Genesis, Part XVII

[Robbie C.]

August 1986

Before Stone’s War and during and after Free Verse

Two days later the big Mercedes returned to Liberty City, rolling slow down streets haphazardly lit by a handful of working streetlights. It was the same Mercedes Esteban’s crew had taken from Falcone when they took his crew…a fact not lost on Miguel Mendoza sitting in the back seat. Things often had a way of coming back on themselves. And he was actually glad now the idiot poet Sandoval was still in town. His rantings, and those of the people who wanted to see him dead, stripped Metro-Dade patrols from neighborhoods like this.

Eduardo’s voice echoed from the front passenger seat. “We’re getting close, boss. Another two blocks.”

Miguel nodded, then remembered the darkness. “Good.” Reaching down, he picked up the old .45 ACP Colt his grandfather had used. Drawing confidence and maybe a bit of strength from what he knew the weapon had done in the past. Unlike the elder Mendoza, Miguel had never killed anyone before. Not personally. He’d given the order many times, but his finger had never squeezed the trigger. Until tonight.

“Not a cop in sight.” The driver, a man Eduardo called Chico, laughed low in his chest. “Always better when you don’t have to shoot it out with them.”

“Better for all of us.” Miguel kept his voice low. “You kill one of them, they hunt you forever. If it’s just gangsters killing each other…”

“They don’t look near as hard.” Eduardo finished the bit of street wisdom. “Sometimes I wonder if they look at all, depending on where the bodies drop. Like here.”

“Are they still out there?”

“We aren’t quite close enough to see yet, boss. Once Chico turns this corner…yes, I can see them. Damned bar has one of the few working streetlights on the block. All three of them. Standing there like they own the place.”

Miguel ran through the moves in his head. He’d tried it on the club pistol range earlier, then later with Eduardo and no weapon, and finally on the range again. The neighborhood might be a combat zone, but he wanted the Mendoza message to be precise as well as vicious. “Remember. Only those three. And no more than two shots each.”

“Almost there, boss.” Chico slowed the car even more…down to a menacing crawl. The three playing grab-ass outside the bar still hadn’t noticed them, or if they had didn’t think it was a threat.

Eduardo spoke again. “You take the one closest to the street, boss. I’ll take the other two. Don’t get out of the car. Chico, when I say put the windows down.”

He could feel the adrenalin starting to flow now, pumping from his heart through his veins. Was it always like this? Or is it like every other first time…exciting beyond words and then becoming dull with routine? Reaching down, he racked the slide of the Colt, feeling a big round into the chamber. The metal on metal sound was loud in the closed car.

The car rolled closer, and he could see the Haitians turning now. Reacting to the headlights sweeping over them. Then they turned away with a confidence born of ignorance. No one had challenged their command here before, and they had no reason to think anyone would. In the front seat he heard Eduardo say “Now.”

The power windows on the right side of the car hummed down as one. As soon as they pulled even with the three men, Miguel brought up his grandfather’s big Colt. There was a short heartbeat of hesitation, then he swore he heard his grandfather’s sharp laugh and squeezed the trigger.

The yellow-orange muzzle flash blinded him for a moment, and his ears rang from the shots echoing in the car. Blinking, his vision cleared and he saw his man fall, blood pouring from a massive hole in the back of his head. Three rapid shots from Eduardo sent the other two spinning away, and then the windows were humming back up as Chico accelerated away from the curb.

The burned powder stung his nose, and his ears rang with a thousand church bells from the shots. But Miguel felt his face twitch into a smile. He’d killed his man. Something he never thought he’d do, and something he doubted his father had ever done for all his rages and posturing. Remembering his training, he flicked on the Colt’s safety before setting it on the seat beside him. Now he had even more in common with the man who’d first owned the pistol.

Chico was laughing and shouting in the front seat. “That was great shooting, boss! One shot to the fucking head! That’s cajones, boss. Big time.”

