Echoes - Part VII

[Robbie C.]

Randy Mather checked his range card again, making a pencil note on one of the buildings. “You got the guy about three hundred yards out? Coming out of building C?”

“Squirmy little shit in the red ball cap? Got him.” Dave adjusted the high-power spotting scope. “That's the third time he's been in and out of that dump.”

“Yeah. He's either got his girl in there and he's a damned rabbit or that's his stash house.” Randy added another note to the open notebook next to the range card. “I'm thinkin' stash house.”

It was almost dark now, and the handful of working streetlights were starting to flicker on. Public works didn't seem to like coming to this part of town, and Randy couldn't say he blamed them. It was something of a wasteland; a collection of decaying row houses turned into cut-rate apartments, dying corner stores, and an inordinate number of liquor stores flashing their neon to make up for the loss of the streetlights. “If you can't give 'em hope, keep 'em drunk so they don't notice,” he muttered.

It wasn't new. He'd seen the same thing in Vietnam in the eyes of the peasants working their fields, wondering not ifsomeone was going to take their crop, but when. And in the faces of men and women in Butte when the mines started slowing down and closing. Once-proud buildings falling into disrepair as jobs vanished, taking hope with them. Both Butte and those damned peasants were stubborn...they kept going. But the cost was often too high.

He might have ended up just like the rail-thin kid in the cap if it hadn't been for his Marine father and the stories he told of his great-grandfather, who'd been one of the old-time Deputy U.S. Marshals. With examples like that he knew what he had to do, even though the Pacific had soured his father on many things in life. But he knew not everyone had those examples. He wasn't going to go soft on the kid down there, but he figured he understood at least a bit of where he came from.

“Any sign of those jackoffs they had on security?”

Dave's voice brought him back to the sweltering rooftop. They'd been in the hide since a bit after noon, their sweat soaking into the tar paper covering the building's slightly sloped roof. “Not for an hour now, I'd say.”

“That ain't good. If the Columbians are anything like the NVA, they'll try to hit during watch changes.” He shifted the scope a hair. “I got that damned spider thing goin', Randy. Somethin's gonna go down.”

Randy nodded. He'd learned years ago to trust Dave's strange feelings, and it had surprised him to find out Crockett had the same gift. He'd not been happy when they'd drawn the task force cover assignment, but he'd changed his mind as soon as he met Castillo. And he had to admit the rest of them had grown on him. And Crockett was another Marine, even if he'd been a pogue. They were damned fine detectives, though he did wonder a bit about their manhunting skills. But he hadn't expected miracles. Manhunting was something the marshals did for a living; for vice cops it was more of an afterthought.

Still, he admitted Crockett's instincts were damned good. He was making the right moves, and wasn't afraid to seek advice from people who'd done it before. Picking up the powerful night glasses, he swept the four-way intersection again, looking for patterns or broken patterns indicating trouble. So far it had just been customers, but spread out more than he'd think was normal for this neighborhood. Gang wars had a way of messing with everyone's business.

He picked the kid up just as he entered the golden cone of a streetlight on the far side of the intersection. Looking down, Randy confirmed from his notes what he thought he'd seen. “Got a repeat customer. Remember the kid in the Santana shirt we thought looked out of place? He's back. Coming in from Indian country and moving fast.”

“Got him. Three twenty five and closing. He got any support?”

“Negative. Just him. Can't see his hands, and he's heading right for ball cap. I think we got a live one.”

“It's like the old days, partner. We just get to sit and watch. Except this time we can't even try to fool some dumb butter bar into giving us a green light.”

“Yeah. But we'll have our day.” Randy watched one kid close in on another in the dappled light from failing streetlights and blinking blue and purple neon. Something flared from around Santana's waistband, and the pops of the shots reached his ears about the time he saw the dealer double over clutching at himself and fall to the cracked blacktop. Santana cranked off three more shots, sending a message more than trying to finish the job, and took off at a dead run for the shadows that had spawned him. It was over in less than fifteen seconds.

“Well...damn.” Dave didn't move from the spotting scope. “And NOW his security shows up. Assholes.”

“They're Dominicans, right? 8-Ball Kings judging from the tats. I'd say their life expectancy just dropped dramatically.” Randy chuckled to hide his real feelings about the waste they'd just witnessed. “Unless the Kings are runnin' out of cannon fodder.”

“At least they got the decency to pull his stash before they run off an' hide.” Dave twisted his lips into a snarl. “It's like watchin' the Ruff-Puffs recover their own wounded.”

