Genesis, Part VI

[Robbie C.]

Miami, 1985

After the events in All I Want for Christmas and Rotten to the Core

“You know what day it is, partner?”

Sonny Crockett lowered his binoculars and looked over at Ricardo Tubbs sprawled in the Ferrari’s passenger seat. “The day all that Florida sun finally baked your New York brain?”

“Nothing that drastic. Though I gotta say it’s playing hell with my dry cleaning bill. Sweat an’ Armani do not mix.” Rico chuckled. “Come on. You don’t remember?”

Sonny shook his head. It hasn’t been that long since Lou was killed, or since Castillo took over. “No clue, Rico.” He raised the glasses again. “Kinda like ol’ Chuckie out there ain’t got no clue what he’s doing with that boat.”

“It’s been a year…to the day…since the Rojas cousins tried to rip us off.”

“Hell, that’s all? I thought it was something serious. I can’t track of every two-bit dealer who tries to rip us off or fill us full of holes.” He paused. “I am damned glad Lou made us take Bluto and Lee Harvey Oswald, though. And those two cars of uniforms.” The memory started coming back now…he’d managed to drop one of the big guys with the Rojas cousins, but when three more appeared from behind the bar he’d thought they were screwed. Until Stan Switek came charging through the door like an overweight Rambo with a shotgun.

“Gave the chief his bust.” Rico chuckled again. “Don’t think he was all that happy about a shootout in Little San Juan, though.”

“Screw him.” Sonny’s words were more of a snort. “He can make his own damned showboat arrests, then. And speaking of showboats, I think this whole thing’s a bust. Call it in and see if we can pack up and go home.”

Nodding, Rico reached for the hand radio. “This must be one of the seventy-five percent of Izzy’s tips that are total crap. “No dice, lieutenant.”

Martin Castillo’s even voice sounded a touch tinny through the radio speaker. “Stay on it.”

“Did you do something to piss him off?”

Sonny shook his head. “Not me, partner. I even made the morning briefing on time. Maybe he’s still pissed about that little show with the FBI at the yacht club.”

“Or Margaret. He ain’t exactly that lady’s number one fan.” Rico lowered the radio and checked the side mirror. “Whatever it is, we gotta figure it out and undo it. I can’t take many more stakeouts.”

“You and me both.” Sonny shifted in the driver’s seat, tracking the boat’s movement. Chuckie was a tiny cog in an even smaller machine…four goofballs who’d never managed to move more than five kilos of low-grade coke in their entire miserable lives. Why the hell that idiot Moreno thought these were big-time guys is beyond me. Maybe he’s huffing the paint he puts on those damned shoes. “It’s not like Chuckie and his guys are gonna lead us anywhere.”

“Maybe we can…”

“Hang on.” Sonny shifted, bringing the binoculars into tighter focus. “There’s a second boat coming into view. Bigger. Looks like a Scarab, but I can’t tell what model from this distance.”

“They doing an exchange?” Rico raised his own glasses, moving so he could see where Sonny was looking.

“Don’t look like it. The Scarab’s hauling ass. Trying to close the distance. He’s maybe fifty yards away from Chuckie.”

“Hell, Chuckie’s trying to run.”

“Waste of time.” Sonny watched as something arced from the bigger boat into Chuckie’s converted fishing rig. “Holy shit…they’re…” The white and yellow flash of the explosion blotted out the other boat, and the boom reached the shore a second or two later.

“And you have no idea who they were meeting?” Martin Castillo sat at the head of the table, his black suit untouched by the day’s heat.

“No, lieutenant. No clue.” Sonny shook his head. “Hell, Moreno’s tip didn’t mention any kind of meeting. Just that a shipment was coming in at that dock and a rough time.”

“What do we know about these men?”

“Chuckie was small time. Very small time. He and his three buddies mostly moved weed. They used to go to the University of Miami, and sold almost exclusively to that crowd. Word on the street is they’d starting mixing in some coke, but very small quantities. Never more than a key or two.” Sonny looked up from his notes. “They were basically just gettin’ by gettin’ by. No ambition as far as anyone could tell.”

