Genesis, Part IX

[Robbie C.]

“So he didn’t connect the Mendozas to Blade?”

Rico shook his head. “Not directly, lieutenant. But Newton also doesn’t move much product. At least he didn’t used to.”

Sonny sighed. “And he knew something about Stokes’s death. Cagey bastard wouldn’t commit, but you could see it in his eyes. And he changed the subject right after I mentioned his name. I’ve been working Newton Blade off and on for over three years, lieutenant. He’s careful. Never gets too close to the product he moves and sells.”

Castillo nodded. “Stay on it. We need to know if the Mendozas are in the game again. Trudy, welcome back. Check with the Coast Guard and see what they have on Newton Blade’s yacht. Recent movements.”

Trudy Joplin smiled. “You got it, lieutenant. And it’s good to be back. Gina and I also did some background work on the Mendoza family. The uncle’s company comes up clean. He’s been running fishing charters around Florida, the Keys, and farther out for years. The father’s pretty much retired to the family estate out in the Keys. His wife died about ten years ago, and the two boys don’t have much on them. The younger son, Enrique, has a few speeding tickets, but the older one is clean. Miguel Mendoza owns a small distribution company that supplies booze to high-end clubs and some stores.”

Gina took up the story. “Enrique used to work for the uncle, but he seems to have gone his own way in the last couple of years. No real job unless you count moonlighting for both his brother and his uncle. Small stuff, like taking a boatload of tourists out or lining up some distribution contracts.”

Castillo nodded, then turned to Larry and Stan. Larry looked at his notes. “The club’s still pretty much shut down, lieutenant. It looks like they’re trying to reopen, but with a new name on the title and liquor license.”

Stan raised his hand. “And before you ask, no, it ain’t anyone we know. We checked records, and the guy owns a couple of smaller clubs in Downtown. Nothing fancy.”

“Good.” Castillo paused for a moment. “Crockett, Tubbs. Stay on Blade. At least for the time being. I want to know what he’s doing back in Miami. Work fast. There are more cases coming to us every day.”

Castillo waited until the team left the conference room to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The headache was settling in again, and he closed his eyes in an effort to will the pain away. He didn’t have time for it. Not now.

The reaction of Metro-Dade’s command staff to the spike in organized crime and narcotics activity had been predictable: create a new unit, dump all existing cases on it, and say they had fixed the problem. Overnight Vice had transformed into the Organized Crime Bureau; taking on many more cases without any increase in manpower, support, or funding. Castillo outlined all the challenges in a memo which was promptly ignored, then shrugged and got on with the job.

He’d been in command for a bit over a year now, coming over from Homicide to replace the unit’s old commander who’d been killed by a sniper hired by Esteban Calderone. The unit was good, if a bit uneven. He knew that. But he also knew the increased caseload was straining them all.

Getting up, he walked back to his office and the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. He knew each of them intimately: cases either pending or in progress. He’d handed as many as he could off to Narcotics or Homicide, but it wasn’t enough to shrink the stack. The deaths of the Revillas had created a vacuum, like the death of Calderone before them, and Castillo knew the streets hated a vacuum.

Sitting down, he rubbed his temples again. Soon he’d lose Switek and Zito to one of the periodic pawn shop stings the command staff liked to use so they could claim they were cracking down on theft in the city. And he wasn’t sure how long he could keep Calabrese and Joplin off the hooker decoy detail. There were increasing reports of at least two pimps aggressively expanding their stables, and beating girls who wouldn’t go with them. He wanted them off the streets, but to do that he’d have to redeploy two of his better detectives. Still, after having to testify to the grand jury about her ex-boyfriend Joplin was still a bit unsteady. He knew it was better to give her something else to focus on, and taking down a pimp who liked to beat up his girls seemed to fit the bill.

Crockett and Tubbs posed problems of their own. He’d managed to deflect any fallout from the New York City operation, and IA was finally convinced Crockett had known nothing about his friend Robbie Cann’s real background. And the Hank Weldon episode was behind both of them. But Crockett also liked to go his own way…chasing leads that were important to him but might not related to any case. Like the killings of Jaime Benequez and Chuckie Stokes. Castillo wasn’t sure if the Mendozas were connected in any way, but looking at the stack of folders he knew they didn’t really have time to find out.

