Genesis, Part XV

[Robbie C.]

Summer 1986

OCB jumps ahead to Season 3 (before Down for the Count)

 

Enrique Mendoza looked at Pasqual and snorted. “He’s late. He’s not off to a good start.”

Pasqual grinned. “Rest easy, Ricky. They say The Bat is never on time for anything. Ever. It’s part of his charm, or so they say. Personally I think it’s to keep his enemies off balance.”

“And how many of those does he have? I’d like to know what kind of fleas we’ll come up with if we lie down with this dog.”

“The usual. Depending on prices the Haitians either love him or hate him. Same with the Dominicans. I think it’s the Columbians he has the most bad blood with, mainly because they want in on the Dominican trade.”

“We’ll agree on that, at least.” Enrique shifted, resting his elbow on the bar as he turned so he could see the door. “I suppose that’s why he wanted to meet in Little Haiti?”

“He’s got a girl here, too, I think.”

“Of course he does.”

“And here he comes now.”

Enrique gave the man coming through the door a quick glance. A neck draped with one gold chain too many. Dark glasses almost hanging off his nose. Some sort of hat that might have once been a fedora. The Bat radiated punk even before he opened his mouth, an impression solidified by a whiney voice pitched just a shade too high to be comfortable. “Pasqual! My man! I see you find my home away from home. And you bring a guest.” He stuck out his hand. “They call me…”

“The Bat. Yes, I know. Call me Ricky.”

“Ricky! Yeah…I dig it. Just like Ricky Ricardo.” He leaned against the bar and his demeanor changed like someone flipped a switch. “So Pasqual tells me you’re looking for weight.”

“Yes. Pick up only. We handle delivery.”

“Cool. Boats make me seasick, and only the glory hound Columbians use planes. I can supply no problem. Once you take possession it’s all on you.”

“Just how we like it.” Enrique smiled to hide his growing annoyance.

“What weight are we talking? I don’t like to promise what I can’t deliver.”

“Unlike the damned Columbians. One deal with them is one too many. We won’t need more than fifty at any given time, but the supply has to be reliable and at least seventy percent pure. Anything less isn’t worth the gas it takes to move it.”

“How often?” The Bat closed his eyes, and Enrique could imagine him running numbers in his head.

“Every two weeks or so. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But we’d always give you a week’s notice and it’s not a problem if you can’t adjust in that time. But once every two weeks is our standard.”

“I can’t bring it closer than sixty miles.”

“Not a problem. We have boats.” Enrique gave Pasqual a short nod. “Look. We can run a smaller deal. Make sure things work the way we both like. Then start a regular thing. Can you manage ten kilos on short notice?”

“Sure. If you can front thirty grand a key on the same notice. My product’s at least 75% pure. Every time.”

Enrique ran his own numbers. It was a bit high, but he’d expected that with a handshake deal like this. “Sure. But we talk about the per kilo price later.”

“Yeah. Volume is cheaper.” The Bat looked around. “I’ll need a couple of days to put it together. You got a pager number?”

Enrique turned to Pasqual. “My man here will hook you up. Call when you’re ready to deal. We’ll meet again here at the same time the day you page.” He grinned. “Keeps things easy.”

“Sure. And you have the money ready when we do the pickup. That also keeps things easy.” The Bat grinned and started to turn away. “Now I gotta fly. Talk at you soon.”

Once the Peruvian left, Pasqual let out a long sigh. “That one…”

“Is crazy. We already knew that. But his price seems fair for what we’re doing, and he’s not that Bolivian asshole.”

“I know. His reputation is that he always delivers, but no one seems to know his actual source.”

“Do me a favor, Pasqual. Look a bit deeper into this Bat and see if anything turns up. He might be just a little too good to be true.”

“What should I look for?”

“People getting arrested or disappearing after doing business with him.”

Pasqual gave a low whistle. “You think he might be a cop?”

“Not really, but I want to be sure. Miguel has his own reservations about dealing with him, and I want to have answers for the questions he’ll ask before setting up the money for the deal.” He raised a finger to signal for a drink. “But for now let’s drink to a successful meeting.”

 

After thirty seconds on the phone, Miguel Mendoza could understand why Otis made infrequent use of the man who called himself Cash. “As in Cash Money, son. That’s what we’re talking about.” He’d used the line three times in those first thirty seconds, and Miguel was temped to send Esteban’s people after him just to shut him up.

Still, he bit his tongue and listened to the proposal. He needed someone who could deal with reasonable amounts of money on short notice, and Cash seemed to be able to deliver. At least Otis Forsythe said he could.

