Genesis, Part VIII

[Robbie C.]

“…and that’s what the desk clerk said, lieutenant.” Stan Switek looked down at his notes. “They were at the Hilton for three days. Didn’t have any visitors except some girls from a call-out service. But they did spend a lot of time away from the hotel.”

Gina Calabrese nodded. “We talked to some of those girls, lieutenant. And the ones who work the hotel bar. They said the older one liked to slap them around, but he tipped well. Trudy might have more, but she’s testifying for the grand jury…”

“I know.” Martin Castillo’s voice was low, and he rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “The timing is poor, but we’ll get by. Crockett and Tubbs?”

Sonny grimaced when Rico shook his head. “Guess I’m elected. Rico’s source is in Broward lockup, and I don’t have any that run in the same league as Santos would. We did get something, though. Don’t know if it’s related or not, but my gut says it might be. Word on the street is Chuckie Stokes was taken out by a Mendoza. Supposed to be an old-school family, but I haven’t heard the name for years.”

“Why do you think it’s connected?”

“Word is these Mendozas are trying to move up in the world. And Chuckie was taken out not long before Santos and his pals flew in.” Plus there was an old case itching in the back of his mind. Jaime Benequez. Never did find out who he worked for, but word was he used old routes, too. And whoever killed him was sending a message, too.

“Don’t waste too much time on Stokes.”

Nodding, Sonny looked across the table. “Gina, darlin’, could you call Homicide and see if they turned up anything on the Stokes case? They said they’d keep us in the loop, but I don’t know how many of those guys can actually write. And maybe Jaime Benequez, too. We passed him off back…back when Lou was still alive.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I get the chance. Two of those girls got worked over pretty bad by the Bolivians, and I want to go to the hospital. See if one of them can identify…”

Sonny nodded. He’d stopped listening as soon as she’d started talking about the girls. He was already sure Homicide hadn’t turned up anything new. In fact, he doubted they’d done much more than throw the folders on a stack of other folders in a dark corner of their squad room. Chasing down people who killed dealers and runners didn’t score many points for a promotion board.

“We stay on this.” Castillo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Those men were here for a reason, and we don’t stop until we know what it was.”

Rico was already behind his desk by the time Sonny got through the conference room door. “You don’t think those chumps in Homicide have squat, do you?”

“No, Rico, I don’t. But I want to see what holes they poked around in so we don’t have to.” He sat down with a sigh. Benequez was before your time. Kid with a fast boat who took a .45 to the face and was burned in his boat. Word was he was trying to cozy up to Calderone, but we never found out one way or the other.”

“A .45 to the head? That’s old school.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” Sonny thought back to the blackened hull and the charred remains still partly upright in the pilot’s seat. “Hell of a message, whoever did it.”

“Who’d he work for?”

“We never found out. Of course we didn’t chase it too hard. Calderone was still whacking dealers back then, and I was hell-bent on finding my mystery Columbian.” He paused, the memories turning darker. “And it wasn’t long after that Eddie got killed and you landed in my lap.”

“So what do we know about these Mendozas?”

“Not a damned thing, partner.” Sonny scratched the stubble on his chin. “I think the grandfather might have been a bootlegger back in the ‘20s. Lots of booze came through Miami and South Florida back then.”

“Cubans?”

“No. Puerto Ricans, I think. Suppose we’d better start digging before Castillo asks and we come up empty.”

“Yeah, especially since you can bet he already knows everything there is to know about them.” Rico clapped his hands and got to his feet. “We’ll take the Caddy. I feel like some leg room for a change.”

“Central records?”

“Naw, man. The library. You know…that place with books. Some of ‘em even have pictures from what I hear.”

“Very funny, Tubbs.” Sonny got to his feet with a grin. “Makes sense, though. Get some names and dates from the papers and then hit central records. That way we ain’t sitting there for six hours while they try to figure out if C comes before or after D.”

“Joo got it, meng.”

 

Enrique Mendoza stared at his brother. “And that’s all we have to do?”

“Yes. The money can pass through Jesus to this Blade and then from him to us. He takes his cut, and it comes back to us as a return on a legitimate, if untraceable, asset.” Miguel smiled. “Clubs and concerts tend to deal in a lot of cash, after all.”