“Keep your eyes on the fucking road. The last thing we need is to be stopped by some wandering Metro-Dade assholes.” Eduardo waiting for Chico to settle down before turning to look at Miguel. “He’s right, though, boss. That was good shooting. The one you dropped was the boss of that little crew. We’ll keep an eye out, but I think it’ll be safe to send our boys back in to sell some product.”

Miguel nodded, still waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. He let his hand rest on the leather upholstery, then smiled as his fingers touched the still-warm shell casing. Picking it up, he tucked it into his pants pocket. It was surprising, really. After all the priests whining about killing, what he’d just done felt more like swatting a fly than taking a life. Maybe it would be different later, but for now… “Let’s get back,” he said, finding his voice. “We need to move fast before the Haitians try to send someone else in to move product.”

 

“Any witnesses?” Stan Switek looked at the uniform, who shook his head. “Didn’t think there would be. Not here.”

Larry Zito nodded. “Yeah. So why’d they call us? Not that I mind being hauled off that protection detail.”

“Yeah. I had to listen to one more rant from Hector Sandoval I was gonna scream. Let Gorman and Dibble deal with him is what I say.” Stan turned back to the patrolman. “Why’d you guys call OCB?”

“We didn’t. Put the call through to dispatch. I thought they were gonna send Homicide. Maybe some of Vallencio’s boys.” He shrugged, the side of his face going red or blue depending on the rotation of the lights on the squad car.

“Well, since we’re here I guess we’d better take a look.” Stan chuckled and tuned back to the bodies. “Haitians?”

“Yeah. I’d say so. This is my usual beat, an’ they been movin’ in here the last few weeks. Those three cats pretty much pissed on that light pole to mark it as theirs.” He shrugged again. “We’d run ‘em off, but no one will swear out a complaint.”

“I hear ya. Lar and I worked Overtown when we were in Patrol.” He looked at the bodies again, sprawled in thickening pools of blood and bits of what looked like brains. “Man. Someone did a number on these guys. Headshots mostly.”

Larry nodded, narrowing his eyes as he looked down. “Large caliber, too. Not a .22 or some other popgun.”

Stan crouched by one of the bodies, careful not to touch too much. Crime Scene better get their asses out here. Aw, who am I kidding? Not in this part of town. “Looks like they’re packing heat of their own. Berettas maybe. But they didn’t draw. Someone took these goofballs by surprise.”

Larry cleared his throat. “Looks like the body wagon’s here. And it’s got Homicide in tow.”

“Good. We’ll hand off to them and head back.” Stan got to his feet with a groan. “Hey, Horrigan! ‘Bout time you guys got here. Don’t worry, we didn’t touch nothin’. Let us know if you find any drug connection. We gotta get back to our detail. Turns out dispatch screwed up and sent us first.”

 

Enrique stared at the phone receiver, then hung up. “I don’t believe it. Miguel just pulled the trigger on those Haitian bastards.”

“That’s no surprise, boss.” Pasqual took another drink of beer from his bottle.

“No. I mean like he literally pulled the fucking trigger. Killed one of them himself.”

“No shit? Guess the Haitians know not to mess with the Mendozas now.”

“He wants us to get some people over there. Make contact with the dealers we’d sold to before and tell them the product’s still theirs if they want it.”

“I’ll send some boys as soon as we’re done here.”

“Good. It’ll only take a kilo or so to meet those obligations.” Enrique reached for his own beer, his brain still struggling to process what he’d heard. Miguel actually killed someone. He’d always seen his older brother as a dashing bookworm, somehow above all that. And now he’d stepped right into it without skipping a beat. “Have our guy take one of the Cubans just in case, though.”

“I’ll do that.” Pasqual started to push back from the table, then changed his mind. “You think I should send a bit extra product just in case?”

“If we have it on hand, do it. Use The Bat’s stuff. It’s already been cut. Go with the standard price. They caved to the Haitians, so they don’t get no discount.” Enrique took another drink. “Then when you get back we gotta plan for the next shipment from that punk Santos.”

“He still using freighters?”