Cash had the rapid-fire delivery of a late night used car commercial. “Look…we do this right we both come out on top. I take ten percent. No more, no less. You get money back fresh from the laundry you can use however you want. I can’t move more than a hundred grand at one time, and it’s better if we only do that every couple weeks. I don’t move less than twenty g’s because it ain’t worth our time.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good. Your people drop the money by, you get it back the next day less the ten percent.” Cash had a cackle for a laugh. “And yeah, you gotta trust me. And I know better than to screw you, cause guys like you come after guys like me and chop us into little bits if we screw you. That sound about right?”

“More or less. My people prefer blowtorches.” It wasn’t true, but he wanted to create confusion about his identity.

“And I ain’t one for well-done meat. So we’re good. Look, you call when you need work and I get you a drop location. Pick up in the same spot twenty four hours later.”

Miguel hit the button terminating the call and looked down at the speaker unit. “Did you get all that?”

Behind him he could sense Esteban Morales nodding. “Yes. A nice touch with the blowtorch, by the way. I bet he thinks we’re Columbians now.”

“He can think we’re Martians for all I care. So long as he can deliver.”

“I have to ask…do we really need this one?”

“Not on a regular basis, but for weeks when our profits are higher than normal, yes. Kind of like that Peruvian Enrique met with.”

“The Bat? I know of him. Reliable with good product, but unpredictable in his personal habits. I think he uses too much of his own product.” There was a pause. “Have you heard more from Santos?”

“Yes. He wants to come to Miami again. So we can meet face to face.” Miguel examined his fingernails. “I think he might suspect we’re looking for other suppliers.”

“Not much he can say. Not after he screwed us. More than once.”

“I know. He’ll try to play big secret policeman, even though his days in that line are long over.” Miguel chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m starting to think it might be time to send Santos a message of our own. Do nothing for now, though. I need to speak with Enrique first. Get a feel for our supply and the street demand. And we need to wait for that damned poet to get out of town. Too much police attention.” He knew they were at a delicate point…right on the verge of taking the next step but also lacking a secure base for that kind of move. “What’s your manpower situation?”

“Better. We’re training some new men, and the ones we brought on before are finally starting to grow into their positions. Victor is still too hot-headed for me, but he has a tight crew and his boys respect him…”

Miguel nodded, even though he’d stopped listening. He knew Esteban had enough men, even though about a quarter of them were still wet behind the ears. They’d do to keep Enrique’s boats and warehouses covered, which was what he needed right now. And he also knew Esteban had just enough hard men to send whatever kind of message he decided to send to Santos.

 

The Keys were darker blobs against a dark night sky when Enrique cut the throttle on his Scarab and let the low craft glide into position. Beside him the Peruvian who called himself The Bat giggled. “Man…I could almost get used to one of these. You move so damned fast you ain’t got time to be seasick.” He shot a look at the small freighter. “Unlike that rusty piece of shit.”

Behind them Pasqual chuckled. “He’s got a point, boss.”

Enrique just nodded, reducing power even more until the boat was almost touching the rust-streaked hull of the tramp steaming flying the flag of some Caribbean island nation. He didn’t know which one and didn’t care. Turning, he nodded to the big Cuban with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Can you get the lines?”

While the man went about his work with the quiet precision Enrique had come to expect from all the men his brother sent to run security, he thought about the meeting. It wasn’t much…the ten keys on one side and three hundred large on the other. But it was a start. The Peruvian started cackling again, and Enrique had to suppress a smile. I wonder what the idiot would do if I called him by his proper name? Oswaldo Cameron doesn’t have the same ring to it. It amazed him how much Miguel could dig up on short notice.

Once the lines were made fast, the freighter lowered a rope ladder, Enrique grabbed one of the rungs and grinned. “Come on, Bat. Let’s go see this cargo of yours.”

“Man, can’t they just drop it down?”

“You want the money, yes? And you’re not coming back to shore with us. So that means the freighter or a swim.”

Oswaldo’s upper lip started to curl into a snarl, and then he laughed. “You got a point, Ricky Ricardo! Grab that duffle and the test kits and let’s get this one.”

Behind them Pasqual cleared his throat. “The Coast Guard likely has the freighter on radar, and they’ll get curious if it stops moving for too long.”

Once on deck, Oswaldo had a muttered conversation with a greasy specimen Enrique guessed was either the captain or the master. The man shuffled off and came back with a black guy bag. Unzipping it, he dropped it on the deck at his feet and back up ten paces. Nodding, Enrique unzipped his own bag, showing Oswaldo the bundled bills. “You count while I test.”

“Sure.” The Peruvian chuckled as he thumbed through the bundled stacks.