“Stay on it. No one blows up a boat like that without a reason. And I want to know the reason.”

Back in the squad room, Sonny looked at Rico and shook his head. “I can think of at least three meatballs who’d blow up a boat for no reason, and another three who’d do it just to watch the explosion.”

“You wanna tell Castillo that?”

“Hell, no.” Sonny was emphatic. Lou used to scream and shout, but you could wear him down. Castillo just stared at you, and Sonny didn’t think it was possible to wear him down. You either convinced him or you didn’t. End of story. “Maybe those meatheads blundered into something.”

 

It had been a good year. Miguel Mendoza looked at Enrique Mendoza and smiled. “We’ve done well, brother.”

“Yeah. Once the cops took out Calderone for real an’ those two crazy Indians, things opened up.” Enrique swallowed the last of his rum and poured another from the bottle on the table. “And you were right to stay above it all.”

“Let them kill each other and move in to pick up the pieces.” Miguel smiled again. It had worked with the Rojas. Let them rot in prison while we take what was rightfully ours. “And fill in gaps left by others.”

“I think our friend from Bolivia is going to want to meet you. He keeps making noise about wanting to have a drink with the Miami end of the pipeline.”

Miguel nodded. He’d been anticipating the request. “I take it he wants to come to Miami.”

“Yes. Though I think it’s more for the women.”

“Good. We’ll show him a good time. Within limits, of course. Say a three day visit. I’ll meet him on the first day while he’s still reasonably sober.”

Enrique laughed. “Are you sure you haven’t met him already?”

“Let’s say I know the type. Maybe send him out on one of Jesus’s boats for some fishing. Nowhere near our routes, of course.”

“I’ll see to it.” Enrique started to turn, then his face darkened. “About that other business…”

“It had to be done. Those idiots came too close to one of our routes one time too many. Once is an accident, but after that it becomes a problem. Don’t worry, Ricky. The boat was stolen from the Borrascos and should be burning off the coast by now. There’s no way it can be tied back to us.” Miguel sipped his own rum. “We never kill without purpose, but we will also defend what is ours.”

“I know. I’m not complaining. I just wish I would have known sooner.”

“Next time you will, brother. This was a situation where we had to move quickly.” The lie rolled easily off Miguel’s tongue. He had no intention of keeping Ricky informed about this side of the business unless there was no other way. What he doesn’t know he can’t tell one of his friends. Or his women. He’s incredibly useful, my brother, but you have to keep his limits in mind.

As always, Esteban Morales timed his appearance to perfection. “The boat is a cinder twenty miles off the coast,” he said as he poured himself a drink. “We think only their pilot was on the target boat, but he should be enough. He was the one who kept wandering into our lanes.”

“And the others will be contend to keep smoking their product and maybe screwing some college girls who are too poor to pay for their drugs any other way.” Miguel nodded. “Excellent work. Be sure the crew gets a bonus.”

“We may need to bring some more men on board. It’s been heating up since the Revillas were taken out. Some of their former people are quick to shoot, and they upset the balance.”

“Like the Rojas before them.” Miguel walked over to the window. “Where do you think our next threat lies, Esteban?”

“Our suppliers. We control our end quite well, using only distributors we trust or Ricky knows.” He shrugged. “But the other end…”

“The Bolivian wants to meet with me. I told Ricky to arrange it.”

“I’ll have my best men close. You can bet that ape will be traveling with at least four security men. Maybe more.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Never trust a turncoat, jefe. Not unless you have a gun to his head. And even then you must be careful.”

“I am curious to see what he wants. I expect he might try to raise his price, but he’d be hard-pressed to find another group as reliable as we are. We’ve lost how many boats in the last two years? Three? And two of those were to weather. No one else even comes close. I may have to remind him of that.” He stood for a moment. “And what of Metro-Dade?”

