sank back in his chair. “Look, Ricky, I’m sorry I shouted at you. It’s been a difficult time is all.” “Did someone tell you it was us? Because you should know I never work in that area.” “I don’t remember.” You’re lying, old man. “Maybe one of your crew saw a cigarette boat and thought it was ours. You’d better tell them there’s more of those boats on the water than there are cars in the stadium parking lot when the Dolphins play. And we aren’t the only ones using them.” “Yes, you’re probably right. It’s what I get for thinking about adding another couple of boats. We’re getting more tourists now, and…” Enrique nodded from time to time, even though he’d tuned out Jesus and was deep in his own thoughts. What’s the old man up to and why did he think we were operating down there? Maybe one of his men made a mistake, but it still doesn’t explain what he was up to working that area. I don’t think he understands how the game’s changed. “You’re not listening, Ricky.” “Of course I am, uncle. You were complaining about that new pilot you just hired. The one who wants to be a captain but…” Jesus laughed. “I was at that. Damned fool doesn’t know the stem from the stern and he thinks he’s ready to captain a fifty-footer. Hell, he’s not ready to captain the head. But that isn’t your problem. Sorry again to have bothered you. Look, you might tell Miguel I can handle a bit more cash now. With new boats coming on…” “I’ll let him know. And next time just ask, uncle.” And maybe don’t drink your breakfast. Getting to his feet, Enrique shook Jesus’s outstretched hand before turning and heading back out. It was starting to get hot, and he wanted to get back to the main boat shed. Pasqual was halfway in the engine compartment of one of the new Scarabs when Enrique strolled in. “Hey, boss! This one will be ready to make runs soon. Damned shame we can’t send her to Saul, but he’s still in County last I heard.” “You’ll do fine.” Enrique took off his sunglasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his light shirt. “Look, you hear anything about Uncle Jesus?” “Like what?” Pasqual clambered out of the engine compartment, wiping his hands on a mostly-clean rag. “I heard one of his crews had a run-in with those assholes down south. The ones with the assault rifles and the fancy, fast boats.” “Yeah. I heard something about that this morning. From him. He thought it was our people.” “No chance. We stay clear, and more so now that those assholes are running around.” “Good. But have you heard anything about what he might have been doing down there?” “No. But I can check around.” Enrique nodded. “Do that. I’m wondering just what the hell Uncle Jesus is up to. He also wouldn’t tell me who told him it was us working that area. He also said he was buying a couple more boats.” “That I did hear about. I thought you knew.” Pasqual looked back at the Scarab bobbing in the slight current in the boathouse wet dock. “Way I hear it he just bought for more boats. At least. Two are his usual sport-fishing rigs…big and flashy with TVs and full bars. But the other two? Go-fasts. Brand new ones. The kind no one uses for fishing.” Enrique nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. What the fuck is the old man playing at? He knows nothing about how things work now. Then he forced himself to smile. “Enough about that. Let’s take her out and see how your modifications feel.” Four hours later Miguel Mendoza gave his bother a long look. “And you’re sure?” “As sure as I’m standing here. First Jesus calls me in to yell at me about whatever those damned hired guns no one’s hiring are up to, and then I find out he’s adding boats. Explains why he said he can handle more money, but…” “Not what the hell he’s up to. At least you handled his little tantrum without giving anything away. That was good work. And sending Pasqual to poke around was also good work. I know Jesus is family, but…” “We need to know what he’s up to.” “Yes. And without getting poppi involved.” Enrique nodded. “That’s the last thing we need. He’d probably overreach and shoot Jesus himself.” Miguel nodded, thinking about their father’s famous temper. Never directed at his sons, the Mendoza temper had been known and feared up and down the coast. “And that we don’t need right now. I’ll have my people do some more checking on whoever’s running around with the guns and boats, and you have your people keep an eye on Jesus. If he tries to start a war with those carbons he’ll lose.” He didn’t mention Esteban had said men were coming in from outside Miami to train, some from outside Florida as well. Hard men. And for Esteban to say that meant they were likely