Conscious of the Cuban standing so he could cover most of the freighter’s visible crew, Enrique took out a small knife and made slits in three random bags. One on top, one in the middle, and one on the bottom. Taking a small sample from each, he dropped it in one of the plastic test tubes, breaking it to release the chemicals and then checking the color against a test key. “Seventy five percent at least on each one.”

“Yep. And your bag’s got the three hundred.” Oswaldo stuck out his hand. “Good doing business with you. Next time will be the real deal.”

“Yes.” Zipping the bag at his feet, Enrique hefted it and started for the ladder, careful not to block the Cuban’s field of fire. “Pleasant journeys, Bat.”

Pasqual was behind the wheel, and he sent the boat shooting away to the south as soon as the lines were free. “No reason for them to know where we’re really going,” he said with a grin. “That radar they’ve got’s good for ten, maybe twelve nautical miles, so I’ll run close to the islands and then take the old cigar route home.”

“Good thinking.” Enrique sank back in the co-pilot’s chair, feeling the rush of the deal leaving his system. It was always the same…coming down after a good deal or a fast run. There was always the temptation to sample the product, anything to keep the rush alive. But he always resisted. He’d seen too many pilots crash and burn trying to chase that rush through their noses, and he didn’t want to join them.

Pasqual’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Got something on radar, boss. Just on the edge, but it looks to be trying to plot an intercept.”

“Damn. Coast Guard?”

“Maybe. We’re right on the edge of one of their patrol routes.” Pasqual snorted. “The ones trying to intercept those poor bastards fleeing Castro’s apes. They’ve been running more regularly with that poet in town. What’s his name? Sandoval.”

Enrique nodded, his head briefly silhouetted by the instrument panel lights. “Shift over to the alternate route. The one Jesus used to use. There should be enough coastal clutter there they’ll lose us. Assuming they have us on radar.”

“I always assume if I can see them, they can see me.”

“I wonder where you heard that?” Enrique chuckled as Pasqual tossed one of his stock phrases back at him. “But it’s true. We don’t need to attract any attention.”

“What about The Bat?”

“What about him? If his people aren’t clean, it’s not our problem. It was his damned idea to stop a freighter dead in the water in a high-traffic area. And this isn’t the first time he’s done this.”

“Yeah. I just wish I could be there to see the little bastard squirm.”

“Unless that’s what he wanted to see us do.” Enrique watched the radar screen, smiling as the dot faded and finally disappeared into the electronic gloom. “Maybe he delayed on purpose, to see how we’d handle the Coast Guard. If so, I almost hate to disappoint him.” He sank back in the seat again. “Let’s move. I’ll feel better once we’re back on shore and have the product moved.”

 

“My man said the deal went according to plan.”

Miguel nodded. “I heard the same thing from Enrique. You think Oswaldo lured the Coast Guard in on purpose?”

Esteban shook his head. “No. It’s possible, I suppose, but I think he just lost track of time. Or didn’t know about the increased patrols. Careless, but from what I hear the freighter was clean. I don’t even think they were boarded.”

“Good.” Miguel sat at the big desk in the study of the family home. He’d taken to holding more of his meetings in the dark paneled room. It felt…comfortable. More like a business instead of a hobby. No…it felt like an enterprise. “Did your people learn anything about this Cash?”

Esteban chuckled. “Dixon Cash Walker. A minor stockbroker who has a brother-in-law who’s a major branch manager for Florida Trust Savings and Loan. Married, with one kid and a waitress he screws on the side. The brother-in-law might be doing her, too. He’s fairly reliable from what my people can determine. Hasn’t shorted any customers and usually deals with the Dominicans and some of the larger Puerto Rican outfits when he’s not washing money for the Dixie Mafia. They’re his main customers.”

“Good work. Do we have pictures of this waitress?”

“Yes. In various compromising positions.”

“Perfect. I don’t plan to use him often, but it’s good to have something in reserve in case he gets ideas.” Miguel leaned back in his leather desk chair. “What do you think about expanding into Liberty City?”

Esteban pursed his lips. “I know the Puerto Ricans haven’t been very organized, but they’re dangerous as hell if provoked. Liberty City might be a good dumping ground for low-grade product, but I don’t know if it’s worth the fight it would take to go big there.” He shrugged. “That’s not my decision, though.”

“You and Enrique agree.” Miguel nodded slowly. In truth he hadn’t wanted to expand there, either. Not yet, at least. Uncle Jesus had been the one with the idea. Something about bringing money to the old neighborhood. Sometimes I wonder if he understands exactly what we’re doing now. This isn’t the old days when they were opening speakeasies to sell bootleg rum. “It’s not something we’ll be looking at.”