“Their Vice unit has a new commander, as you know. My sources tell me he’s a Cubano who used to be DEA.” Esteban stared into his glass. “He’s been very effective, even in the short time he’s been here.”

“He led the operation against the Revillas, didn’t he? And shut down Lao Li? I’d say effective is a bit of an understatement. But his unit’s small, and stretched thin. So long as he stays focused on the bigger rats, the smaller mice can play to their hearts’ content. The secret for us, my friend, is to continue to look like a mouse as we grow to be a lion.”

 

“Joo know this messes with my excretorial enterprizations, right?”

Sonny looked down though his sunglasses at Izzy Moreno, resplendent in a tuxedo he must have stolen from a prom rental shop in the process of going out of business. Back in 1979. “Look, Moreno, Tubbs and I ain’t got all day. Just like those shoes over there ain’t got all day. Looks like the paint’s starting to melt.”

Izzy let out a small shriek. “Joo know that those choose…”

“Yeah, yeah…made from the finest bull testicles to enhance your manhood.”

Izzy’s eyes went wide. “Joo are brilliant! I must use that line…”

“The hell you must. Now you’ve gone and made Rico cranky.”

“Yeah.” Rico leaned in, his Versaci suit a strong counterpoint to the confection Izzy sported. “And when I get cranky…”

“Ok, ok. Joo win. I only tell joo what I hear. Chuckie an’ his compadres stuck their enterprizationing noses in places they shouldn’t have been. In forbidden fruit. So they got those noses cut off.” Izzy made a chopping motion with his hand. “Whack! Joo ain’t got no nose.”

“So who did the whacking?”

“No one is talking.” Izzy folded his arms across his thin chest. “Even with the Revillas gone, they cast a long shadow. Joo know…like the grimy reaper.”

“You hear anything, you let us know. Get it?” Sonny jabbed him once in the chest with his index finger. “You don’t want me lookin’ for you, Moreno.”

They were back in the Ferrari before Rico spoke. “You believe the little worm?”

“Yeah, I think I do.” Letting out on the clutch, Sonny cut off a cab and shot into traffic. “He’s not scared enough to be holding something back.”

“And after the Revillas, I can see why no one would be talking. That and Izzy hasn’t been same since those kids went nuts.” Rico nodded slowly. “So you think Chuckie and his merry band just stumbled into someone’s route and got whacked?”

“Yeah. The big question is whose route? And why kill a dumbass like Chuckie to keep it under wraps?” Sonny eased the Ferrari around a station wagon hauling a Little League team’s worth of kids, glad Rico hadn’t mentioned Brenda when he brought up those kids. He still missed her some days, but the memory of Rico standing beaten and bruised in her doorway always won out.

“You know where Chuckie usually ran?”

“No. He and Burnett move in different circles. Very different circles.” Sonny downshifted and changed lanes. “But I might have an idea about who would know…”

Half an hour later Sonny turned down a dirt road and slowed the Ferrari to almost a crawl. “Been a bit since I’ve been out this way,” he said, pushing his Ray Bans up on his nose. “Not even sure if he’s still here to be honest. Or if he’ll be glad to see me if he is.”

The light onshore breeze was enough to keep a weatherbeaten sign proclaiming ‘boat repairs’ swaying. It projected out from a shop almost as faded as the sign and looking like it had been slapped together with scrap lumber salvaged from the last hurricane to pass through. But Sonny knew looks could be deceiving, especially in his line of work. Shutting off the Daytona, he got out and looked around. “Earl! Where you hidin’ yourself? I know you’re here. That damned old Ford of yours is a dead giveaway.” He nodded toward a pickup parked along the side of the building. Whatever color it might have been had disappeared under a patina of rust and mud.

“Keep it down, would ya?” A rail-thin figure detached itself from the thick shadows to the rear of the building. “I got a reputation to maintain.”

“When the hell did that happen?”