“Last I heard. Doesn’t bother me, though. Easier to deal with than those damned air drops. Planes draw too much attention. I don’t care how fast they are or how much product they can move.”

“Sometimes the older ways are best, right?”

“Something like that.” A thought tickled the back of his brain. “You hear anything else about what Jesus might be up to? He buying more go-fasts?”

“Not that we can tell.” Pasqual shrugged. “Builders don’t exactly call and let me know who’s buying their inventory. And he might be picking them up in Lauderdale or even Tampa Bay. He’s cagey that one.”

“It’s how he’s lasted so long.” That and his ambition only comes in fits and starts. Not like ours. “Anyhow, go get things moving. I’m gonna head out to the house as soon as I’m done here.”

Enrique wasn’t quite sure what he’d find when he idled the Corvette up the long gravel drive to the house. But he didn’t expect to see Miguel sitting on the wide porch smoking a cigar. “You heard?”

“I did. And I had Pasqual send some product in like you asked. Had him take some extra so we’d be ready if there were new orders. Sent one of the Cubans with them in case there’s trouble, but I don’t think there will be.”

“I don’t, either.” Miguel’s face was half-hidden by cigar smoke, but in the dim light from the small porch lamps Enrique could see his dark eyes glittering. “I think we made our point.”

As he climbed the front steps, Enrique saw the big Colt sitting on a small table next to Miguel’s chair. “That looks like grandfather’s piece.”

“It is.” Miguel looked over at the pistol. “It’s not as fancy as some of the other guns out there, but it’s family. And she still shoots straight.”

Enrique sat down, not quite sure what to say. The shock of the news had worn off with the buzz from his handful of beers, and now…

“You didn’t expect this from me, did you?”

“No. Not really. It just doesn’t seem like what you do.” He paused. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, brother.”

“I know what you mean. Miguel is the calm one, Ricky is the hothead.” Miguel laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh Enrique had heard before. “Believe me, this was done with total calm. Not only did the Haitians need a lesson, our men needed to see their boss has what it takes to do what they do. It’s hard to ask a man to do something if you’re not willing to do it yourself.”

“No one ever…”

“I know they didn’t. But someone would someday.” His voice grew thin. “And you remember grandfather’s stories? About the respect this family used to hold and how they got it? This was part of our way back to that respect.”

“Pasqual’s still looking into what Uncle Jesus is up to.” Enrique changed the subject, wanting to get back on more comfortable ground. “He says as far as he can tell Jesus isn’t buying any more go-fasts, but he might be getting them outside Miami.”

“Keep an eye on him. Nothing more. Unless he starts causing us problems. If we give up a little, he’ll settle back down into his lazy, swordfish-slaying self.” Miguel took another puff from the cigar. “But if he starts moving into our new business I want to know at once. Cigars and rum are one thing, cocaine is another.”

Enrique nodded, watching Miguel from the corner of his eye. He’s sitting different, even. “We’ll do that. And we’re getting ready for the next shipment from Santos. We can definitely use it…most of what’s coming in has already been spoken for. And not by Liberty City. I sent Oswaldo’s product there.”

“Good. Has Gustavo made any progress yet?”

“It’s early yet, but I think he has. I’m giving him until the end of the week, and then I’ll stick him back on a boat and make his move for him.” Enrique grinned. “And he knows that. That place he’s after? The Palm? It’s just down the road from Club Ovo in South Beach, so there’s overflow money there.”

“Good. The Columbians will start sniffing around soon enough, and I want to get there first. Be sure he understands that. If he fucks this up, he can go back to stealing car stereos for all I care.”

Enrique just nodded, watching the cigar smoke float up to the rafters of the porch. He’d never seen Miguel quite like this before. He was used to his brother’s confidence, and even some quiet arrogance, but not this.

“You’re quiet, brother.”

