Genesis, Part XXVI

[Robbie C.]

Sonny Crockett heard the clack of Angie’s high heels on the marble floor before he saw her in the doorway. Those heels were as good as a bell on a cat’s collar, even though he was afraid she’d fall off them and hurt herself every time she tottered by. “Girlfriend says she’s at the studio today. In case Blondie wants to stop by.”

“Thanks, Angie. I might later.” He took a final swallow of coffee and got up from the long table. “But I gotta get moving if I want to be on time for work.”

Caitlin’s personal assistant, bodyguard, and God knew what else rolled into one snorted. “If you call rollin’ around in fast cars work.”

“Yeah. Someone’s gotta do it.” He grinned to cover a flash of annoyance. They’d been married over six months, and he still hadn’t gotten used to Angie. Some days he wondered if he ever would. But he could tell the black woman was an important part of Caitlin’s past, so he just rolled with her jabs. And with talk of a tour, he knew both women were on edge.

The tour. The idea of her going on the road excited and frightened him at the same time. Excited him because he knew how much she loved sharing her music, and being on tour was the best way to do that. Frightened because Gordon Wiggins was still alive and kicking. He had no doubt the disgraced exec would be waiting to take a shot at Caitlin, even if he was behind bars. Men like that were connected, and prison walls weren’t any kind of deterrent.

He pushed the Ferrari through the mid-morning traffic, using the time to force his thoughts back to the Job. Taking down the Chilean arms dealer had been a good case, but it kept him away from the one eating a hole in the back of his mind: the Mendoza brothers. They’d been quiet in the aftermath of Gustavo’s murder. Too quiet for a family as steeped in honor as they claimed. He’d expected at least some kind of hit at the Dominicans or the remnants of Zorro’s crew. But there’d been nothing. At least nothing they or Homicide could see.

He gotten a look at Miguel at the opening of the club Rico talked about. Shock. The man looked like a pirate in tuxedo, right down to the neatly-trimmed goatee and narrow face highlighting his dark eyes. He’d stayed in the background, content to let a leggy brunette run the show. On paper she was the club’s owner. Holly Miller. A mid-level club promoted and all-around looker who’d suddenly come into a South Beach club of her own. Sonny didn’t buy it. It had to be Mendoza money behind the place. The question was why. As near as they could tell the place was squeaky clean.

Enrique had been there, too: a shorter, lighter version of his older brother looking more like a surfer forced to go to formal prom. He’d had a lady on his arm, too. A blonde version of Holly Miller with bigger boobs and slightly shorter legs. From the way the two women acted he guessed they knew each other, but it was hard to tell from his position across the street in the Bug Van peering through night glasses. What he did notice was neither brother sported the ornamentation favored by most dealers. There were no draped gold chains, no diamond-encrusted watches or rings. They both looked, in a word, respectable.

He saw Rico’s Caddy in its usual spot as he turned into the Gold Coast Shipping lot. Sighing, he dug a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his sport coat pocket and lit the first one of the day. He’d been cutting back lately, but a smoke before work still helped settle him into the mood. And he’d need to be settled if Rico was running early.

“Hey, partner! You get anywhere with that Manolo character?”

“As a matter of fact I did, Rico.” Sonny grinned as he sat down behind his desk and contemplated the folders in front of him. “Got a sit-down with his right hand in a couple of days. Something about needing a boat for a major shipment.” He shook his head. “It ain’t as much as I got with Gutierrez, but ya gotta start somewhere.”

“Solid.” Rico flipped through an open folder for a few moments, but Sonny could tell something was on his mind. “Look, Sonny, I gotta know. How did Caitlin take that whole phone dating case?”

“Not very well, and I can’t say I blame her. She doesn’t know the Job yet.” He smiled to cover the pain memories of their argument brought up. “But next time you get to be the joker on the other end of the phone. But enough about me. Tell me you got something rubbing elbows with the Mendozas at the club opening.”

“Aside from a rash? Nothing. Those two are cool as they come. Miguel? He’s like a pirate out of central casting. Just kept saying he was proud Shock had chosen Mendoza Distributing to supply their bar. Enrique’s a different character. Likes to talk boats and racing, but he wasn’t as cool. Kept looking around like he expected to see someone. I had to throw Cooper at someone, I’d go after him. Any chance we can use that Forsythe character for an in?”

“Not without drawing too much attention. I’ve moved cigars for ol’ Otis a time or two since that first run, but he never opens up any more than that. And if you push he goes to ground.” Sonny sighed. “No, I think we’re on our own with the Mendoza brothers. And on our own time judging from the stack of cases we got.”