Tubbs, he knew, was still half in New York. The trip had been harder on him than he’d wanted to admit, but Castillo needed him focused. Crockett had an effective enough cover, but its usefulness at least doubled when combined with any of Tubbs’s cover identities. At least two of the cases in the stack would require both of them, and they had to be at the top of their game.

I’ll give them a week. If nothing transpires, I’ll have to pull them off it. OCB just doesn’t have the manpower for long-term investigations. Closing his eyes for one last moment of quiet, Castillo reached over and picked up the folder on the top of the stack. Maybe he’d get lucky and it would be something they could pass off.

 

“Excellent work with the Haitians.” Miguel Mendoza stood with his hands on the wooden rail, looking out toward the boat shed and docks. He could feel the wind in his hair, and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining he was standing on the deck of an old sailing ship.

Esteban Morales nodded. “Thank you, jefe. There were some issues, but nothing that can be traced back to us. I have my men in training to correct the problems.”

“And I have no doubt it will be successful.” Miguel nodded, more to himself than Esteban. “And this Newton Blade?”

“He’s exactly what he appears. A club owner, concert promoter, and mid-range dealer. My sources say he mostly keeps his own hands clean. The government sniffs around him from time to time, but more in relation to his taxes and money moving through his clubs.” Esteban paused. “My sources say he can be trusted, so long as you don’t expect miracles from him.”

“Good. We don’t need miracles. Just a washing service.” Miguel took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. “Anything else?”

“I’m picking up rumors about your cousin, jefe. Gustavo.”

“Gustavo. Of course. Aunt Ellena’s wayward second son.” And a pain in my ass. Always wanting to get into the ‘family business.’ As if I would let a moron like him in just because we share blood.

“Yes. His name keeps coming up in connection with a small group of car stereo thieves.” Esteban chuckled. “They seem to be successful, if that’s worth anything.”

“So long as he’s not throwing the family name around it’s not our concern. But keep an eye on him, Esteban. Sooner or later he will show up at our doorstep looking for work, and I will need to know the real version of what he’s been up to…not what he tells me.” He turned away from the rail. “And you’re sure the Haitians got the message?”

“I believe so. My men have reported nothing new from any of our docks or boat sheds.”

“Good. If they do stick their heads up again, blow them off.” Miguel’s eyes went dark. “We’re at a critical point, and nothing can distract us from our goals.” Turning back to the rail, he could see men easing one of their new Cigarette boats out of the shed and into open water. The boom of the twin V-8s echoed across the calm water to his ears, and he smiled in spite of himself. If Ricky was right, this new generation was faster than what they’d used before, and capable of carrying more product. Worth the price if they worked as advertised.

Dismissing Esteban with a nod, Miguel took the steps down to the dock and headed for the boat shed. Ricky would be there, no doubt anxious to take his new toy out for a spin, and Miguel wanted to talk to him first.

“Aren’t they amazing? Just listen to those engines purr!” Ricky’s grin was almost wide enough to split his face, and his light hair was tousled enough to tell Miguel he’d already been on at least one test ride. “And with the compartments we can combine two loads into one.”

“And we’ll be needing that.” Miguel put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and guided him to the back of the shed, away from both the boats and prying ears. “I head from Santos late last night. He said he will have a major load for us in the next week. Over two hundred kilos.”

Ricky’s eyes went wide. “Two hundred? That’s almost twice…”

“I know. Which is why I’m glad to hear about the new boats. I suspect he’ll want to transfer from one of those damned Panama-registered tramp steamers they love so dearly, and I’d be happier if we could manage it all in one boat instead of two or more. Can that be done?”

“With the new boat, yes. It might be a stretch, but we can make it work.” Ricky paused. “But can we handle…”

“Have you heard anything from that man of yours? The one with the Brickell connections?”

“Yes, and it’s promising. I have some of the boys following up to make sure he’s not blowing smoke, but if it checks out he has contacts in two of the larger clubs there. One is pretty new, so it’s popular with the rich crowd.” Ricky chuckled. “The ones who like to powder their noses with top-grade powder and can pay for it.”

“Let me know as soon as you hear.” And I’ll have Esteban check it out as well. Better to have two sets of eyes. “I don’t want to move until we have the product in hand, but we’ll need a way to move it to make our profit. Do you have the ability to store that much?” He looked around. “Someplace other than here.”