“Sorry. Yes, I guess I am. I just…”

“I know. You know, I thought I’d feel badly. Hearing all those priests all these years talk. But the truth is, I don’t feel bad at all. It’s a funny thing, you know. Just one bullet and that puto’s life was done. And he would have done the same to me if he could. Probably would have enjoyed it, too.”

“Do you…”

“No. I don’t enjoy it. But I don’t fear it now, either. And I think I understand a bit more about grandfather now. Jaime was different…a matter of honor.” Miguel ground the thick Cuban cigar out in the ash tray next to the Colt. “And now I need to see to the pistol. Were you staying for a drink, or…”

“I should probably get back. Pasqual can be a bit literal, and he might have sent boys over to Liberty City tonight.” He forced a smile. “That and I told Tiffy I’d call. You wouldn’t believe…”

“You’re probably right.” Miguel got to his feet, hefting the pistol. “I’ll call you in the morning. See if anything happened with Pasqual’s boys. I should have the exact time for Santos’s next shipment, too.” He chuckled. “Can you believe father actually went to one of the readings by that idiot Sandoval? You’d think he’d find something better to do.”

“You know the old man. He hasn’t been quite right since mama died.” If he ever was quite right. Bastard. Enrique gave his brother a quick pat on the shoulder. “Take care, brother.”

 

Miguel stood on the porch, watching the Corvette’s tail lights receding down the drive. “You don’t know what to think, do you, brother?” he muttered, turing and opening the heavy front door. “To be honest, I don’t know what to think, either.”

He cleaned the Colt in the study, rods and patches spread out on a heavy cloth and the sharp bite of gun oil filling his nose. It took a few tries to disassemble the Colt, working mostly from memories of watching his grandfather and the couple of times Esteban had shown him how. Running patches through the barrel until they came out clean was almost restful, allowing his thoughts to flow into the activity and not dwell on the past few hours.

Reaching down, he touched his pocket where the empty casing rested. He’d taken it mostly so there’d be nothing left for the police if they found the car, but now he considered keeping it. Making it into a necklace or something as a reminder of the first life he’d taken in the name of the family business.

In truth he knew it wasn’t the first. That had been Jaime…when he’d tried to sell their smuggling routes to Calderone. But that was different…had been different. Then he was dealing with a traitor. A man who’d been like part of the family yet turned on his family for money. Killing him had been expected…a family duty. This was different. In his grandfather’s language, Jaime had been in hot blood. The Haitian had been in cold blood. Only Esteban knew about Jaime, but Enrique always suspected. Soon all his men would know about the Haitian.

He could still see it when he closed his eyes. The spray of red around the Haitian’s face. The look of surprise turing to panic just before Miguel squeezed the trigger. Opening his eyes, he fumbled with the barrel bushing on the Colt, almost launching the recoil spring across the room before gathering himself. Forcing his mind to focus on his fingers and the pistol in front of him.

When it was done he stared down at the pistol resting on the cloth, a thin coat of oil shining in the overhead light. It was late…and he knew he needed sleep. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to part with the pistol. Not yet. Scooping it up, he switched off the lights and headed upstairs to his room in the sprawling house.

Miguel woke to sun streaming through the wide blinds on his bedroom window. He’d slept better than he thought he might…no dreams of any kind. Stretching out his arm, he looked at his Rolex and smothered a yawn. Just enough time for a shower and some coffee before the scheduled call from Cristobal Santos.

Padding downstairs with hair still damp from the shower, Miguel made coffee in the kitchen before taking a steaming cup to the study. He hadn’t expected his father to turn up, not after a night in the city listening to some crazy poet, and he had the house to himself. The cleaning woman wasn’t due until afternoon, and the gardener kept to himself, happy to wallow in his fertilizer and insecticide. He was glad for the solitude. Talking to Santos was becoming increasingly painful.

The hour hand on his Rolex had just touched ten when the phone rang. He picked it up, hearing the faint echo common to international calls. “Yes?”

“Miguel, my friend! I trust all is well with the business?”

“Of course. If anything was wrong you’d be the first to know.”

“Of course, amigo. Of course. The next shipment will be in two days. It’s already left port.”