Earl fit his name, right down to the long face, thinning hair, and wad of tobacco stuffed under his lower lip. “I thought we were square, Crockett. What the hell you doin’ bothering me?”

“Just had a quick question about someone you might know. An’ I really don’t want to go poking around that workshop. Or the boat shed.”

Earl sent a thick steam of tobacco juice into the weeds by the side of the building, and Sonny hid a smile as he saw Rico wince. “I’ll gave ya one. For old time’s sake.”

“Just keep telling yourself that. You know a guy named Chuckie Stokes? Any idea what routes he favors?”

“That’s two. But it’s all good. I got a two for one special goin’ today. Yeah, I know Chuckie. Guess I should say ‘knew,’ though, since he got his shit blown up.” Earl grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Yeah. Good news travels fast. Anyhow, I never worked with him but I always heard he liked to use the old routes. You know, the things them old rum-runners used to take. Always ran ‘em alone, too. Guess it worked ok for that damned weed he liked so much.”

“Obviously not too well, though.” Sonny glanced toward the water. “Musta pissed someone off.”

“Chuckie had the personality of a pit bull. Ain’t surprised he pissed someone off.” Earl spat again. “We done here?”

“Yeah. And that didn’t hurt so much, did it?”

Back in the car, Rico let out a long sigh. “They send that chump over from hillbilly central casting?”

“Yeah.” Sonny gunned the Ferrari down the dirt road, wanting to get away from a place that reminded him just a bit too much of where he’d come from and what he might have become with a few different choices. “He’s the last of a breed. Hell of a boat mechanic. One of the best you never heard of.”

“So how…”

“Receiving stolen goods. I pinched him back when I was with Robbery and cut him some slack. He doesn’t move product himself, but just about every small-time boat guy and quite a few of the older ones have their boats tuned by him.”

“Don’t see that we learned much.” Rico leaned back in the passenger seat.

“That’s where you’re wrong, partner.” Sonny grinned as he turned back onto pavement and floored it. “Those old run-runners were damned particular about their routes. And there aren’t that many still around who know where they are. They charted those babies for stealth and concealment, not a quick run to the beach from a boat in international waters. Harder than hell for the Coast Guard to find, let alone interdict.”

“And you think Chuckie stumbled on one someone’s still using?”

“Yeah. And judging from the boom they’re using it for more than rum, Cuban cigars, and weed.”

Before Rico could reply, the car phone buzzed. He answered, his face knitting into a frown as he listened. Then he killed the connection without a word.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Castillo wants us back. Like yesterday. Sounds like something just broke open.”

Grinning, Sonny floored the Ferrari. “Guess Chuckie will just have to wait.”

The rest of the team was already in the conference room when Sonny and Rico got there. Martin Castillo sat at the head of the table looking down at an open file folder in front of him. No one spoke. Stan and Larry looked tired, and Gina shook her head when Sonny made eye contact and thought about saying something. This does not look good.

“Crockett. Tubbs. I’m pulling you off the Stokes case.”

“So they’re ok with someone getting blown all over the coast?” The words came out before Sonny’s brain engaged, and he shook his head as he sat down. “Sorry, lieutenant. I know it’s not your call.”

Castillo didn’t move a muscle. “We’re not abandoning the Stokes investigation. This is temporary. They need more resources on a priority assignment. Calabrese and Joplin can’t be pulled in, and Switek and Zito are supporting them. And Dibble and Gorman are in court on the Escalante case. So that leaves the two of you. The mayor wants to clean up the beaches, but he doesn’t want additional uniforms. ”

“No reason to scare off the tourists, right lieutenant?” Stan chuckled and elbowed Larry in the ribs.

“Just don’t go wearing that Speedo you got stashed away, Switek.” Rico grinned. “I don’t think his honor would appreciate a bunch of heart attacks.”

“Enough.” Castillo’s flat word brought the banter to a halt. “We do our jobs. There have been complaints about a dealer on roller skates.”

