Genesis, Part XVI

[Robbie C.]

Miguel didn’t sleep much before the scheduled call with Cristobal Santos. He kept thinking about Holly. How she smelled. The firm curve of her breasts under the tight dress. And the fact she worked for clubs in Miami Beach. He knew he should use the contacts. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Not yet, at least.

He’d left right after she did, explaining his reason to a distracted Enrique who likely didn’t hear more than two words. Now he sat in the study staring at the phone sitting on the corner of the desk. Waiting for the call.

Cristobal Santos’ voice hadn’t improved in the year he’d known the man. “Miguel! It’s been too long since we last spoke. And longer since we met face to face.”

“Yes. But it’s difficult with your status.”

“Ah, yes. That. I understand that might be changing soon, my friend. Politics and all that.”

I’m not your friend, asshole. “Of course. We all know how that goes. Anyhow, what can I do for you?”

“How’s the business? Things going well?”

“The deliveries have been arriving on schedule and for the agreed amounts. After that one, at least.”

“Yes. That. The issue has been dealt with. You can be sure of that.”

“Good.”

“And aside from that?”

“You transport and we pay. What happens after that doesn’t factor into our arrangement. You know that.”

“Sure. Old habits. But the quantities are good?”

“Yes. We don’t need an increase.”

“Good. But there are things we can’t do on the phone. I plan to travel to Miami within the next month. Maybe sooner if things work out.”

“Business or pleasure?”

Santos laughed his sharp bark. “I like that about you, Miguel. Not once to mince words. Both, actually. I have a couple of meetings. And this time I won’t need any help with accommodations.” He laughed again. “An old compadre is seeing to that.”

Probably the same one who’s hiring gunmen. “It’s no trouble if your plans change.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think they will. I’ve known this guy for years. Anyhow, I’ll call once I land and we’ll meet and talk. Maybe you can bring your bother, too? The one with the boats.”

“I’ll do that.” Miguel was about to hang up when the buzz in his ear told him Santos had beaten him to the punch. “Asshole,” he muttered as he slammed the phone down.

 

“So did you take her home?” Enrique asked the question more to poke at his older brother. He already knew the answer.

“No. I”m sure you took that Tiffy home.”

“Yes. And it was well worth it, let me tell you.” He grinned before taking a sip of coffee. They were sitting on the flagstone paved back patio of the family home, enjoying the morning before the heat drove them indoors. “But you’ll be seeing her again?”

“Yes. Did you know she works with clubs in Miami Beach?”

Enrique nodded. “Tiffy said something about that, I think. She works at one, too, but as a bartender and not advertising. You gonna use her to get into the clubs?”

“Only if she wants to.” Miguel was looking out toward the water, a sign he was thinking. “Do you really think our cousin is ready for that step?”

“Maybe. Gustavo is ambitious. I have to give him that. But he didn’t get any brains from our side of the family. Maybe not from mother’s either.” Enrique set down his cup, thinking back over what he’d seen and heard. “He’s fine with people. One of those idiots like me who smiles all the time and is quick with words. He seems to have balls, too. When the boys tried to give him a hard time he pushed back quick.”

“I can hear a but there, brother.”

“Yes. He’s too quick to use the family name. Still. Even after Pasqual and I have both talked to him about it. I think he might still be stealing car stereos, too. Something extra to make himself look bigger.”

“But he does have an in with a club?”

“Yes. That much I know for sure. One of the managers buys his stereos, I think. So he has leverage.” He paused. Trying to remember what Gustavo had told him. “And that manager also deals in his club.”

“Good. Have him start there. What’s the club?”

“The Palms. It’s on the edge of the Deco District. Been there for a couple of years, I think.” Enrique sipped more coffee. “I’ll send Pasqual to check it out.”

“If it looks good, have Gustavo make his play. But keep a close eye on him. If he starts to step out of line…”

“I’ll smack him upside the head, brother.” He smiled, but he couldn’t shake one worry. “How did the talk with Santos go?”

“Asshole insists on coming here. I think he’s tied in with whatever’s going on in the Everglades, though. So we’re an afterthought.”

“That’s not a bad thing, right? We want to be rid of him, after all.”