“Good. I’ll let my people know to expect delivery.” He paused. “The usual amount?”

“Certainly. And I wanted to confirm I’ll be in Miami in the next few weeks. I have other business meetings, but we should get together. Have a drink. Talk about old times.”

As if we have any old times to talk about. “Sure. Let me know when you arrive and I’ll be sure my schedule is clear.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You sound…different somehow.”

“Everything’s fine, Cristobal. Had a bit of a late night last night is all.”

“Ah! Of course! Some fine girl, yes? Like the ones that came when I was last in Miami? Reason enough for a man to sound tired, I say.” Santos’s annoying laugh filled his ear. “It will be good to see you in person again, my friend. We have much to discuss.”

Miguel glared at the phone after he hung up, then lashed out and sent the thing clattering to the floor. “Damn the man!” The words slipped out unbidden, then he gathered himself and put the phone back on the desk. For now it was best he keep his feelings about Santos hidden away. But soon, if all went well, the man would be expendable. Smiling, he reached for the phone, hoping he hadn’t broken it. He needed to let Enrique know the date of the shipment.

 

“Any sign of them?” Enrique Mendoza kept his eyes fixed on the boat’s dimly glowing gauges. The port engine had been running a touch hot since they left the dock. Not enough to worry him, but enough to command some attention. It wasn’t the only choice he was regretting on this run.

Gustavo Mendoza looked at the radar screen, then peered into the darkness. Enrique wasn’t sure what bothered him more: his cousin’s longish, lanky hair or the damned thin mustache that looked like part of a costume from a really bad movie. He had to admit the kid tried, he just wasn’t sure if he was trying to make good or trying to be an ass. “Nothing on the screen, Ricky. An’ it’s dark as hell out here. If they ain’t got their lights on, no way I can see them.”

Sighing, he checked his Rolex. “It’s time. Wouldn’t be surprised if that damned rust bucket Santos uses sprung a leak somewhere and sank, though. That or the engine took a dump.” It was also possible the Coast Guard had picked them up, but he wasn’t going to say it. Even though the hired guns seemed to be done with whatever they’d been doing, patrols were still elevated. And now he had an engine to worry about. The needle ticked another bar higher.

“How long you gonna wait?”

“Not much longer. Another five, maybe ten minutes. Switch the radar over to medium range. See if they’re out there somewhere.”

“Sure thing. Uh, it’s this switch, right?”

Moron. “Yeah, that one. Give it a second to adjust, though.”

“Got it. Hey, I got something. Coming up from the southeast and moving at…maybe five knots. Maybe five miles away, too.”

“Let me see.” Enrique elbowed Gustavo aside and stared down at the flickering green scope. “That’s it.” Moving back to the pilot’s seat he eased the twin throttles forward a hair. Ten knots. And keep an eye on that damned engine. “Get ready to hit the navigation lights. We flash them twice when the freighter’s within a mile.”

The freighter, the same rusted tub with Caribbean registry he’d met many times before, loomed a deeper black against the dark night sky less than half an hour later. Dialing the proper frequency into the marine band radio, Enrique triggered the microphone three times, and was rewarded with two hissing clicks in return. “Get ready to tie up,” he told Gustavo as he slowed again and angled the go-fast so it would slide up against the larger ship. “And wake up Chico while you’re at it. You’ll need him to help load the product.”

 

After When Irish Eyes are Crying

 

Stan Switek couldn’t believe his luck. They’d roped in Gustavo Mendoza as a CI over eight months ago, and up until now he’d been pretty much worthless. But now… “Let me get this straight. You heard what last night?”

“Twenty kilos of powder, man!” From the traffic sounds in the background Stan guessed Gustavo was on a pay phone. “Came in on some damned rust bucket freighter last week.”

“And you heard this how, exactly?”

There was a pause. “Some dudes who were there were talkin’. When we were bringing in cigars.”

“You really expect me to believe that, Gus? That some of your cousins’ men were just shooting the shit about moving twenty kilos of powder?”