“I'll bet you a beer no one calls the cops for another ten minutes.”

“I ain't touchin' that one. I already owe you a damned case as it is.”

Randy nodded, looking back down at his notes. It had been a productive first day in terms of documenting this corner. Who the players were. What the action looked like. And now they knew the rules of engagement. At least for today. “Let's give it a few and then pack it in. If Metro-Dade shows up they'll scare all the locals away, and I don't care to watch them tromp through a crime scene. It's too late to displace to another hide.”

“Yeah.” Dave turned on his side, leaving the spotting score for the first time in almost an hour. “You think this'll pay off? I mean for real?”

“It helps the boss build a picture of the AO. You seen what they got. Shit. Anything we can give 'em helps make it easier when the time comes. And you've seen this crew work. The time WILL come.”

“I know. Makes all the damned difference in the world.”

Randy nodded, trying not to see the pool of dark blood around the body sprawled in the street. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes passed before he heard the first siren split the night. “You would have lost.”

“Fuck you.”

Thirty minutes later they broke down their gear and called it a night. Shadows slipping from shadow to shadow until they reached the street and disappeared like bad dreams with the coming of dawn.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.” Martin Castillo pulled his black leather tie tight and lined it up with his shirt. Then he tugged on the suit coat, hiding the wince that accompanied muscles gone tight from lack of use. And the wound. He couldn't forget about the wound. Not that it would let him, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart if he let the pain meds go for too long. But he could see the worry in Trudy's face and wanted her to smile. “If you think I'd pass up another ride in that car you're crazy, detective.”

She laughed, a real laugh that came from her heart and made him smile. “Ok. But no drag racing this time. Unless they challenge me. Then it's on.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” He smiled again, mostly for her benefit but also because he had the pain under control. It would be some days, maybe weeks, before he could move without a hitch, a pull, to remind him of Maynard's bullet. But he also had to keep his word to Tubbs.

The Challenger roared to life, and soon they were on the highway heading back to Miami. He sat back, watching Trudy focus on her driving and road around her. He'd discovered he liked watching her when she didn't know he was doing it. She was so natural then. So confident and possessed of ability. It was one of the things he knew had attracted him to her.

Sonny was in mid-briefing when they walked in, and words died on his tongue when he saw Castillo following Trudy. “Marty! I...”

“Carry on, detective. I'm just here to make a few calls.” He pointed to his abdomen and grimaces. “Doctor's orders. It's still your task force, detective.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

He nodded, seeing the genuine concern in Sonny's eyes, and then let the man get back to business. Maybe they'd talk later, but for now he wanted to let Crockett run his show. And sit down before he fell down. The walk up had taken more out of him than he'd realized.

Trudy noticed and moved to help. “You need some water, Marty? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be good. Especially if it's Stan's. Then you can be with them if they need you.” He raised his hand. “I'll be fine. It's just a few calls and then maybe I'll talk to Crockett. You have my word, người yêu.”

“Is that Vietnamese?”

“Yes. It means true love.”

“I...”

“Go be with them. This is something I need to be alone to do.” He smiled, not wanting to see her cry. The words had just come out, but he couldn't think of any better. And now he needed to turn his heart to stone and reach out to the people who had tried to kill him at least twice.

The phone rang five times before someone picked up on the other end. “Extension 691.” The voice was male and bland. It could almost have been a recording. Almost.

“This is Castillo. Put Jacobs on.”

“There is no...”

“Just do it. Or others may find out about your connection to Maynard and Moncado.”

Seconds later a reedy voice echoed over the line. “Damn but you still play hard ball, Marty.”

“I don't appreciate men coming to kill me. Or my team being set up to be slaughtered.”

“Water under the bridge, Marty. Hell, that was a lifetime ago. We're a new brand now.”

“Not from where I sit. Not if you were using men like Maynard and Moncado. But we cleaned up that mess for you.”

“And did a damned fine job of it.” Castillo could hear the envy in the man's voice. “Left no trace and let those assholes of J. Edgar's look like they got caught with their pants down and their hands on their junk.”

“I need everything you have on a baby that was last seen at the Calderone villa in Los Noches, Columbia, in 1987. Your people called DEA off. I don't care why. But I want everything you have on the child. Every picture. Intercept. All of it.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked for it. Consider that the price for Moncado.”

“What about Maynard?”

“He's worth more.”