“Yes, but we need to be sure we can replace what he brings to the table. You said this Bat brings good product, but he doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“No, but very few in his line of work do.” Enrique paused, not sure how far he wanted to go. Then he decided. “Brother, I don’t think we’re going to find many people like us in this business. Or like those we deal with for cigars and rum. The players change every week or two. Especially if you have to deal with the Columbians. So far we’ve been lucky, but I don’t know how long that luck will hold. They’re expanding again.”

“How so?”

“New crews. It’s not like Calderone or the Revillas…it’s more a death by a thousand cuts. There’s some consolidation going on…I hear the names Manolo and Carrera more and more these days. And of course our old compadres the Boroscos and the Hermanos brothers, but they seem content with their little pieces of turf.”

Miguel nodded, and Enrique felt a quick wash of relief seeing no anger in his eyes. “I’ve heard of Carrera, too. Another of the old smuggling crews. But Manolo is new to me.”

“From what I can tell they split between here and Lauderdale.”

“Still…we’ll let Gustavo try his luck with The Palms. And keep listening for new suppliers. If we have to replace Santos with two or even three, so be it.”

Enrique didn’t curse until he was in the Corvette accelerating away from the house. He didn’t like Santos any more than Miguel did, but getting rid of their one dependable supplier didn’t strike him as a good move. Especially if they were trying to expand. But if Santos was getting distracted or messing with something political…

“Just stick with the boats,” he muttered, accelerating into traffic and letting the big car have its head. “Easier.” He didn’t envy Miguel one bit, either with the distribution business or the cocaine. All he had to do was take things from point A to point B without attracting attention. And the money was damned good besides. Ever since they’d joined with Santos the green had been flowing in. He’d never seen anything like it, and from the way Miguel talked this was only the beginning.

Looking ahead he snarled and downshifted. “Damn tourists.” Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he reached down and turned on the Alpine sound system. Let Miguel deal with Santos and the rest of those apes. I just have to keep uncle Jesus happy. And that’s a damned job some days.

Thinking of Jesus brought another snarl to his lips. He couldn’t understand why the old guy just didn’t sit back and watch the money roll in. There was enough of it, both from his straight charter service and the cut Miguel gave him of their business. More than enough since they had to deal with outsiders to clean some of the money. But Jesus Estevez had to meddle…sticking his fingers where they weren’t wanted or needed.

Spotting a gap in the gridlock, Enrique accelerated past a line of rental sedans mixed with station wagons hauling squalling children. At some point he knew he’d have to tell Miguel what Jesus was up to, but for now he wanted to handle things himself. Both because he knew what was happening and to show Miguel he could control his own side of the operation.

Jesus Estevez ran his charter fleet from a suite of offices close to the Miami Beach Marina. Some of his boats were based there, while others operated from smaller marinas in the Keys and up and down the coast. Enrique swung his Corvette into a parking space, working the numbers through his head. The last time he’d counted, Uncle Jesus had something like ten or twelve boats under his control, ranging from small launches all the way up to seventy foot cabin cruisers and boats rigged for deep-sea sports fishing. And those were just the declared boats. Enrique suspected Jesus kept a handful of more discrete vessels on hand for other expeditions. Once a smuggler, always a smuggler he thought as he shut off the car and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose.

The receptionist was an older Latina woman Enrique guessed must have been unearthed when Jesus broke ground on the building. She could be friendly enough, but no one got past her without an appointment. Family or no. She gave Enrique one of her withering glances as he came in and jerked her head. “He’s waiting for you. And you’re almost late.”

“But not really late, grandma.” Enrique hid a smile as her glare grew darker. Without another word he passed by her desk and into Jesus’s office.

Jesus hunkered behind a huge desk designed to look both old and cheap, when Enrique knew it was neither. One of the old man’s conceits was trying to look like a simple, aging fisherman. It worked with most of his clients, but not Enrique. Dragging one of the heavy leather chairs in front of the massive desk, he sat down. “You said you needed to see me.”

“Yes, I did. And take those damned glasses off. A man likes to see the eyes of the man he’s talking to.”

Smiling, Enrique slipped off the glasses. His uncle’s pale blue eyes were already watering and bloodshot, hinting at an earlier liquid breakfast. “So talk.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Who are you to demand I appear here?” Enrique smiled, lightening his voice a hair. “You seem troubled. What’s the matter? A client skip out on his charter fee?”