“Yeah. I might drop in on Shock a couple more times.” Rico grinned. “That Holly Miller has damned good taste in waitresses.”

“You do that, Rico. Me? I’m gonna blow this pop stand in a bit and drop by the studio. Cait’s working again, and I want to see what she’s got going.”

 

OCB follows with Homebodies

 

“When did this happen?”

Chico squared his shoulders and looked Esteban Morales in the eyes. “Last night. Club security missed them, but we got them out and on the street before they could cause too much trouble.”

Esteban nodded. It squared with what he’d already heard from the club’s head of security, but he’d needed to be sure. “And you’re positive they’re from Zorro’s old crew?”

“Hard to miss Haitians, boss. They cleaned up a bit, but you don’t lose Little Haiti just by putting on a second-hand suit.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked at Chico for a moment longer. “Your team did well. Give the boys my thanks, and stay close by. We may have a job for you. I need to talk to the boss.”

Miguel’s voice was calmer than he’d expected, but it was possible Holly was in the room. “You say this was last night?”

“Yes. Chico’s men sent them on their way, but they were from Zorro’s old crew. The Haitians in Liberty City.”

“I remember them. And we need to send them a message.”

Esteban cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about that, and that puta Victor might have been on to something. I can have Chico’s men deal with it, but in a way that diverts attention from us. I was thinking the last thing you’d want…”

“Good thinking as always, Esteban. Do what needs to be done to resolve the situation. Thank you as always, my friend.”

Hanging up, Esteban got up and headed into the living room. He still conducted quite a bit of his business from an apartment in Little Havana, with the bedroom serving as his office and the living room as a waiting room. Chico was still there. “Look, the boss wants us to see to things, but we’re going to do it in a different way. You’ll need some of those shitty Tech-9s and maybe a Monte Carlo. A pimp-looking ride if you can find one.”

Chico looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “I get it, boss. We’re gonna play Dominicans.”

“Yes. Find the bastards who disturbed the club and hit them with a drive-by. Maybe shout some of that gang shit they love so much. It will send Metro-Dade poking around the wrong holes, and the Haitians as well if we’re lucky.”

“So Zorro’s old girlfriends won’t know it was us, either?”

“No. It’s not as clear a message as we might like, but these are interesting times, Chico. Sometimes we need to be cautious.”

“Don’t worry, jefe. I don’t question the plan one bit. It makes sense to me. It’s just, you know…”

“Different.” Esteban smiled again. “Yes. But like I said, things are changing. And if we can get more eyes away from us…” He clapped his crew boss on the shoulder. “See to the task, and don’t bother reporting back. I’ll know when it’s done. And burn the car someplace in the Everglades. Another puzzle for the police to sort out.”

 

Chico laughed as he pulled the bandana over his face. “It’s like one of those old Westerns, ain’t it? The bandidos about to rob the stage coach.”

Xavier was behind the wheel, his own cloth and sunglasses already in place. “It kinda is, ain’t it? Wish I could be behind the trigger.”

“You know you’re the best driver in the crew, Holmes. And we might need that if things get a little sideways.” He turned to his two men in the back seat of the Monte Carlo. “Look, you know the drill. Those asshole 8-Ball Kings always open up from every window, so that means you’re shootin’ over the top of the ride, Diego. Ernesto, you go for the dude on the right, I’ll take the left-hand asshole, an’ Diego you just hit the center. Then we spray the place, shout some shit, and get the hell out.”

Xavier nodded. “Car’s already stashed at the burn sight, Chico. We’ll be on our way as soon as you torch this piece of shit.”

“Good. Now crank the music those cabrones like so damned much and let’s do this.”

As always, Lupe’s intel had been perfect. As they turned the corner, he saw their targets swaggering out of a small market in the middle of the block. The three remaining members of Zorro’s set, the assholes who’d tried to throw their weight around in the boss’s club, didn’t even look around as they reached the sidewalk. Overconfident assholes.

One of them heard the bass beat pumping out of the Monte Carlo’s subwoofers and started to turn, shouting a warning as he dug for a pistol stuffed in his waistband. Tinted power windows hissed down, and Chico hefted his own Tech-9. “Suck on this, puta!” he shouted, taking aim at his target and firing a burst of four shots. Behind him two more machine pistols chattered, and over the firing he heard his boys shouting the same kind of insults. The muzzle flashes from the Tech-9s were almost blinding, turning the car from black to bright silver in an instant.