“Si, but we might need to acquire some more storage property. I know of a warehouse or two…”

“No. We need property that doesn’t look like storage. Houses, perhaps. Or a small shop.” Miguel smiled. “The police always look for warehouses. They don’t look for a stash in the back of a coffee shop or corner store.” He shook his head. “But that’s for later, brother. For now why don’t you take me out in one of those racehorses of yours? I want to see how they compare to the older boats.”

 

They were almost three miles out before Ricky eased back on the throttles and the nose of the big boat touched water again. Sitting next to his brother, Miguel grinned like a child. “I can see why you like these. This thing has more horsepower than four of father’s boats put together.”

“It does. And that’s not all.” Ricky pointed above his head to the disk on the overhead spoiler. “We’re got radar. Not a big set, but it’ll pick up things within a couple of miles. Good for evading people who might try to cut in on our business.”

“And the compartments?”

“Two sets. One forward and one aft. They’re set up so you split the load no matter the size. That way nothing gets out of trim.”

Miguel was about to ask another question when the booming of motors reached his ears. Turning, he snatched up the binoculars dangling by their chord around his neck and focused. “We’ve got another boat coming our way. From the west. And fast.”

He sensed rather than saw Ricky nod. “Nothing friendly over that way, brother. We’re heading back. If they get too close, there’s a little something in the forward cabin that might be useful.”

Miguel braced himself as the boat lunged forward, spray arcing through the air as Ricky cut the helm over, sending them racing back toward the dock. With effort he found the other boat again through the magnification, and could see two men. One driving, the other starting to…

The pop of the first shots reached his ears just after three bullets hit the water to the left of the boat. He didn’t anticipate Ricky’s turn. I can’t hope he makes the same mistake again. I need to do something.

Dropping the glasses, Miguel braced himself against the rails as he ducked down and found what Ricky had been talking about: a stainless steel Mini-14 held by two clips just inside the gangway and a bag of thirty-round magazines dangling next to it. Hauling himself back up to the passenger’s seat, he racked the bolt and fed a glittering 5.56mm shell into the rifle’s breech. Shouldering the weapon, he found the other boat through their peacock’s tail of spray. The shuddering made aiming almost impossible, so he braced himself against the seat and starting triggering off shots.

“I know that boat!” Ricky shouted over the booming engines and the quick pops of Miguel’s rifle. “What color is she?”

“Red!” Miguel shouted twice, unsure of his own voice over the ringing in his ears from shooting. He triggered off four more quick shots, grinning as the pursuing boat broke hard right before fighting its way back into line. “With a wide blue streak down the hull!”

“Damn the man!’ Ricky slammed his hand hard against the wheel before taking a firm grip again. “He’s got some balls!”

Miguel knew better than to ask right now. There was a time for talking, and this wasn’t it. He emptied the magazine, then dumped it and slammed a full one home in the smoking rifle. Sending another fifteen quick shots downrange, he had no way of knowing if he’d actually hit anything. But the red and blue boat broke away, heeling hard to the right before accelerating back the way it had come. Only then did he turn and see two more boats moving at speed from the dock. His dock.

Lowering the hot Ruger, he turned to Ricky. “Call them back. I won’t risk anyone right now. Those assholes could be trying to lead us into a trap. I don’t think I hit them, but there’s no way to be sure.” He waited until Ricky slowed the boat and made the call, still holding the rifle in his hands. “You said you know who that was.”

He watched as Ricky made a close check of the boat’s instrument panel, the gauges and dials backlit an odd yellow-red. “I think so,” his brother finally said slowly. Like he was weighing each word. “There’s no mistaking that exhaust, and the paint job is the same. That was Joaquin Falcone’s boat.”

Looking down, Miguel kicked at one of the glittering shell casings rolling on the cabin deck. We’ll need to detail this boat throughly before it’s used he thought, his brain districting him from what had just happened. “And who is Falcone?”

“He’s nobody. A mid-level runner who’s trying to move up in the game. Usually he contracts out, and I’ve heard he’s interested in making inroads with the Columbians.”