“Believe it or don’t. But it’s the truth. That enough to square us?”

“No way. You know the deal. You have to give us something we can tie to your cousins. Not this ‘someone whispered in my ear’ crap. Try again.”

“What was that all about?” Larry Zito looked up from an old issue of Miami Today.

“That, Lar, was old Gustavo. He was trying to convince me he heard someone talking about a twenty kilo deal, but I’d bet a pair of blue suede shoes he was in on the deal somehow. Moron still wants to protect his cousins, I guess.”

“You think it’s tied into those bodies we got called to the other night?”

“Hard to say. My brain’s still scrambled from listening to ol’ Hector and his politics.” Stan chuckled. “Between him and that mess with the Concorde it’s been an open air freak show around here.”

“You got that right. What you need is a good fight to clear your head.” Larry grinned. “Moon’s been after me to go see this kid he’s been training. Says he’s the next big thing. You up for it?”

“Sure. Why the hell not? Nothing like I like better than watching two sweaty grown men beat each other senseless. That and the ring girls are hot. It’s been a bit since I seen Moon, too. How’s he doing?”

“Same as ever, I guess. But he sure is hot about this new kid. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk a prospect up like he is this guy.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sykes. Bobby Sykes.”

Stan let the name roll around in his head. “Good fighter’s name, too.” He was about to get up when the phone rang again. “You wanna get that?”

“Naw. You got phones today, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Last time I bet on who wins the ‘Best O Face’ award with you, though.” Stan snatched up the receiver. “This better be good.”

“Stan my man! It’s…”

“What do you want, Noogie?”

“Now is that any way to say hey to the man with the plan?” From the fuzzed-out speakers in the background Stan knew Noogie was calling from Rizzo’s, although at least he wasn’t using the pay phone by the johns. “I got some news you dudes can use, if you can dig what the Noog-man is sayin’.”

“Come on, Noogie. I don’t have all day.”

“Now look hyar. The Noog-man don’t rush nothin’ worth doing.” The white noise passing for music got louder, then faded again. “Sent that dude packin’, you dig? What the Noog-man has is for your ears alone, Switek. If the price is right.”

“You get the standard CI payment. More if it actually turns out to be something.” Stan grimaced, then frowned when Larry chuckled. “And we know how often that happens, don’t we?”

“Man, I ain’t that freak Izzy! This is the Noog-man! The one an’ only! Anyhow, here’s the tip, flip. There’s this cat likes comin’ down hyar and throwin’ cash at this sweet young thang with red hair. Calls himself Cash, too.” Noogie’s voice dropped, and Stan could imagine him leaning in to whisper like a character in a bad movie. “The way the Noog-man hears things, this Cash deals in cash, as in turnin’ drug cash into clean cash.”

“Lots of money laundering goofs in this city, Noogie.”

“Not like this cat. Now the Noog-man mighta been leanin’ a little close when he was whisperin’ into Red’s ear the other night, but I did hear him say Mendoza.”

Stan sat up straight and reached for his notepad. “Mendoza?”

“Figured that would get your attention.” Noogie’s laugh was a cackle. “So Cash was braggin’ about some new client to Red. Said the dude was his ticket up an’ away. You wanna have a look, the dude’s in hyar every Wednesday. The Noog-man sets his damned watch by it. See, that’s when Red shakes her tail, an’ he follows her like a dog on a scent.”

“You know we gotta check this out, right?”

“Yeah. So, this gonna put the Noog-man in the good graces of the parole man?”

“It checks out, I’d say so, Noogie.” Hanging up, Stan turned to Larry with a big grin. “You wanna run down an alias, Lar? Money guy who goes by the really original name Cash.”

“Don’t tell me Noogie came through again?”

“He might have. And if he did, we just handed another lead on the elusive Mendozas to the Hardy Boys.”

Larry chuckled. “And I’d pay good money to see Crockett show up at a meet in that pickup he’s driving now…”