The training in the swamps paid off. His four rounds caught his target full in the chest, sending him spinning to the concrete. The one who’d seen them first managed to haul out what looked like a Beretta and get off two wild shots before Diego cut him down. Ernesto’s man died in the same heartbeat as Chico’s, and then there was silence except for the booming music and the fading echoes of the shots. The acrid smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air. Five seconds had passed since the windows hissed down.

“Let’s go!” Chico turned to Xavier and laughed. “We done our good deed for the day.”

 

Trudy Joplin cursed her high heels for the tenth time as she picked her way around another scattering of shell casings. “Get some more of those markers over here,” she said, raising her hand. “Looks like they fired another burst from here. I don’t think it’s defensive fire…too far away from the bodies.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the chalk outlines on the cracking concrete sidewalk.

Lights from three patrol cars and the forensics wagon painted the crumbling houses around them red and blue, and from time to time she saw a curtain part and then quickly jerked closed. No one saw a damned thing here, she thought, looking back at the sheet-draped bodies by the store front. Seen it a million times before. And lived it, too, so I can’t blame them.

She and Gina had been gearing up for another hooker sting when the call came in. Shooting in Little Haiti. Possibly connected to narcotics, gangs, or both. Castillo sent them out with a look, and here they were in their hooker best trying not to trip over shell casings, empty bottles, and God knew what else on the street.

Gina had been by the bodies, and she motioned to Trudy as she stepped away. “Gang-affiliated, or I don’t know my tats,” she said. “I think one of them might have been part of Zorro’s crew before he got killed in Libery City a year or so back.”

“I remember that one. You think it’s connected?”

Gina shook her head. “No. As far as we know they never hit back at anyone.” She was about to continue when an unmarked Ford pulled up at the edge of the crime scene. “Looks like the lieutenant sent the cavalry.”

“If you could call them that.” Trudy sighed as Dibble and Gorman clambered out of the car, Gorman’s bald head gleaming in the light from the squad car rollers. “I wonder if he waxes that thing?”

“Evening ladies.” Dibble at least had a pleasant voice. He was a good cop as far as it went, and unlike his partner knew his limitations and was comfortable with them. “The lieutenant sent us out to have a look-see.”

“You guys taking this one?”

Gorman shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Word is Homicide’s rolling one of their teams, and since we’re where we are Gangs is going to want to look at it as well. Likes like it could turn into one of them three-corner tag team messes.” He looked both women over, making Trudy’s skin crawl. “And you’re both too dolled up to be out mucking around in this shit.”

“I won’t argue with you.” Gina grabbed Trudy’s arm and started for her car. “We’’ll leave you boys to it. Looks like Gangs is here now, so you can arm wrestle with Hughes to see who gets the case.”

“If he kept looking at me like that…”

“That’s why I got you out of there, partner.” Gina smiled as she shut her car door and started the Toyota. “Besides, that looks like a garden variety drive-by. Patrol said someone mentioned a Monte Carlo with spinners on the hubcaps. The shooters used automatic weapons, 9mm according to the casings, and might have been Hispanic. And that means….”

“Dominicans. Maybe the 8-Ball Kings. Double Treys prefer doing things up close and personal.” Trudy sighed, stretching her legs out. “Gangs can sort out who’s beefing with who and then drop the whole thing on Homicide.”

“Yep. We got called in because it’s near a drug corner, but there hasn’t been any major movement in that neighborhood for at least six months.”

“They can’t afford it.” Trudy looked out the window, seeing her childhood neighborhood near Overtown instead of the crumbling apartments of Little Haiti. She’d almost been able to smell the hopelessness in the air around the crime scene, and was glad to be leaving it behind. Or at least be able to pretend she was leaving it behind. “They can’t afford much of anything back there.”

 

Esteban answered his phone on the second ring. “It’s done, boss. I left Gordo to keep an eye on the scene while we got rid of the car. Don’t worry…he wasn’t one of the shooters so no one’s gonna spot him. He said there were at least three units fighting over who’s gonna take it. Homicide, Gangs, and two guys he thinks are either Organized Crime or Vice. He said they were still squabbling when he pulled out.”

“Fantastic work, Chico. Tell your boys there will be bonuses for them. You, too.” Hanging up, he sank back in the club chair next to the phone and allowed himself a smile. He’d update the boss later. Now, he just wanted to savor the moment.