“And what better way to do that than by taking us out?” Miguel gave up with the casing rolled into a gap under the seat. The ringing in his ears was finally clearing, and he noticed with satisfaction Ricky was almost to the dock. The other two boats had turned back as well, coming along side in a show of respect. “I want you to lay low for a couple of days. Run any scheduled shipments, but don’t take on anything new. Maybe have that man of yours work the Brickell clubs to line up some customers.”

“What will you be doing?”

He turned and glared out at the open water. “Sending a message. No one shoots at Mendoza boats.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “No one does that and lives.”

 

Esteban Morales stood within three feet of Miguel. He could read his boss’s body language well enough after all these years, and he knew Miguel was angry. “…and this asshole…this puto has the balls to shoot at us. To try to kill us.”

“Do you want it quiet or loud?”

“I want an unmistakable message.”

“You’ll get one, jefe. What’s the target’s name?”

“Joaquin Falcone.” Miguel spit it like a curse.

“I’ve heard the name. Fast boat, small brain. Or so they say. Not one I would have expected to take a run at us.”

“Greed makes men stupid, and stupid men reckless.” Miguel leaned on the rail, a pose he used when he was thinking something over. “Maybe you could have a talk with this asshole first. Find out what he hoped to gain. Then send a message.”

“It might prove difficult. He knows he missed, so he’ll be on his guard. Even this Falcone isn’t dumb enough to think you’ll just ignore what he did.”

“Are you saying you can’t do this?”

The question stung. “No. I’m saying it might take longer than usual. It’s hard to talk to someone after you’d fed them a shotgun.”

Miguel started to speak, then caught himself and nodded. “You’re right, Esteban. My apologies. It’s just…”

“Being shot at will make any man angry, jefe.” Especially when it’s your first time under fire. So far we’ve been very fortunate in that regard. But as you get bigger, you become a target. “But we need to expect this from now on. Especially if we start working with that Bolivian.”

“I know. Big operations become big targets. Especially for the hungry ones at the bottom.” Miguel shook his head. “I don’t think I hit anyone in the boat. We were moving too fast. But I might have hit the boat itself. Ricky thought it sounded off when it turned to run.” He shrugged. “To me it was just another fast boat, but you know how he is…”

Esteban nodded. “But that gives us a place to start. I also know Falcone’s boat. He’s fussy about it like it was a woman…only lets certain mechanics work on it. If you did any damage, he’ll run to one of them. And my men will find him if he’s there.”

Back in the apartment he maintained as a sort of office, Esteban sat behind his heavy desk and starting outlining his operation on a legal pad. It was something the old men had taught him, something they said they’d learned from the CIA. At first he’d laughed at them, but then he did it and never laughed again.

Miguel was moving fast, perhaps too fast. Esteban knew that, but also knew not to say it. What happened on the boat side was Enrique’s problem…what happened on the security side was his. And he was running out of trained men. To deal with this, he’d have to pull two men off one of the boat sheds. It won’t be a problem. Not this time, at least. Maybe it’s time to talk to Miguel about having Enrique provide some of his own security. It wasn’t a conversation Esteban was looking forward to, but it was a necessary one.

Manpower was allocated. Now he needed to assign tasks. At least Falcone was a creature of habit when it came to his precious boat. Aside from that he didn’t know enough about the man. He reached for the phone and dialed a number. That was about to change.

 

Sonny Crockett was almost asleep, his eyes heavy as he tried to focus on the file in front of him. He blinked, his head dipped again, and he heard Gina giggle. “You’d better go home and get some sleep, Sonny.”

“Yeah. You drool on that file, ain’t no way I’m retyping it.” Rico chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “I’m kinda beat myself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It pained Sonny to admit it, but they were right. Staring at the thin file on Newton Blade wasn’t going to make new information appear. “Did you ever hear back from the Coast Guard, Gina?”

“I did. They said Blade’s yacht is scheduled to dock at Pelican’s Nest tomorrow.” She waved her note pad. “Seems old Newton likes to keep them informed of his movements.”

“Yeah. Until he doesn’t. Still, that motor boat of his is big enough it’s got its own ZIP code. Makes sense he’d file the right paperwork. He doesn’t like to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“I’m starving,” Rico announced as he got up from his desk. “Anyone wanna grab a bite?”