The line was silent for a time. “Ok, Marty. I don't know what we have. Central America ain't my beat. But I'll dig around and see what turns up.”

“The debt for Moncado is only paid if I get product, Jacobs. ALL the product. And we'll know if you try to shortchange us.”

“Who? You and that girl Friday of yours? Or the little Mick-ette from the marshal's service?”

Castillo focused on his breathing. Feeling the air move in and out. When he spoke his voice wasn't his own. “So that's how you want to play? How's your son, Jacobs? Not the one you lie about to your wife, but your real son. The one you had with that Nigerian prostitute. Have you figured out how to smuggle him into the country yet? Or how to explain him to your wife? Your boss? Foster's still an old-school Klansman, isn't he?”

“God damn you, Castillo!”

“You aren't the only who who stays current, Jacobs. Don't ever forget that. And you know better than to play games with me. You'll always lose.”

“Fine. We'll do it your way. But if I get you want you need this clears Moncado off the table?”

“Yes. Call me when you have something.” Castillo hung up before the man could say anything else, and then sat looking out the window for what felt like an hour. Waiting for his heart to slow to normal. And for his eyes to become human again. He hated dealing with the Company. But he knew how to beat them.

He was still looking out the window when Crockett came in. “Trudy said you wanted to see me, lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Castillo got up and waved Sonny to the chair. “You should sit behind the desk. It's your place until I'm ready to resume full duties.” Moving slow to avoid angering his stitches he came around and sat in front of the desk. “How's the team doing?”

“Good. At least I think they're good.” Sonny looked down at his hands. “Tubbs is half eaten up by his kid, but he's staying focused. We've got him set up in the Hilton so he can play Teddy Prentiss if he has to. Dave and Randy had their first overwatch last night and saw one of the 8-Ball Kings' dealers get hit. I think Stan and Lester are going to elope with the Roach Coach, and Trudy and Mindy are crushing it with their intel.” He shrugged. “Me? I'm just glad I haven't shot the fax machine yet.”

“I know you think you're more useful out there. On the street. And sometimes you are.” Castillo locked eyes with Sonny, using his gaze to full effect. “But they need you steering things. Keeping them focused and on course. This will get messy very soon, and they'll count on you to have a cool head. You keep Stan and Lester focused on the right surveillance package, make sure Trudy and Mindy have the right pieces to put together, and point Dave and Randy at the right targets. They're incredible weapons. And Tubbs? Keep his head in the game. Lean on him like I leaned on you. He's in a bad spot now and is looking to you to get him through it. And how are you?”

“Me? Hell, I don't know. Got some crazy lady who keeps breaking into my boat and waiting for me naked, or luring me onto her boat and doing the same thing. Maybe she's a smuggler, maybe she's trying to play me. Or maybe she's just plain whacko. I don't know. And then I got this to track, and that damned machine to keep from shooting.” He cracked a crazy smile. “Some days it's all I can do to keep from rubbing myself in tuna oil and offering myself up to Elvis.”

“So everything's normal?”

Sonny laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is at that. I just got used to having you around to keep one part of the universe cool.”

“I'm a phone call away.” Castillo smiled, not sure how to proceed. It wasn't in his nature to ask for favors, especially this sort of favor. “Sonny, I...”

“I'll look after her, lieutenant. I know enough Vietnamese to know what you called her. And I've lost enough to know what that means. I'll keep her safe no matter the cost. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” There was nothing left to say. Groaning with the effort, Castillo got to his feet. “I think I might take a nap on the couch. I remember it being comfortable.”

“Couch my ass. Trudy can run you home. Send her back if you don't need any help, but we hashed out the intel from last night's shooting while you were threatening people on the phone.”

He pushed the pain back down. “Brief me.”

Sonny grinned. “Best behavior, kids. The lieutenant wants a briefing.”

Stan tossed off a makeshift salute. “Roach Coach and Marilyn reporting for duty.” His grin threatened to engulf his entire face.

Castillo bit. “Marilyn?”

Stan turned to Lester. “It's your name.”

Lester turned a light pink and shifted in his chair. “We...uh...I decided we needed a name for the roach on top of the van, lieutenant.”

“I see. Good call.” Castillo held back his own smile. “Is that all you have to report?”

“We got the warrants just the other day and it's been hell trying to get the taps in.” Stan grimaced. “I don't think the sanitation department has touched a trash can in those neighborhoods in weeks. And don't get me started on the kids! Little bastards will try to steal your shoes.”

“Keep at it. And remember; they don't see much hope down there.”