Ricky nodded, working it out in his head. “And if Otis vouches for him he must know what he’s doing.”

“My thought exactly. Otis Forsythe is many things, but a fool with business is not one of them.”

“Speaking of fools and business, those idiots from Little Haiti are sniffing around the docks again.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones who call themselves the Bulls. One of the smaller gangs trying to get into our business.”

Miguel nodded, and Ricky knew what was coming. “I’ll take care of it, brother. You focus on keeping the boats moving. There’s a chance we might pick up some business from Blade and I don’t want to be short any transport.”

“Of course.” But it grated. Does Miguel not trust me to take care of this? Or does he not want me to know how he’s dealing with it?

The older Mendoza smiled. “You have nothing to worry about, Enrique. I trust you. It’s just better for us both if we keep these things separate. I don’t care to know details about the boats…only how many are operational and if you need more. And you…”

“Yeah. I don’t need to know how the work gets done. As long as it’s done.”

“Exactly. But soon we may need to recruit some more dealers. People to move product. If our friend Santos increases his end as much as he claimed, we may have a problem moving it with our current network.”

“And the last thing we need is product sitting in stash houses or warehouses waiting to move.” Ricky nodded. “I won’t ask Pasqual about this, but I do have a man who might be of assistance. He used to work for the Columbians.” He raised his hand. “Not Calderone, but one of the smaller fish. He claims to have a pipeline into the clubs in Brickell.” He thought back to what the man had said. “I think he was bragging to impress me, but there was also some truth there. If he can move even half of what he claimed it would help absorb Santos’s product.”

“And give Newton Blade more to do. Speak with him, but be careful.”

“Of course.” I’m always careful. Especially with snakes like the Columbians.

Ricky managed to keep his temper in check until he was in the Corvette. Then he slammed his hand on the steering wheel. In theory he understood why Miguel kept him in the dark about some parts of the operation. He did the same thing. But he wondered where the men came from who did the dirty work. If anything happened to Miguel, he’d be left standing with no support.

It was a fair drive from the family home to the docks where Ricky kept part of his growing fleet. But that was by design; something they’d learned from their grandfather. Separation creates deniability when the Federales come calling.

Parking the car in the shade of a palm tree, Ricky headed for the long boathouse, his shoes crunching in the gravel covering the parking area. The yard looked like it was about to fall in on itself…again by design. A casual observer fooled by the fading paint and warping wood would have fainted dead away if they saw the modern workshops and well-tuned boats hiding behind the facade of decay.

Pasqual looked up from the Mercury engine he’d been working on. “Let me guess…he said he’ll take care of it.”

“Yes. As always.” Ricky shut the door and looked around the workspace. “How many boats are out of service?”

“Two, counting the one this engine came out of. Not enough to slow our operations.”

“Good. Look, Miguel told me we might be picking up some new trade soon. So we might need some more people on the street. What do you think of Hector?”

“Columbian, isn’t he?” Pasqual spat into a pile of greasy rags near the engine stand. “That’s about how far I trust them. But he’s done well since he joined up. Maybe he’s the exception.”

“He ever talk about the clubs in Brickell?”

“When doesn’t he talk about those damned clubs? Shit, it’s all ‘I saw this girl’ and I grabbed that girl’s tit’ any time he’s talking with the boys. What I want to know is how much he pays those girls so he can look at their tits.”

Ricky nodded. Sometimes Pasqual needed more direct questions. “Does he ever talk about drugs in those clubs?”

“Oh, sorry. I get it now. Yeah. He does. Said when he was on his own he bought his first fast boat with money he got from selling party powder to those girls and their men. Claims a couple of his old pals are still in the game over there and making good money.”

“I may have a talk with the idiot.” Ricky shook his head, then changed the subject. “Those Bulls been by lately?”

“Kiki said he saw them sniffing around last night. Three of them. Same place as before, and they kept their distance. But that’s three days in a row. Something’s up.”

“Not for long.”