“That’s for the best, I think. Miami Beach might be a better choice.” Esteban shifted in his chair. “To tell the truth, I don’t know if I’d have enough manpower to back a major play. Someone’s been hiring shooters lately. And paying a lot of money.”

“Columbians? Or is it related to Hector Sandoval? Do we need…”

“No. It’s not Columbians. Or that damned crippled poet. It’s someone the old men know.”

“CIA?”

“No, but whoever it is might have been CIA once. I don’t know many details, but Nicaragua keeps coming up.”

“Have we lost any men to these people?”

“No.” Esteban smiled. “I recruit based on loyalty, jefe. Not just pay. Besides, most of our boys are city born and bred. The thought of crawling through the jungle doesn’t appeal to them at all. And they’re mainly Cubans, so they don’t give two shits about Nicaragua. But it does mean there aren’t many trained freelancers right now. The old men in Little Havana are sending most of those guys to this new crew.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“At least a couple of weeks. Maybe a month or more. I’ve heard of this kind of thing before, but never this many at once.” He leaned forward. “There’s also talk of some of the old training camps starting up again.”

Miguel nodded. “The president and his Contras, no doubt. Keep an eye on it, but don’t get too close. The CIA might not be officially involved, but you know there’re lurking in the bushes somewhere. We’re at a delicate point, Esteban, and we don’t need any distractions or attention turned out way. Better to loose a few men if we have to.”

“I would have advised the same thing. I’ve spent enough time with the old men to have an idea of what the CIA is capable of…both officially and unofficially.” Esteban shook his head. “With any luck this will pass in a few months. They’re not keeping a very low profile, and one of those monkeys from the press is bound to sniff out something. Then they’ll have to go to ground again.”

Miguel nodded. “True. But can you find out where these idiots are training? Just the general areas. I want to keep our boats well clear until they shut down again.”

Once Esteban left, Miguel fished a cigar out of the center desk drawer and went through the ritual of clipping the tip and puffing it to life. He’d only started recently, and found they settled his nerves and cleared his mind in equal measure.

The fucking CIA! He wasn’t sure if it was them or one of their ‘former employees’ working on their behalf, but having them nosing around in his back yard made him nervous. Not because they’d try to shut him down, but because he was afraid they’d want a piece of his action. Or use it to try to leverage him into moving cargo or people for them. No, better to slow down a bit and maybe absorb some losses than risk that kind of attention.

But it was hard. Looking around the study, Miguel felt the pull of memory. His grandfather had started it all, running rum back in the old days, then branching out into other things once they legalized booze again. But the rum was always there. Even now he continued to move some, more as a tribute to the old man.

His father knew nothing of their actual business, through his own choice. He still dabbled in Mendoza Distributors, meeting with old clients and smoking illegal cigars while they went over stagnant accounts. It made for good theater, but Miguel knew the real money was out there on the water where it always had been. Connecting people with things they wanted that the government didn’t want them to have.

He also knew they were at another tipping point. The handful of upscale clubs in Brickell catering to the financial crowd were proving incapable of absorbing everything they could bring in. He knew there were plenty of clubs in Miami Beach, and even more young idiots with money in their pockets who wanted to snort the party up their noses. They needed contacts there, but if the CIA was poking around again he’d need to wait. But waiting held its own dangers.

Sending a thick cloud of cigar smoke toward the slowly-turning ceiling fan, Miguel got to his feet. Maybe the appearance of the CIA and Santos wanting to come back to Miami wasn’t a coincidence. He suspected the Bolivian might have his uses for the Company, and they wouldn’t let a small thing like an international arrest warrant stand in their way if they needed him. It was what happened when they no longer needed the renegade Bolivian that bothered him.

Sighing, he picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. “Enrique? Yes, it’s me. Look, do your people have any contacts in the Miami Beach clubs? We might need to diversify a bit. No, I’ll tell you later when we meet for dinner. And see if that girl Holly will come.” He laughed. “Yeah, I know she’s not. But it’s always nice to have dinner with a beautiful woman. We’ll talk business over dinks before she arrives.”

 

Miguel snorted as the pink and blue neon lining the bar washed over his brother’s face. “Who decorated this place? A fucking fruit?”

Enrique laughed. “Yeah, I know. Not enough fake oak paneling to suit you. But it’s the new way, brother. This is where the people with money come to snort their lives away. You know…our customers.”

Miguel nodded as he sipped his rum. He hadn’t been to The Overton before, and likely wouldn’t come back if he had his way. Granted, he could understand the appeal of looking at waitresses wearing tight dresses barely covering what men most wanted to see, but all the neon and chrome made it feel temporary to him. Something built for one quick, brilliant show and not intended to last. It might explain the appeal to Enrique, though. The place was built like one of his go-fasts. “Sure. But how do we reach them?”