“No, you ass!” Jesus slammed a meaty fist down on the desk, making the assortment of knick-knacks dotting the wide top jump. “It’s what your people did to stir up all that trouble south of town. Damned small boats and traffic.”

“I don’t use a single route in that area, Jesus. You know that. And neither did you, I thought. No good fishing down there was what you always said.”

“Maybe things have changed. And if you’re not messing around down there, how do you explain…”

“I don’t. It’s not my concern. I have heard talk of some crazy Cubans or something playing around in the Everglades. ‘Training’ or whatever they call it. Maybe it’s related to them. But you can be sure I don’t have a single boat down there. It’s too exposed for my needs.” And I thought for yours. What the hell are you up to, old man?

“Cubans? Shit! Last thing I need is those crazy bastards mucking around.”

“We all feel the same, I think. Miguel isn’t sure who it is, but he’s heard talk of Nicaragua as well. And some former Government people. The kind of thing we stay far away from.”

“Of course.” Jesus took a deep breath and sank back in his chair. “Look, Ricky, I’m sorry I shouted at you. It’s been a difficult time is all.”

“Did someone tell you it was us? Because you should know I never work in that area.”

“I don’t remember.”

You’re lying, old man. “Maybe one of your crew saw a cigarette boat and thought it was ours. You’d better tell them there’s more of those boats on the water than there are cars in the stadium parking lot when the Dolphins play. And we aren’t the only ones using them.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. It’s what I get for thinking about adding another couple of boats. We’re getting more tourists now, and…”

Enrique nodded from time to time, even though he’d tuned out Jesus and was deep in his own thoughts. What’s the old man up to and why did he think we were operating down there? Maybe one of his men made a mistake, but it still doesn’t explain what he was up to working that area. I don’t think he understands how the game’s changed.

“You’re not listening, Ricky.”

“Of course I am, uncle. You were complaining about that new pilot you just hired. The one who wants to be a captain but…”

Jesus laughed. “I was at that. Damned fool doesn’t know the stem from the stern and he thinks he’s ready to captain a fifty-footer. Hell, he’s not ready to captain the head. But that isn’t your problem. Sorry again to have bothered you. Look, you might tell Miguel I can handle a bit more cash now. With new boats coming on…”

“I’ll let him know. And next time just ask, uncle.” And maybe don’t drink your breakfast. Getting to his feet, Enrique shook Jesus’s outstretched hand before turning and heading back out. It was starting to get hot, and he wanted to get back to the main boat shed.

Pasqual was halfway in the engine compartment of one of the new Scarabs when Enrique strolled in. “Hey, boss! This one will be ready to make runs soon. Damned shame we can’t send her to Saul, but he’s still in County last I heard.”

“You’ll do fine.” Enrique took off his sunglasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his light shirt. “Look, you hear anything about Uncle Jesus?”

“Like what?” Pasqual clambered out of the engine compartment, wiping his hands on a mostly-clean rag. “I heard one of his crews had a run-in with those assholes down south. The ones with the assault rifles and the fancy, fast boats.”

“Yeah. I heard something about that this morning. From him. He thought it was our people.”

“No chance. We stay clear, and more so now that those assholes are running around.”

“Good. But have you heard anything about what he might have been doing down there?”

“No. But I can check around.”

Enrique nodded. “Do that. I’m wondering just what the hell Uncle Jesus is up to. He also wouldn’t tell me who told him it was us working that area. He also said he was buying a couple more boats.”

“That I did hear about. I thought you knew.” Pasqual looked back at the Scarab bobbing in the slight current in the boathouse wet dock. “Way I hear it he just bought for more boats. At least. Two are his usual sport-fishing rigs…big and flashy with TVs and full bars. But the other two? Go-fasts. Brand new ones. The kind no one uses for fishing.”

Enrique nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. What the fuck is the old man playing at? He knows nothing about how things work now. Then he forced himself to smile. “Enough about that. Let’s take her out and see how your modifications feel.”

 

Four hours later Miguel Mendoza gave his bother a long look. “And you’re sure?”

“As sure as I’m standing here. First Jesus calls me in to yell at me about whatever those damned hired guns no one’s hiring are up to, and then I find out he’s adding boats. Explains why he said he can handle more money, but…”

“Not what the hell he’s up to. At least you handled his little tantrum without giving anything away. That was good work. And sending Pasqual to poke around was also good work. I know Jesus is family, but…”

“We need to know what he’s up to.”