 

Esteban Morales checked his heavy .45 Colt one last time, testing the balance of the pistol with its long suppressor. The other two men with him went through the same ritual…one they’d learned in the swamps from men who’d learned their trade from the CIA. Old men who still cherished dreams of feeding Castro his own balls when they took back Cuba. Esteban smiled at the memory. He had no such dreams. Not any more, at least.

There’d been a time when he had, of course. Back when he was part of Combat Group 1170, training with the sons of other old men to fulfill their fading dreams. But he’d seen the light eventually, leaving the Group with others who felt the same. The future wasn’t in Cuba; it was in Miami using their training to make more money than their fathers had ever imagined. Their own version of the American Dream.

“You’re sure about where these assholes wait?”

“Si, commandante.” Half of his men still used the old Group ranks from habit. “Always they’re in the brush to the north of the boathouse. We watched them for three days. Never less than two, but never more than four. Always watching. They have pistols…hell, every ape in Little Haiti has a pistol. But no rifles.”

“Good. Stick to the plan.” All Miguel had said was ‘send a message.’ Esteban knew exactly how to do that. “Don’t start the truck until we return with the cargo. And be sure the plastic sheeting is in place. Clear? Good. Let’s go.”

They moved through the darkness like shadows cast by the sliver of moon. Thankful for the training they’d gotten from those bitter old men, Esteban locked eyes with each of his boys in turn and pulled up his dark bandanna. It was always best to be prepared, even though they intended to leave no one alive.

They had almost reached the edge of the line of shrubs when Esteban heard them. Then the slight breeze shifted and the acrid smell of tobacco reached his nose. Careless. Very careless. Not worth the cost of a bullet, but we have our orders. He could feel the cloth brass catcher attached to his Colt brush against his hand as he moved. They’d leave no trace of themselves behind.

“I don’t know why we just don’t go down there and cut those PR bastards.” The speaker had a thin, mean voice. “Take what’s ours.”

“Because the boss said no. Not yet, anyhow. So keep that damned pig-sticker of yours in its sheath, Louis.”

“Jean Paul, you talk like a fool. The boss, he can’t see how they parade around. And no security. It would be an easy thing…”

Now Esteban could see them, darker shadows against the dark shrubs. Three shadows. By agreement he’d take the one in the middle, while his boys took the other two. Still, he found he couldn’t resist. “You’re right,” he said softly, “it is an easy thing.”

“What? Who said…Fuck!” The one he guessed was Louis scrabbled for something at his waist, and then Esteban’s Colt gave a low cough. Two more coughs came from his right and left, and then there was nothing. One of the dark shapes on the ground moaned, and Esteban shook his head as he put another round into the man. Someone’s getting sloppy. Ah, well. More training in the swamps, I suppose.

“Idiots.” Esteban flicked on his Colt’s safety and lowered the weapon. “Let’s get them moved.”

 

“Does Homicide have anything new on those bodies, lieutenant?” Ricardo Tubbs shot a pointed look at the front page of the early edition Herald and its blaring headline.

“No. Just that there doesn’t appear to be any narcotics or organized crime connection.” Martin Castillo looked around the table. “They suspect some kind of gang conflict.”

Sonny Crockett nodded. “So they’ll keep it until they hit a dead end or the press gets bored. Then it’ll land on Gangs or maybe Narcotics.”

“We stick to our case. What do we have on the Mendoza family?”

Sonny shook his head. “Officially, not much. But Tubbs and I did something crazy and went to the library. Yeah, Stan, I can actually read books that don’t come with crayons. But your mom still likes reading me bedtime stories.” He waited for the obligatory chuckles before continuing. “But they were something back in the ‘20s. Newspapers from back then called him Miami’s Capone.”

Rico nodded. “Yeah, an’ his main cargo was rum. Jamaican and Puerto Rican. Turns out the family’s from some village near San Juan, so he had easy access to quality product.”

“What happened to them?”

“That’s where it gets tough, lieutenant. The papers lost interest when Prohibition was repealed. Metro-Dade’s files don’t have squat. Near as we can tell they faded back into regular life. With a nice nest egg.” Sonny grinned. “They come up in DMV records, and there’s an uncle or something who runs a charter fishing service, but that’s it. The grandfather died a few years back, and the father seems to split his time between here and Arizona. My source claimed they might be trying to move up in the world, but I can’t find any damned indication they’re even in the game. If they are, we don’t know a damned thing about it.”