If he was honest with himself, Esteban had doubts after the mess with Victor. About his judgement. Where the boss’s head was at. Where the organization was going. But all that was gone now. He’d brought in a few more men, men who’d gone through the swamps with the handful of old men who still clung to their fading dreams, and he felt ready to take on any task Miguel gave him.

Things were changing. And they were changing at a pace he’d not imagined possible just a year before. The club alone had been a complete surprise, and now they had a share of The Palm as well. He wasn’t responsible for security at The Palm, at least, but it was an asset needing monitoring just the same. Add in an additional supplier, maybe a couple more stash houses, and the existing locations and his men were kept busy.

How Enrique didn’t know about him was still a mystery. The younger brother had to know the Cubans were coming from somewhere, but it was also possible he didn’t really care. So long as they were there and did their jobs. He figured the younger Mendoza must be feeling the growth as much as he was, since new stash houses meant new transportation routes and every new supplier or buyer added another layer to what Enrique had to manage. No, in the end he supposed he and Enrique had quite a bit in common.

If he knew Miguel, and after all these years he figured he did, the organization would take a breather soon. Stop growing and settle in with what it had. He’d seen the boss do it before, including right after they’d started moving cocaine. At the time he thought it might have been because of Calderone’s pressure, but he had more understanding now. It was Miguel allowing his organization to settle into what needed to be done. To find its own rhythm and way of doing things. Then they’d grow again. But only once the foundation was set.

It was a different world now. A different city. Just outside their normal territory two organizations were gearing up for a fight over control of one narcotics path. The Manolos were down from Fort Lauderdale, while the Gutierrez outfit was more local. They were both trying to expand into the growing suburbs to the north of what the Mendozas considered their territory, and things were getting heated. Esteban had increased security on stash houses on the edge of the conflict, and was sending more men with boats running in the contested waters. So far there’d been no incidents, but he was afraid it was only a matter of time.

Gutierrez he knew…a rough, brash man given to boasting, big cigars, and those bulky gold chains many of the Columbians favored. His crew was loud, violent, but still small enough to pose little threat to the Mendozas. Manolo’s organization was another matter. The man himself came from a poor background, but liked to surround himself with the trappings of wealth…art, clothes, decorative women. He didn’t know as much about him, but Lupe’s crew was working to change that. He did know Manolo had a cousin called El Gato…a fixture in Miami’s bathhouses and gay bars who dabbled in the same trade as his more subdued cousin. But El Gato was small time. Vicious, but small time.

The Manolos were also bumping up against Oscar Carrera’s organization. Carrera was a known commodity: one of the men who’d gotten his start smuggling pot before graduating to cocaine in the late 1970s. A man who valued tradition, he was usually content to tend his own fields and customers, but if pushed he’d come out swinging. Manolo was said on the streets to be pushing. But Esteban knew Carrera was smart enough to let Gutierrez and Manolo bleed themselves out fighting each other before sweeping in to scoop up the pieces.

It was all more complicated than it had been even a year ago, and he did his best to keep Miguel informed. They’d been lucky so far, only bumping heads with a handful of small, local operations. But if they kept growing some kind of war was almost inevitable. Getting to his feet, Esteban walked to the balcony door and stepped out into the muggy spring air. It was his job to make sure they were in the best position once that war came, and to also ensure the Mendozas came out on top.

 

Sitting at the far end of the table, Trudy didn’t bat an eye when Gorman entered the last part of his update. “…in the end we let Gangs take it, lieutenant. If there was an OCB connection it would be low-level street dealing at best.” He turned to Dibble. “My guess is someone whistled at the wrong girl back on the block.”

Castillo nodded, then his eyes sought out Trudy. “What’s your take, detective? You were first on scene.”

“Yeah. Me and Gina. Lucky her she gets to try to talk Roxie into admitting where her pimp is.” Trudy favored the room with a tired smile. “It felt like a routine drive-by to us. Lots of casings in the street, nowhere near as many on the sidewalk, and dead bodies under sheets. The victims had gang tats, and Gina recognized one of them as being in Zorro’s old crew back when he was still around. No one was talking, but I’d expect nothing less in Little Haiti. To be honest I was surprised Patrol got as much out of the locals as they did.”

Castillo nodded. “The first unit to respond works that neighborhood as part of a community policing pilot. I guess they’re familiar faces.” He sat for a moment. “We let Gangs take it. We have enough on our plate as it is without adding more without cause.”

Once the update wrapped up, Trudy headed back to her desk to put the finishing touches on her report on the incident. Since they hadn’t taken the case it could be short, and part of her was glad. But there was something about it that kept nagging at her. The shooting itself. It was too clean. No broken windows or extra bodies. Just the targets.