“Not here. The Overton is wired in with someone else. Don’t ask me who. I don’t know. But they’re big.” Enrique polished off his brightly-colored drink and waved for another. “I don’t know what the hell they put in those things, but they taste good and knock you on your ass. Anyhow, we might have a way in to Miami Beach. At least a couple of the clubs there. Remember cousin Gustavo?”

“Yes. Hard to forget that one. You said he’s been doing ok on the boats.”

“More or less. I’d never let him pilot one. But that’s not where he has value.” Enrique paused as the bartender delivered his drink. “Turns out the little idiot has an in with a couple of the Beach clubs. Friends who supply our product and might be looking for a less expensive supplier. Or a more reliable one.”

Miguel thought for a moment. “Have him explore it, but don’t commit. Something’s going on in the swamps again…someone’s hiring a whole bunch of muscle in a hurry. We need to lay low for a bit.”

Enrique nodded. “We’ve seen some usual boat traffic as well. I thought it was just another crew, but their radio discipline is too good. And they always start close to the coast. You think it’s another of those crazy Cuban combat groups?”

“That or the Contras that are all over the news. Either way it means Federal people, which always means trouble. So we play it safe for a bit.” He lowered his voice even more. “And Santos wants to come back to Miami.”

“As if we don’t have enough problems.” Enrique took a long drink, and his eyes clouded. “You think it’s related to this other thing?”

“It could be. But either way it’s more trouble for us.”

“I can do another deal with The Bat. Test his capabilities a bit.”

Miguel scratched his chin. They had the cash for a larger buy, but with the CIA… “Do it. See how much he can bring in on short notice. But don’t exceed what we’re already obligated to deliver on our end. I don’t want lots of product sitting around.” He thought for a moment. “Better yet…use him to replace the next shipment from Santos. I’ll let him know there’s too much local heat or some shit.”

“Great idea.” Enrique looked in the direction of the door and grinned. “And our ladies are here. I hope you don’t mind I brought some company for myself.”

“I should have suggested it.” Miguel turned, feeling a slight tug in his chest when he saw Holly again. She was wearing a tight blue dress and her long dark hair flowed free down her back. He’d only seen her a couple of times since that day at the pool, and she seemed to get more beautiful every time. “Let’s go get them.”

“I had them reserve a table for us near the back. The food here isn’t bad, and the music isn’t as loud back there.”

Enrique’s date was a blonde named Tiffy, but Miguel forgot about her seconds after he’d been introduced. He was captivated by Holly’s deep brown eyes, the fine lines of her cheekbones, and her quick laugh. Must be working too hard. Being smitten like a schoolboy is Enrique’s thing, not mine. Still, it did feel good. So did making her laugh.

“You still haven’t told me what you do.”

“Nothing exciting. I run the family distribution company.” He smiled. “You know, the people who supply beer and the like to places like this.”

“Really? I work with a couple of clubs down in Miami Beach. Advertising and promotions.”

“Then you know the business.” He tried to hide his excitement. Miami Beach.

“Some. I mean I know how to get ads on the radio and in Miami Today. That stuff.” She smiled and sipped her drink, bending forward just enough to give him a nice look down the front of her dress. “But the other stuff…not really.”

Enrique’s voice cut through the rising music. “That’s my brother! Just can’t stop talking about business.”

Holly raised her hand. “No, it was me. I asked him what he did. But it’s nice to know we have something in common.”

Miguel nodded, shooting a glare at his brother. “He’s right, though. I do talk business too much. One of us has to, I guess. But this is a night out.” He laughed, a forced thing he hoped Holly didn’t notice. “I guess I need to learn to relax.”

Before he knew it they’d finished eating. A quick glance at his watch told him it was almost ten. Shit. And I have to talk to Santos early. Holly seemed to notice the movement and finished her drink. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have to get up early tomorrow.” She smiled at Miguel. “A meeting with a radio station about a spot on one of their morning shows.”

“I understand. I have a meeting myself. With a supplier.” He leaned forward, ignoring Enrique and Tiffy who seemed focused only on each other. “I’d like to see you again.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Her fingers touched his, and then she slid a card out of her purse. “That’s my work number.” She pulled out a pen. “And that’s my apartment phone. I had fun, Miguel. Really.”

“So did I. Next time we’ll have a quiet dinner alone.” He paused. “If you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much.” She leaned closer, and he tasted her margarita on his lips as she kissed him. “Good night, Miguel.” Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd near the front door.