“No, you're right, lieutenant. It's just slow going is all. But the couple we have in are starting to produce. Mostly on the 8-Ball Kings. The Double Treys are next on the hit list.”

Randy looked at Castillo and nodded. “Dave and I had to watch those Columbians whack one of the 8-Ball Kings' dealers last night. Neither kid looked to be over seventeen. The shooter was wearing a Santana t-shirt and looked to be sporting the colors of Los Tech 9s, but we didn't a good look at him. He shot and ran. What struck us odd, lieutenant, was that the dealer's security guys both disappeared for close to an hour before the shooting. They'd been regular as a damned Swiss watch before that, at least one of them watchin' out the door of this fleapit liquor store every time someone made a buy.”

“What was he dealing?”

“No way to be sure.” Sonny jumped in after Randy shot him a look. “We can put in a call to Metro-Dade and see what the uniforms picked up, but it's not likely to be much.”

Randy took up the narrative again. “Took the boys in blue almost a quarter hour to show up. By then the buzzards had picked the body over. By that I mean his supposed guards. They showed up right after the shooter took a powder and cleaned up his cash an' what looked to be his stash.”

“I couldn't see for sure through the spotting scope.” Dave kicked in his share. “But it looked more like blow to me. Leastwise I didn't see any of those crosses on the baggies.” He shrugged. “Course it was gettin' on full dark, too. Even with the spotter's scope I couldn't pick up that level of detail clearly. Not the way he was movin' when he was dealing.”

“What does that tell us?”

Mindy took up the challenge. “We don't have enough intel to know for sure, but it looks to me like the Columbians are using this to both recruit new members and whittle down the Dominicans' numbers advantage. If this was a new initiate, the Tech 9s just went up by one and the Kings went down by one. Maybe three if the two guards were paid off. It might also mean they don't think they have the firepower to run straight at the Dominicans just yet.”

Trudy nodded. “I'm with Mindy on this one, lieutenant. I don't think either side has the firepower they want, which is good for Metro-Dade. But if the Columbians keep picking off one or two dealers a day, it'll add up quick.”

Castillo nodded. He could feel himself wearing down, but there was one box left unchecked. “Rico?”

“Nicky Fuentes is playing hard to get, but I'm about to reach out and get his skinny ass.” Rico grinned, but Castillo could see that distant look in his eyes and was troubled. “He's got until the end of the day and then Cooper's gonna pay that Trixie a call.”

“We've reached out to Gina for some neighborhood intel. Thanks to Stan for helping with that one, and hopefully it didn't cost you too much.” Sonny smiled in a show of appreciation. “I promised her we wouldn't need to talk to those girls at all. Just any info she could send from talking to them.”

“Good thinking. And we'll keep that promise. Those girls she works with have been hurt enough.” Now my body's had enough. “Keep up the good work, all of you. I was wondering if you could spare Detective Joplin to drive me home? The doctors still won't...”

“You got it, Marty. Just do what they say and get better soon.”

 

Once Castillo and Trudy left, Sonny turned to the remainder of the task force. “Like he said, good job everybody. Stan, Lester, keep at those taps. I know it's hot and it smells out there, but it's a huge help. We're not gonna make this case without taps and tapes. Mindy, if anything comes in from Gina today it's top priority. See how what they say lines up with what we know and fill in any gaps we have. Dave, Randy. That was solid work last night. I know it ain't easy, but what you're doing helps us as much as what Stan and Lester are doing. Once the taps kick in you'll be putting faces to names.” Sonny turned to Rico. “And Tubbs, we got the most thankless job of all. I think it's about time we went and lit a fire under Izzy Moreno's ass.”

 

It was the look in their eyes he loved the most. That instant when it changed from skeptical to wanting what you were selling. There was nothing like it in the world as far as Izzy Moreno was concerned. Except, perhaps, for the adoring gaze of some willing senorita. But those looks were few and far between. The wanting to buy what he was selling looks came far more often.

Leaning down, he reached into his bag and pulled out the shoe. Sunlight danced off his sequin-covered tuxedo jacket. The damned thing was hotter than hell, and he sweat buckets every time he wore it. But something about the glitter attracted the old fools and their women, and Izzy was willing to sweat for a decent profit.

As they watched, he lifted the shoe over his head like it was the Olympic torch. “This, my frens, is the very choo worn by the great sex symbol Richard Gere. His very sweat, the totalness of his manly essentials, shaped this choo.” He ran a finger along the side, careful not to smear the polish he'd applied not an hour before. He'd tried selling tonics, costume jewelry, and even a few prime lots in the middle of swamps, but for some reason the shoe always sold the best.