“I can’t wait to get out of here and into a good glass or two of wine.” Gina Calabrese ran her fingers through her thick black hair before sitting down at her own desk.

“You get anything out of Miss Tough Girl?”

“Eventually. I had to threaten to take away her fake eyelashes and send her through booking without any makeup.” Gina smiled, spooling a report form into her IBM. “But yeah, we got a location for Flash now.” She looked across the desks. “How’d it go in there?”

“You mean aside from Gorman staring at me? Fine. Gangs is taking the case, so we don’t have to worry about it.”

“But something’s bothering you, and it’s not Gorman. I can hear it in your voice.”

Trudy sighed. “The shooting. It was too clean for the 8-Ball Kings. They’re strictly, what does Sonny call it, spray and pray guys. Lots of rounds, lots of collateral damage, and maybe a couple of the right people hit. This was precise bursts, going right where they were supposed to go. And what we get guess was a moving car.”

“You’re right. Most of the Kings couldn’t shoot that good. But maybe some of them can.”

“I know.” She also knew part of it was how easily they were giving up on a case because of the neighborhood it was in. “But do you think they’d let it go if this was in the Grove?”

“They let the one in Brickell go. I get where you’re coming from, Trudy, but the lieutenant only has so many detectives to go around. And we’re still down one. He’d probably like to take every case, but he knows we can’t.”

Trudy nodded, the memory of Larry Zito hurting like it always did when someone brought him up. And she knew Martin Castillo of all people wouldn’t let a case go just because it was in Little Haiti. But something like that was either going to be easy, maybe cracked by Patrol when they did a traffic stop on a car that turned out to be the shooter, or it could linger on for months like the Brickell case. Or even longer. She understood it. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

 

“The opening was wonderful! And we’ve been packing them in ever since. I never would have thought…”

Miguel smiled, enjoying Holly’s happiness as if it were his own. In some ways it was, but in others he was still thinking ahead. At least Esteban had dealt with the punks who tried to ruin things, but it reminded him the past was never truly gone. Not until you buried it yourself.

Holly was talking about music acts now, her thick hair swirling as she pointed first to one poster and then another. “If that Fire and Ice place can get them, we should, too. We can charge cover, and make more in one night than we do normally in three or four.”

“Do you want established artists or new bands?” He didn’t care either way, but knew the value of looking like he did.

“Both. I was talking to a friend at KROX the other day, you know, the oldies station, and he said Caitlin Davies might be going on tour again. She lives in Miami. I might see if we can book her. Now that she’s writing hits again…”

He nodded, vaguely remembering some news story about Federal payola case and her giving testimony. It had been months ago, though. But increased sales in the club meant he could wash more money through it. And that was something he paid attention to, especially with profits climbing again.

“You’re not paying attention.”

“Of course I am. If your friend at KROX says she’s going to tour again, he’s probably right. So get in now before she gets booked out through next year. We can meet any fee she asks, so money won’t be an issue.”

“If we can get her, and this hot band from LA called Ratt, we’ll be well on our way.”

“Good. Acts mean people, and that means money. Just be sure to watch the balances. You may have to raise drink prices a bit if they start slipping.”

“I’ve got it, Miguel. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not, darling. It’s just alcohol is about the only thing I know about clubs. It is my day job, after all.”

She giggled. “I know. And don’t worry. We’re tracking every bottle that comes in. So far we’re not seeing much wastage, and the balance sheets are good.”

He nodded, letting her talk about possible changes to the menu as they sorted out the food side of Shock. But his mind was still on the Haitians. He hoped they’d either take the hint and stay away from Shock or fall for the misdirection and start some kind of feud with the Dominicans. Either outcome was good for him, especially now that he had other things to consider.

Cocaine sales were up at The Palm, and Kilowatt was starting to climb again, too. So were the other clubs they had sales lines into. He’d been able to increase buys from his two Peruvian sources, but much to his annoyance he still needed some from Santos. With any luck that would change soon, but for now he still had to use the bastard. And it was risky on the water, with the Manolo and Gutierrez organizations jockeying for position. With that many moving parts the chances of an accident were high, and Miguel didn’t like accidents. They cut into profits.

But he’d been hearing rumors about Sonny Burnett trying to broker some kind of truce between the two organizations, something he couldn’t have imagined with Calderone or the Revillas just a few short years ago. He’d told Esteban to keep Lupe on it. Truces tended to create winners and losers, and he knew which side he needed to be on.