“Manuel ‘Skates’ Santino.” Sonny yawned. “He’s a nickel and dime operation at best. I’ve puled him in a time or two, and he’s always back on the streets in a couple of hours.”

“It seems he almost ran down an old woman last week. Who happens to be related to the mayor’s chief of staff.”

“So we stake him out and take him down. Got it. I know where he usually does his little roller disco number, so it shouldn’t be too hard.” Sonny got to his feet. “Come on, Rico. Let’s go pay Skates a visit.”

“Do it by the book. It’s possible Santino has connections further up the chain. We might be able to turn him.”

“Guys? Just don’t let him get blown up, ok?”

“Blow it out your ear, Zito.” Sonny grinned just enough to show he knew Larry was joking. “Let’s get down to his usual beat and see what we can scare up. I don’t want to spend too much time on this, though. We still got to follow up on Chuckie.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I still wonder what that moron was doing using old routes.”

 

OCB shifts to Out Where the Busses Don’t Run

 

“It’s confirmed, Miguel. Our friend will arrive in three days. I have him booked in the Hilton for three days, and then he’s heading back to Bolivia.”

“Good work, Ricky. Hopefully we can keep him out of trouble while he’s here.” For once they were meeting outside the family home…in a yacht club his grandfather had been a charter member of. Pelican’s Nest. A stupid name, but one the old boys love. The small club rooms were both private and graced with fantastic views of the ocean. A good place to conduct business on more neutral ground. “I understand there was a bit of excitement out near one of Jesus’s routes.”

“One of the little fish was getting too close to it. Chuckie Stokes.”

“I remember him.” Miguel nodded slowly. “Doesn’t he usually move marijuana?”

“Yes, but his crew has been moving into more portable commodities.” Ricky shook his head. “Chuckie was good with a boat, not so good with his head. It was too much of a risk to have him operating so near one of our routes.”

“I agree. But it might have been handled in a more quiet way.”

“There is value in a message.”

Miguel smiled. “I recognize my own words, brother. And you’re right. There is value in a message.”

“I’ve already planned to shift our traffic away from that area for a time. Let the Coast Guard sniff around and convince themselves there’s nothing there. It might also serve to draw attention away from our visitor. He does have a bit of a reputation.”

“If he’s arrogant enough to travel under his own name.”

“He is. He says only women hide.”

“Of course he does.” Miguel shook his head. “How these people stay in business…”

“Often they don’t, brother. But it we’re in place, we just work with next asshole who grabs the reins.”

Miguel changed the subject. “How are the new boats working?”

“Very well. We can get a few more knots out of them, and they’re low enough profile the Coast Guard has trouble picking them up on radar. I’ve had Pasquale try them on one of the coastal routes, and they’re maneuverable enough to handle close-in work. I thing we’d do well to replace any losses with the newer models.”

Miguel ran the numbers in his head. The new boats cost more, but each run was also making them more. Enough that Jesus was having trouble laundering the cash through his business. ‘It only works if they’re chartering the Love Boat,’ the older man had chuckled when Miguel brought him the last footlocker of cash. ‘And I don’t have the Love Boat, nephew.’ “Do it.” Looking around at the oak panel walls of the club room, Miguel smiled. There were other ways to clean money…

“I still can’t believe grandfather was a member of this place.”

“A charter member,” Miguel said. “Never forget that part. It comes in handy when dealing with some of the idiots here.”

“You mean the ghost?”

“No. Otis Forsythe is quite progressive in spite of his looks. The only color he sees is green. I think grandfather knew his grandfather back in the old days. Maybe even screwed the same women. I understand the Forsythe family has always had an eye to the future.” Miguel nodded to himself. Yes. Perhaps I should talk to Otis again soon. I’d sure he could find profitable homes for our money. Or at least know someone who could.

“I should get back. One of Pasquale’s right hands is bringing in a load for the Dominicans tonight and I want to make sure everything goes well.”

“Do you need men?”

Ricky started to shake his head, then paused. “Another couple of guns might be a good idea. Just to show the Dominicans they can’t push us around.”