“We might be able to find out some more if we sniff around Pelican’s Nest.” Rico leaned forward and checked his notes. “Seems the old man was one of the charter members.”

“Now that’s a hell of a thing.” Stan chuckled. “Bet that Klan member who used to run the place would have a fit if he knew.”

“Yeah, but Otis Forsythe wouldn’t. The Forsythes have always had their hand in the cookie jar on the shady side of life, but they’re also careful enough to stay on just this side of the law. If the Mendozas are back in the game, he’s about the only one outside of their family who’d know.”

“What’s the link between them and Stokes?”

“We think it’s the routes, lieutenant.” Sonny chose his words carefully. It was more his gut saying it was the routes, and he knew Castillo preferred facts to what might just be indigestion. “Chuckie had a thing for the old ways. He used older boats, and really got into knowing how the old guys moved their product. Maybe he stumbled into one of the old Mendoza routes, and if they’re still active…they had a reputation for protecting their turf. Violently.”

Gina cleared her throat. “I checked with Homicide. They don’t have any new leads on Stokes, and they stuck Benequez in a drawer. According to them the case is cold.”

Sonny started to nod, then froze. He stared at the paper again, then looked around the room. “Those Haitians were killed with .45s, right?”

“Yes.” Castillo’s single word filled the room.

“Benequez was also killed by a .45. A single shot to the head. What about…”

“Two were single shots to the head. The third had one wound in the upper chest that would’t have been immediately fatal, but the second shot to his head was.” Castillo paused. “They kept this out of the papers, but the bodies were also placed outside the front door of a bar favored by a local gang called the Bulls. Lined up in a neat row.”

“This isn’t a gang thing. It’s another message. Someone stuck their nose where it wasn’t wanted and got it blown off. We all know the gangs over in Little Haiti prefer 9mm or even .22. The .45 just ain’t their thing. And they like using lots of ammo. This is too damned precise for them.”

Castillo stared at Sonny for a time. “You think it was the Mendozas.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know who it was, lieutenant, and that’s what bothers me. We saw how Calderone and the Revillas conducted business. The last thing we need is another turf war.”

“Check out the yacht club. See if the Mendoza family is still conducting business. Gina, once Trudy’s back from testifying I want you to check public records. See if the Mendozas have any holdings we should look into. Switek, Zito, I’d like you to check that club you helped raid this past Christmas. See if anyone’s trying to move in now that it’s open territory. We need to know what’s going on.”

Rico didn’t ask the question until they were back at their desks, but Sonny knew it was coming. “You think we’re blown with this Forsythe cat after that thing with Margaret and the FBI?”

“Naw. I don’t think so. Hell, he was just glad to see them haul Beaumont off in cuffs. Now that he’s back in charge, I bet he’s more concerned with rebuilding the club and bringing back some of its former glory. You know…illegal card games, some nose candy, maybe a few classy ladies for hire to entertain the old boys who drop in. Good ol’ Southern hospitality.”

“Problem is, I never did bring that motor yacht down.”

“Yeah, but he’s still got your membership deposit. We can always drop in to see if the heat’s off. He’d expect something like that from a player like Cooper.”

“Solid.”

 

Pelican’s Nest hadn’t changed since their last visit, and Sonny guessed the place hadn’t really changed since the late 1930s when the last of the big palms went in. It was one of those quiet bastions of old Miami money, mostly ill-gotten, and some that had made its way ashore when Castro took over. They had the same big security guys as last time, and the same porter greeted them after checking the membership list. “Mr. Cooper and guest. Of course. Your dues are in good standing, and with a legacy vouching for you I can see no problems. Please, have a drink at the bar and I’ll let Mr. Forsythe know you’re here.”

“Looks like Cooper’s still solid,” Rico whispered as they waded through the thick carpet to the bar.

“Yeah, and they got rid of the damned flag behind the coat check counter.” Sonny chuckled. “Looks like the days of Beaumont are dead and gone.”