“Yes. And without getting poppi involved.”

Enrique nodded. “That’s the last thing we need. He’d probably overreach and shoot Jesus himself.”

Miguel nodded, thinking about their father’s famous temper. Never directed at his sons, the Mendoza temper had been known and feared up and down the coast. “And that we don’t need right now. I’ll have my people do some more checking on whoever’s running around with the guns and boats, and you have your people keep an eye on Jesus. If he tries to start a war with those carbons he’ll lose.” He didn’t mention Esteban had said men were coming in from outside Miami to train, some from outside Florida as well. Hard men. And for Esteban to say that meant they were likely former military.

He managed to control his own anger until Enrique left. Then he slammed his fist down hard on the study desk. “Damn the man!” Why is Jesus pulling this shit now, of all times? First he says he can’t handle any more cash, then he goes and draws attention to himself AND wants to handle more money!

Staring at the bookcases filled with leather-bound classics he doubted his father ever touched, Miguel took long, regular breaths. Getting angry wouldn’t solve the problem. Hell, it wouldn’t even help explain the problem in the first place. But he knew he needed to explain it, at least for himself, before he could solve it.

They were at a delicate point, and he knew it. They’d made big inroads into Miami’s cocaine trade, mostly by doing what the family had always done: providing reliable, secure transportation services. But he’d learned from the missteps of others, and now they needed to secure enough of the distribution end of the pipeline to keep their product moving. At some point they might need to tie down a supplier or two, but for now they fell from the sky like raindrops in the spring. Getting product was easy, moving it once they got it on land wasn’t.

Feeling his nerves building, Miguel turned away from the desk and started pacing. Movement helped him steady himself and stimulate his thought process, and he needed both right now. He knew about the respect his grandfather had commanded in the city…at least the parts of the city that mattered. Let the monied pigs cling to their big houses on the water. Real power in Miami rose from the waterfront, the gutters, and the swamps. And his grandfather had commanded real respect there. More than anything he wanted to regain that respect for the Mendoza name.

He’d soaked up the stories at the old man’s knee…tales of sticking a .45 Colt in the mayor’s face and demanding he open the port again after the Federal government had tried to close it to cut back on smuggling. Of men shot and dumped in the Everglades because they tried to take one of the family’s loads of rum. And most of all how men had moved aside when Guillermo Mendoza entered a room. He also never forgot the look of abject disappointment in the old man’s eyes when anyone mentioned his son.

Everything Miguel had done since he turned eighteen was aimed at restoring the family name. Business school. Taking over and expanding the distribution business; along with funneling money from it to Enrique so he could buy better boats. Even his father had continued smuggling rum, and later cigars once Castro’s blight swept over Cuba. It had taken Miguel to increase the traffic, and then move on to other commodities.

A knock at the door snapped him out of his dreams. “We did the drop as instructed.” Esteban Morales stood in the doorway with one of his men. “Only twenty thousand, though.”

“Good. Check back in…what did he say…twenty four hours. If there isn’t eighteen thousand waiting for us, bring me his head instead.”

Esteban grinned. “We’ll do that, jefe. For what it’s worth, he’s got a good drop. I thought about leaving a man to watch it, but since that wasn’t in the instructions…”

“Good thing you didn’t. He might be watching it to see if we’re doing the same.” Miguel chuckled. “Not that I think he’s smart enough for that, but someone close to him might be. Keep poking into his background, too. If he’s been doing this for any length of time there should more out there about him.”

“I was thinking the same thing. We’re on it.” He started to turn, then paused. “I’ve been hearing more mutterings about those men in the swamps. Word is they’ll be moving out in a few days. One of the leaders is having some kind of trouble with Metro-Dade. Or so it’s said.”

“Good. The sooner those assholes are gone, the better I’ll feel.”

“As will I. And we may have a problem in Liberty City again. I know we don’t run much business there, but a crew out of Little Haiti is trying to make inroads and they might try picking up some of our business.”

“They never learn, do they?”

“Some do. But the power structure there…” Esteban shrugged. “With the Dominicans you have two, maybe three major gangs. The Haitians have at least three times that number, all small and looking to grow at the expense of the others. And none of them respect the established order.”