“I’ll make the call. Should they meet you at the normal place?”

“Yes. I’ll call you afterwards. Let you know how it went.”

Once he was alone, Miguel made a quick call to Esteban. “Make sure they’re your best men,” he finished.

“No problem, jefe. I have just the boys for this job.”

“Good. And have a few on call for the next week. For our guest.”

“Of course.”

Hanging up the phone, Miguel savored the quiet of the room. With thick walls and solid doors, the club rooms were almost soundproof…cut off from every other noise in the place. He wasn’t really surprised, given the club’s roots as a haven for Prohibition rum-runners and gamblers waiting for boats to Havana. From his grandfather he knew at least some of the secrets lurking behind the place’s well-cultivated gentile facade.

“The porter told me you were here, Miguel. I do hope I’m not intruding.”

Setting down his drink, Miguel turned with a smile. “Of course not, Otis. Just lost in thought is all.”

Otis Forsythe earned the nickname ghost with his pale skin and thin blonde hair, but lurking behind the weak appearance was a steel mind and generations of Miami money and privilege. “These rooms can do that to a man. I know they do it to me. It’s been a spell since we’ve seen you. I hope things are well.”

“They are. And you?”

“Quite well, thank you. Now that we’re finally rid of that racist asshole Beaumont and his distasteful cronies I can get on with returning the Nest to its former glory. Don’t you agree?”

“I heard something about that. An FBI raid, wasn’t it?”

“Something about drug money on one of the yachts tied up here. Or so they said. I try to keep clear of such things, you know.”

“Of course. Especially when they’re poorly managed.”

“Yes. Our grandfathers would never tolerate such sloppy dealings. Don’t you agree?”

“No. They would not.” Miguel waved Otis to a chair. “Sit and have a drink. We can talk some more.”

Otis nodded his thanks and poured a generous measure of rum into one of the Nest’s cut crystal glasses. “I hear your business has been successful. Something of a return to the old days from what I understand.”

“You’re well-informed.”

“Of course, Miguel. One doesn’t survive long in this city without being well-informed. And the Forsythes have had generations to perfect their sources of information. As has the Mendoza family. Don’t you agree?”

“Otis, let’s be frank with each other. What is it you want?”

“Oh, it’s not what I want.” Otis let out one of his laughs that fell somewhere between a giggle and a chuckle. “It’s more what you need and I might be able to provide, dear boy. Something similar to what our families used to do in the old days, yes?”

Miguel nodded. His grandfather had mentioned they’d worked with the Forsythe clan back in the ‘20s, and that it had been profitable for both sides. “Uncle Jesus’s charter business…”

“Can only handle so much custom. I understand completely. And burning family is not something either of our bloodlines do, is it? No, Miguel, I think we can find a more elegant solution for you. One that helps us all, in fact.”

It’s easy to forget Otis has a degree from the Harvard School of Business. Especially when he’s doing that fake fruit act. “I’m listening.”

“Of course you are. Now I may be able to put you in touch with a gentleman who’s heavily invested in both nightclubs and artist promotion both in South Florida and those miserable climates to the north. He’s always looking for seed money, and I understand his ventures are profitable.”

Miguel scratched his chin. It made sense. Nightclubs and concerts were fantastic ways to clean cash. He didn’t like depending on an outsider, but time has also a consideration. The Caribbean banks with their loose regulations had appeal, but Miguel wanted to try something different. “I’d want to meet him first.”

“Of course you would. And he’d want to meet you.” Otis smiled. “He’ll be in town next week sometime, I believe. He has this obscene boat he uses to chug up and down the coast. Motor yacht of course. Ghastly thing.”

“There is something about a sail yacht.”

“I quite agree. The quiet. The grace. But I digress. Is the number in the membership records still good? Excellent. I’ll gave you a buzz if he agrees to a meeting and let you know when he’ll be arriving. He usually ties up at the Nest for a week or so.”