former military. He managed to control his own anger until Enrique left. Then he slammed his fist down hard on the study desk. “Damn the man!” Why is Jesus pulling this shit now, of all times? First he says he can’t handle any more cash, then he goes and draws attention to himself AND wants to handle more money! Staring at the bookcases filled with leather-bound classics he doubted his father ever touched, Miguel took long, regular breaths. Getting angry wouldn’t solve the problem. Hell, it wouldn’t even help explain the problem in the first place. But he knew he needed to explain it, at least for himself, before he could solve it. They were at a delicate point, and he knew it. They’d made big inroads into Miami’s cocaine trade, mostly by doing what the family had always done: providing reliable, secure transportation services. But he’d learned from the missteps of others, and now they needed to secure enough of the distribution end of the pipeline to keep their product moving. At some point they might need to tie down a supplier or two, but for now they fell from the sky like raindrops in the spring. Getting product was easy, moving it once they got it on land wasn’t. Feeling his nerves building, Miguel turned away from the desk and started pacing. Movement helped him steady himself and stimulate his thought process, and he needed both right now. He knew about the respect his grandfather had commanded in the city…at least the parts of the city that mattered. Let the monied pigs cling to their big houses on the water. Real power in Miami rose from the waterfront, the gutters, and the swamps. And his grandfather had commanded real respect there. More than anything he wanted to regain that respect for the Mendoza name. He’d soaked up the stories at the old man’s knee…tales of sticking a .45 Colt in the mayor’s face and demanding he open the port again after the Federal government had tried to close it to cut back on smuggling. Of men shot and dumped in the Everglades because they tried to take one of the family’s loads of rum. And most of all how men had moved aside when Guillermo Mendoza entered a room. He also never forgot the look of abject disappointment in the old man’s eyes when anyone mentioned his son. Everything Miguel had done since he turned eighteen was aimed at restoring the family name. Business school. Taking over and expanding the distribution business; along with funneling money from it to Enrique so he could buy better boats. Even his father had continued smuggling rum, and later cigars once Castro’s blight swept over Cuba. It had taken Miguel to increase the traffic, and then move on to other commodities. A knock at the door snapped him out of his dreams. “We did the drop as instructed.” Esteban Morales stood in the doorway with one of his men. “Only twenty thousand, though.” “Good. Check back in…what did he say…twenty four hours. If there isn’t eighteen thousand waiting for us, bring me his head instead.” Esteban grinned. “We’ll do that, jefe. For what it’s worth, he’s got a good drop. I thought about leaving a man to watch it, but since that wasn’t in the instructions…” “Good thing you didn’t. He might be watching it to see if we’re doing the same.” Miguel chuckled. “Not that I think he’s smart enough for that, but someone close to him might be. Keep poking into his background, too. If he’s been doing this for any length of time there should more out there about him.” “I was thinking the same thing. We’re on it.” He started to turn, then paused. “I’ve been hearing more mutterings about those men in the swamps. Word is they’ll be moving out in a few days. One of the leaders is having some kind of trouble with Metro-Dade. Or so it’s said.” “Good. The sooner those assholes are gone, the better I’ll feel.” “As will I. And we may have a problem in Liberty City again. I know we don’t run much business there, but a crew out of Little Haiti is trying to make inroads and they might try picking up some of our business.” “They never learn, do they?” “Some do. But the power structure there…” Esteban shrugged. “With the Dominicans you have two, maybe three major gangs. The Haitians have at least three times that number, all small and looking to grow at the expense of the others. And none of them respect the established order.” “They must have learned that from the Columbians.” Miguel thought for a moment, then remembered his grandfather. “I want you to pick a location for a message, Esteban. Something that will resonate with these idiots. When the plan’s ready, let me know. I want to take part.” “But you…” “The men only respect a boss who’s willing to get his hands dirty, my friend. I’ve been on a handful of runs with Enrique, but to your men I’m an abstract. They need to see I’m willing to do what they do, and that I understand what they do.” He raised his hand. “I know it’s a risk, but it’s one I need to take.” “Of course. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow, I think. My people only just learned of this, so we’re still collecting information. I think I already know the gang we need to hurt, though. They killed a dealer who buys from us last week after he wouldn’t change suppliers. Or so the streets say.” “Be as sure as you can, Esteban. When my grandfather stuck, it was always hard and at the right people. A good model to follow, don’t you think?” When Esteban was gone, Miguel gave the study a final glance before heading upstairs. Now wasn’t the time to get him involved with the Jesus situation, if there was a situation. Questions needed to be answered first. That and he wanted the man’s full attention on Cash, and now the Haitians. Bastards need to learn to keep their place he thought as he walked through the wide second floor landing and opened the balcony doors. They can kill each other all they want, but Liberty City is ours. Or it should be. The breeze wasn’t as refreshing as he’d hoped…just hot air being pushed from one side of the balcony to the other. But he could smell the ocean flowing through it, and that was enough. Things were going well. Maybe too well. And so far the police had been far away. He didn’t think their luck would last, but he wanted to exploit it while it did. Maybe those idiots in the swamps are good for something after all. Diverts attention away from us, even though we have to dodge their foolish war games. An image of Holly popped into his head, and he closed his eyes for a moment. She was beautiful, seemed intelligent, and was interested in him without knowing a thing about what he did. What his family did. Sooner or later she would know, and then other questions would be answered. But for now there was the prospect of dinner and whatever came afterwards. The dark Mercedes moved at a crawl, its tinted windows fully up against the afternoon Miami heat. Esteban Morales looked through the passenger side window, his sunglasses still on against what glare came through the tint. The driver was one of his best men, Little Havana born and bred. He kept the car moving just enough to avoid attention, yet slow enough for Esteban to study the street. “We should be there soon, boss,” he said, one hand on the wheel. “Good. I take it those are their men on the corner?” The driver snuck a quick look. “Yeah, that’s them. Usually there’s three.” “He’s back in the bar doorway. Thinks he’s clever.” Esteban chuckled. Those the same ones who hit the dealer?” “I think so. I’ve only seen one crew here so far. Always the same three.” He slowed to make a turn. “You want to go by again?” “No. No reason to give them a second look. And you’re sure this is the only crew they have in the district?” “I wouldn’t say sure, boss. They’re the only one I’ve seen.” “Good work. Always be honest in your estimates. I want to know what you know, not what you think I want to know. Who else has worked the area?” “Victor, I think. Maybe Hector and Lukas.” “I’ll speak with them. See if they can add anything. The boss wants us to be sure before we move.” I’d feel better if Lupe had been here, but he’s still digging on that Cash asshole. “What’s the difference?” Esteban smiled. He’d been thinking about what Miguel had said, and now it made perfect sense. “It shows we’re both hard and we can hit precisely at those who hurt us. Think about it: when someone pisses off the Columbians, they just start spraying. Don’t care who they hit so long as they hit someone. Like last month down by the marina. They took out the wrong crew entirely, but didn’t care. Guys who’d worked with them in the past, no less. This way, we show people that if you’re our friend, you’re safe. But if you hurt us, we will find you and hurt you.” The driver nodded slowly, starting to accelerate as they left the area. “It makes sense. Just never put words to it. And you’re right about the Garrillos crew. They have more enemies than ever before after that stunt at the marina.” Esteban nodded, but his thoughts had returned to what they’d seen by the bar. Three men. Haitians. And moving like they owned the street. He’d seen at least two pistols, the butts sticking out of their baggy pants like they didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe they didn’t. Metro-Dade didn’t patrol the area very much, and none of the locals were going to move on them. Not yet, at least.