“They must have learned that from the Columbians.” Miguel thought for a moment, then remembered his grandfather. “I want you to pick a location for a message, Esteban. Something that will resonate with these idiots. When the plan’s ready, let me know. I want to take part.”

“But you…”

“The men only respect a boss who’s willing to get his hands dirty, my friend. I’ve been on a handful of runs with Enrique, but to your men I’m an abstract. They need to see I’m willing to do what they do, and that I understand what they do.” He raised his hand. “I know it’s a risk, but it’s one I need to take.”

“Of course. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow, I think. My people only just learned of this, so we’re still collecting information. I think I already know the gang we need to hurt, though. They killed a dealer who buys from us last week after he wouldn’t change suppliers. Or so the streets say.”

“Be as sure as you can, Esteban. When my grandfather stuck, it was always hard and at the right people. A good model to follow, don’t you think?”

When Esteban was gone, Miguel gave the study a final glance before heading upstairs. Now wasn’t the time to get him involved with the Jesus situation, if there was a situation. Questions needed to be answered first. That and he wanted the man’s full attention on Cash, and now the Haitians. Bastards need to learn to keep their place he thought as he walked through the wide second floor landing and opened the balcony doors. They can kill each other all they want, but Liberty City is ours. Or it should be.

The breeze wasn’t as refreshing as he’d hoped…just hot air being pushed from one side of the balcony to the other. But he could smell the ocean flowing through it, and that was enough.

Things were going well. Maybe too well. And so far the police had been far away. He didn’t think their luck would last, but he wanted to exploit it while it did. Maybe those idiots in the swamps are good for something after all. Diverts attention away from us, even though we have to dodge their foolish war games.

An image of Holly popped into his head, and he closed his eyes for a moment. She was beautiful, seemed intelligent, and was interested in him without knowing a thing about what he did. What his family did. Sooner or later she would know, and then other questions would be answered. But for now there was the prospect of dinner and whatever came afterwards.

 

The dark Mercedes moved at a crawl, its tinted windows fully up against the afternoon Miami heat. Esteban Morales looked through the passenger side window, his sunglasses still on against what glare came through the tint.

The driver was one of his best men, Little Havana born and bred. He kept the car moving just enough to avoid attention, yet slow enough for Esteban to study the street. “We should be there soon, boss,” he said, one hand on the wheel.

“Good. I take it those are their men on the corner?”

The driver snuck a quick look. “Yeah, that’s them. Usually there’s three.”

“He’s back in the bar doorway. Thinks he’s clever.” Esteban chuckled. Those the same ones who hit the dealer?”

“I think so. I’ve only seen one crew here so far. Always the same three.” He slowed to make a turn. “You want to go by again?”

“No. No reason to give them a second look. And you’re sure this is the only crew they have in the district?”

“I wouldn’t say sure, boss. They’re the only one I’ve seen.”

“Good work. Always be honest in your estimates. I want to know what you know, not what you think I want to know. Who else has worked the area?”

“Victor, I think. Maybe Hector and Lukas.”

“I’ll speak with them. See if they can add anything. The boss wants us to be sure before we move.” I’d feel better if Lupe had been here, but he’s still digging on that Cash asshole.

“What’s the difference?”

Esteban smiled. He’d been thinking about what Miguel had said, and now it made perfect sense. “It shows we’re both hard and we can hit precisely at those who hurt us. Think about it: when someone pisses off the Columbians, they just start spraying. Don’t care who they hit so long as they hit someone. Like last month down by the marina. They took out the wrong crew entirely, but didn’t care. Guys who’d worked with them in the past, no less. This way, we show people that if you’re our friend, you’re safe. But if you hurt us, we will find you and hurt you.”

The driver nodded slowly, starting to accelerate as they left the area. “It makes sense. Just never put words to it. And you’re right about the Garrillos crew. They have more enemies than ever before after that stunt at the marina.”

Esteban nodded, but his thoughts had returned to what they’d seen by the bar. Three men. Haitians. And moving like they owned the street. He’d seen at least two pistols, the butts sticking out of their baggy pants like they didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe they didn’t. Metro-Dade didn’t patrol the area very much, and none of the locals were going to move on them. Not yet, at least.