The blonde tending bar had bright eyes and a brighter figure. “Scotch, pretty lady,” Rico said, turning on the blinding Cooper charm. “And whatever my friend wants. Charge it to Rico Cooper.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Tammy. Put those drinks on my personal account.” Otis Forsythe’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s been too long, Mr. Cooper. We missed your yacht. And Sonny! I’ve told you never to be a stranger.”

Sonny grinned. “Well, you know, Otis, it did get kinda hot the last time we were here. All those goons in tan Fords.”

“Oh, that. I do apologize for that. But one can’t control idiots, can one? And it’s worse when they’re idiots with badges. But I suppose I can’t complain too much. They did rid me of that jackass Beaumont.” Otis waited until they had their drinks, then motioned with his long fingers. “Come. Let’s have a chat and catch up.”

“So yes, my associates are still looking to make some moves in the Miami market.”

Sonny sipped at his Jack Daniel’s and only half-listened to Rico spinning his story about why he hadn’t been back to Pelican’s Nest until now. He wasn’t worried…anything Rico came up with would hold water. He didn’t have anything to explain. Sonny Burnett was a cash and carry guy pure and simple. He didn’t make social calls, and Otis knew that.

“Well I must say you’re catching us at a pretty awkward time, Rico. Things are…unsettled. Wouldn’t you agree, Sonny?”

“Sure. From where I sit, there’s still cargo needing to be delivered. I hear it’s a bit rough on the street, but that’s not my end of things.”

“My associates see that as an opportunity. A time to step in and help stabilize a market. Maybe open some new avenues for those with ambition.”

“Now you sound like my grandfather. Old grandpappy Forsythe was an ambitious cuss. But most of them were back then, I suppose. Him, Walter Bicknell, Guillermo Mendoza. All men with great dreams. Then that traitor Roosevelt repealed the Volstead Act.” Otis sighed. “I suppose his heart was in the right place, but it put paid to a number of business ventures.”

Sonny took another drink to cover his excitement. “Mendoza? That’s a new one.”

“You really should learn the history of your chosen profession, Sonny. I do declare.” Otis chuckled, a dry sound in the room. “Those men could teach you a thing or two about moving cargo.”

“Maybe. But times have changed.”

“Not as much as you’d suppose.”

“Guess you’re right about that.” Sonny laughed and decided to drop a test line. “Hell, I hear ol’ Chuckie Stokes liked the old ways. Slow but steady is what I heard.”

“Yes.” Otis shifted in his chair. “But we should look to the future. Or so my daddy used to say. With law enforcement so focused on the Cannatta organization there are new opportunities.”

Wonder what he knows? “Yeah. You’re right about that.” He turned to Rico. “Any idea when those associates of yours are gonna start needing my boat?”

“Soon.” Rico narrowed his eyes. “But they also need to know there will be product to move and places for it to go.”

“All in good time, Rico.” Otis smiled. “You aren’t the only one from up north looking to do some business in our fair city.”

“I didn’t think I was. But from what I hear product is coming up faster than the local market can absorb it. I’d guess someone would be interested in another route north.”

Otis nodded, pursing his thin lips. “I have another friend who shares that view. Perhaps you know him? Newton Blade.”

Sonny laughed. “Newton an’ I go back a bit. Did some business with him a year or so ago, and more before that. Way I heard it he was on an extended tour of the Caribbean after the Revillas went up in smoke and the IRS started sniffing around his tax returns.”

“Colorful as ever, Sonny. That’s what I adore about you. But Newton is back from his little vacation and looking to do business.” Otis turned to Rico. “Maybe you two should meet. I can arrange it. He’s supposed to be tying up here in the next week or so.”

Rico looked at Sonny for a moment before grinning. “I’d appreciate that, Otis. And yeah, I’ve run into Newton a time or two. Be good to catch up and see if we can help each other.”

Sonny listened as Rico and Otis worked out some small details, but his thoughts were racing. Hell, we didn’t know Blade was back in the game, let alone in Miami. And he doesn’t move much product. He’s a money man. Something’s up, and we gotta find out what. And if the Mendozas are involved.