Looking out at the small crowd of white-haired men and their blue-haired women Izzy felt a sense of power. They were watching him! Hanging on his every word! With a grand flourish he waved the shoe past his face. “The finest leather goes into thees choos! Stitched by the hands of expertized Italian craftsmen! An' the leather is taken only from the most magnificent bulls from Pomploma. Hemingway wrote of those bulls. An' would Hemingway lie to joo? Would Richard Gere lie to joo? No!” He swept his gaze over the crowd again and his gut turned to ice. No! Why now? Damn joo, Crockett an' Tubbs! Turning, he set the shoe down on one of the park benches forming his little amphitheater. “An' now I mus speak with my overseas sales constituents. Joo may admire, the choo, but you mus not touch the choo.” He pushed through the crowd, his genial smile twisting into something different the closer he got the two detectives.

“Crockett! Tubbs! Why do joo always have to rain on my entrepenurialsit parade? I'm not hurting no one. I don't shoot no one.”

“No, but you rip them off, Izzy.”

“Lies! Unfoundational accusations!” Deep down Izzy knew it was true. He did rip them off. But was it really any different than the bankers promising them eternal wealth if they signed over their pensions for some stock that didn't exist? At least when they bought from him, they got a pair of shoes that might actually fit and make them feel good for the few weeks the shoes lasted.

He grinned, knowing it would do no good. He and the two detectives went back years, almost as long as he'd been in Miami. Life in Fidel's Cuba taught Izzy much about how hard things could be, and made him appreciate what little he'd been able to carve out in the States. Even his fat, greedy uncle and shiftless nephew didn't appreciate Miami the way Izzy did. In his own way he supposed he liked Crockett and Tubbs, even though all they wanted was information or someone to do a little dirty work for them. At least they paid well and on time.

“Nothing unfounded about it, chump. But we ain't in the mood. What we need is information on some Dominicans, and we need it yesterday.”

“Then jore outa luck, Tubbs. This is today.”

“Don't make me shove one of those shoes down your slick little throat, Moreno.” Crockett narrowed his eyes, making Izzy's gut shift again. “Dominicans, Izzy! And who's Nicky Fuentes dealing with down there?”

“Little Nicky? That punk? That pimple on the ass of Miami? Joo know what they say about that little punk?”

“No, and I don't want to know. I just want to know how he got in with the Dominicans. They don't like outsiders. Which makes me wonder why they like you.”

“Maybe it's because my aunt, rest her soul, was Dominican. Joo think I'm lying, but it's true.” He chuckled. “Ok, maybe she jus' go to the Dominican Republic once, but they don' know that.”

“Izzy...they could find out pretty damned quick.”

“Hokay Tubbs! Joo need to lighten up, meng. Like a lot.” Over the years he'd learned how far he could push, but Tubbs was touchy today. That made Izzy nervous. He trusted Tubbs less than he did Crockett, and that wasn't saying much. “Nicky's tied in through a cat named Hernan. Mid-level in one of thos' inbred socializations they call gangs. Joo know...Los Gatos, El Grande, whatever they come up wit' that sounds...joo know...tough. Like they got testiculations.” Izzy peered at them through his black-framed glasses, trying to remember if he'd ever heard Hernan's last name, and if he had if it was worth testing their patience and holding out for more cash. One look at Tubbs decided it for him. “An' no, I don' know the cat's last name. Nicky was jus braggin' on it one night when he was with Trixie.”

“You take one of her freebies for a pair of those shoes?”

Izzy puffed up. “Who do joo thin' I am, meng? Izzy Moreno don't take no freebies. An' if I did it wouldn't be from that walking plague. I hear her las' boyfriend almost lost his parts because of some disease he got.” Ok, he hadn't quite heard that. The story was more like the guy found out she was doing it with six of his friends and dropped her in disgust. But Izzy liked his version better.

Still, he needed to get back to it. He still owed money on this shipment of shoes, and there was another waiting for him to take possession. “I'll keep thees ear to t' street. But now I gotta get back to work.”

Crockett threw up his hands. “Go! Get to it!”

There was more, but Izzy wasn't listening. Oh, he could get what some people called a real job, but then he'd never see those eyes again. That look that came just before the sale. “Now, gen'lmen. Ladies. If joo will permit me...these choos...”