“I got an idea. Let’s hit Pelican’s Nest. Use some more of that membership fee money.” Sonny pulled on his cream blazer as he got to his feet. “And maybe run into Otis in the bargain. Besides, I hear the club kitchen does a mean steak.”

“Let’s take the Caddy. Gotta let Cooper be seen styling and profiling.”

The sun was a long red shadow on the horizon when Rico handed the keys to the valet at Pelican’s Nest and they headed into the club. Sonny chuckled at the dim lighting the place used to cast shadows up the white stucco walls. “Man, you’d think the place was a mortuary or something.”

“Maybe it is, partner.”

“In some ways it is, I guess. Place is built on lots of bodies. They say that’s why the grass is so green.” It was quiet enough in the outer courtyard Sonny could hear the gravel crunching under his slip-ons as they walked to the massive main doors. “Let’s get a drink first and see if Otis is lurking in the bar.”

They found Otis Forsythe talking animatedly with the bartender, pointing down the long oak bar with a thin finger. “…and you are not to serve those two any more, you hear? They’re drunk enough as it is.” He turned, and his voice changed in an instant. “Sonny! Mr. Cooper! How good of you to drop by. Jake, get these two men drinks, you hear? I won’t be a moment.”

Sonny looked at Rico and raised his eyebrows as Otis headed into the lobby. Seconds later he returned with two of the sides of beef who worked as club security and sent them in the direction he’d pointed. Accepting his bourbon from the bartender, Sonny chuckled. “Cleaning house so early?”

“Those two are nothing but trash. Rich trash, but trash just the same.” He gave one his his combination giggle-chuckles as the two bouncers manhandled two pasty men in expensive houndstooth suits toward the door. “And don’t come back until you learn to conduct yourselves like gentlemen, hear?”

“What did they do?”

“Dues may get you in the door, Mr. Cooper, but they do not give you the right to pinch the backsides of our waitresses or throw drinks at the staff.” Otis tugged at the lapels of his suit coat and seemed to puff out his chest. “Beaumont might have tolerated that sort of conduct, but I do not.” Then he smiled. “But where are my manners? Come, we must dine. I’m particularly famished, and I have some good news for you, Mr. Cooper.”

“Please. Call me Rico.”

“Of course. Rico it is.” Otis collected his own glass of scotch and extended his arm toward the dining room. “I’m told the t-bone is especially good tonight.”

“So Newton’s going to be in town tomorrow?” Sonny leaned back a bit in the comfortable armchair. Otis wasn’t kidding about the t-bone. Or the rest of it. Place has upped its game.

“So I’m told. By him, actually. He’s got one of those ship-to-shore telephones and he’s like a child with a new toy.”

“Solid.” Rico grinned. “So, do I book an appointment through you?”

Otis laughed. “No, Rico. Nothing that formal, at least if I have anything to say about it. Newton normally ties up around noon, so drop by any time after that. He likes afternoon drinks and usually has some kind of God-awful party on that thing into the wee hours. Of course he has to leave the dock for that, so anytime between one and five should be just about right.”

Sonny nodded. He knew the drill, and soon Rico would be asking what kind of cut Otis needed to make the deal happen. Odds are there won’t really be one. Otis just does things sometimes. “I might let you boys handle this one solo. Unless you think ol’ Newton might be needing my boat tomorrow.”

“I doubt it, Sonny, but come along just the same.” Otis looked around and lowered his voice. “I might some work for you if you’re interested.”

“Count on it, Otis.” Sonny glanced at his watch and locked eyes with Rico. “I think we got time for one more drink and then we’d better blow this pop stand. Unless you cancelled that call and didn’t tell me.”

Rico nodded. “Thanks for reminding me, Burnett.” He gave Otis an apologetic smile. “My associates like updates. I think they’re afraid I’ll go native if I spend too much time in Miami.”

“Don’t let me keep you, then.” Otis raised a long finger and a waiter appeared as if from thin air. “Bring us one more round, Isaac, and then I think we’re done for the evening. And charge all this to my account, yes?” He flashed a bright smile once the waiter left. “Maybe things will get back to normal now that the Revillas are gone. Between them and that swine Calderone, Miami was becoming almost unbearable.” He raised his glass. “To better times.”

Sonny raised his own glass and grinned. “I’ll drink to that, Otis. To better times.”