Genesis, Part XXVII

[Robbie C.]

May 1988

During and after Deliver Us from Evil

 

It still doesn’t seem like she’s gone. I still keep looking up, expecting to see her face or hear her voice. Can’t even listen to the damned radio anymore. Not that I ever did much. Funny. My getting shot wasn’t a big deal. Cost of doing business almost. But this… Sonny Crockett stared at the bottom of his glass, then waved in the direction of the bartender for another. And I know where the son-of-a-bitch is. Blatt gave him up sure as hell. But we can’t touch him. Not officially. Now it’s on me.

He wasn’t sure what had brought him to Rizzo’s, especially at ten in the morning. Maybe it was the fact that no one he knew would think of looking for him here, or the fact he knew it would be quiet this early…one or two drunks who’d never managed to leave the night before and some of the girls getting ready for their early shifts. Or maybe it was just the gloom. The broken dreams hanging thick in the strip club’s air.

“Sonny! My man!” Noogie’s voice was low, something Sonny didn’t expect given the man’s usual over the top demeanor. “I heard about your lady. The Noog-man is sorry as hell, if that’s worth anything.”

He started to snarl, then stopped. Noogie didn’t have his habitual sunglasses on, and the sadness in his eyes was almost a physical thing. “Thanks. Noogie. It is.”

Noogie nodded and settled in on the stool next to him. “And that’s why you come back, Jack? To this place, I mean. It’s like where hope goes to die.” He nodded to the bartender. “But it ain’t. Not really. Now the Noog ain’t no preacher man, an’ ain’t never gonna be one, but this place saved my skinny ass. Gave me somethin’ to do. A job. An’ hell, I get to help some of these girls time to time. Some of ‘em even get right and move on. It ain’t much, but it sure ain’t hopeless.”

The bourbon bit the back of Sonny’s throat. He’d never seen Noogie like this before, and it jarred him out of his mood. At least for a moment. “I get it, man. I really do. But sometimes hope does die. I mean, Hackman. He’s out in the Cacos. Working on his damned tan after he murdered my wife and son.”

“She was…” Noogie’s face twisted into a nasty snarl. Something Sonny had never seen before. “That’s low, Joe. Even for a piece of garbage like him”

“But there’s nothing I can do. They aren’t gonna extradite him. No way. He’s got friends out there with money who can tie the damned thing up for years. And it’s on me, Noogie. I should have let the state of Florida fry the son of a bitch.”

“Now the Noog-man ain’t one for lookin’ back, Jack. You gotta look forward.” Noogie leaned closer, his eyes changing again. “You want to get this rude dude?”

“No way the lieutenant’s…”

“I know a guy. Get you there and back without anyone so much as seein’ your white shadow. So happens this cat owes me like big time. Little favor the Noog-man did for him back in the day. Ok, maybe not so little, but a debt’s a debt.” Noogie grinned, but his eyes were stone cold and serious. “Say the word.”

Sonny was about to shake his head, then stopped. He kept seeing the light leaving Caitlin’s eyes, hearing Frankel’s voice. And seeing that damned cross Hackman had worn and waved in front of him when he fell for his act. And if he would have just dropped his papers instead of insisting on closing out his cases without telling anyone, this might not have happened. He wouldn’t have been distracted…would have been there to protect her. But none of it mattered now. She was dead, and a light in his heart had gone out.

Maybe it was the bourbon, or some lingering effect from getting shot, but he heard another voice in his head. One that was cold, distant, and full of calculation. The voice of Sonny Burnett. It was that voice that answered Noogie. “Consider it said.”

“The Noog-man will make the call, Saul. Stick close to that pager, hyar? When this cat moves he’s greased lightning, and if the Noog-man’s lying he’s dying.”

He drained the glass and slammed it down on the bar. “Thanks, Noogie. I owe you one.” Something was changing in his head. Shifting things just a bit into new positions. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he had to admit he liked how it felt.

“Naw, man. You don’t owe the Noog a damned thing. Just make it right for your lady, hyar? Sometimes that’s all we can do in this life.”

Sonny Burnett nodded, feeling the big .45 under his left arm. When he spoke his voice was flat, and he knew his eyes were dark. “We’ll settle it this time. Once and for all.”

 

“I just go a call from Lupe. He said one of Jesus’s pilots just picked up a contract to transport a guy to the Cacos and back.”

Miguel nodded, even though he knew Esteban couldn’t see him through the phone. “So Jesus is moving into that racket now?”

“No. Nothing like that. He says the guy was contacted by someone he owed a major favor to, so it’s personal.”

“I’m sorry, Esteban, but I have to ask how this concerns us.”

“The person being transported is Sonny Burnett.”

“I see.” It took a moment for it to sink in. “Why isn’t he using his own boat?”

“Something about not wanting to leave any traces. Our sources also say Frank Hackman is on the island. Lupe thinks that’s why he wants to go. Should I have him tell the pilot to drop it?”

Miguel thought back to the stories in the paper about Caitlin Davies. Holly had been about to add a one night show for her at Shock when the murder happened. And Caitlin had been Burnett’s wife. “No. Let them go. And make sure no one interferes with it.”

“But he’s working with both Gutierrez and Manolo. If something happens to him…”

“He’s avenging his wife, Esteban. And we both know Frank Hackman is the lowest form of scum.” Miguel thought of what he would do if someone murdered Holly. In front of him like Hackman had done. “No, we must make sure he gets where he needs to go. And then back to Miami. Burnett’s never messed with our business, and this thing he wants to do is honorable.”

Esteban sighed. “You’ll get no argument from me, jefe. If Hackman did that to my woman, they’d be burying what they could find of him in a sandwich bag. I’ll see to it personally.”

“Thank you.” Miguel hung up and turned to look out the wide window. He’d never met this Burnett, only seen a picture or two. But he understood what it meant to seek revenge. Especially for the woman you loved. He’d be less than a man if he stood in the way of such a thing.

 

June 1988

After Deliver Us from Evil and Vengeance is Mine, just before and during Mirror Image

 

“Where are we on the meeting?”

Sonny Crockett looked down at his notes, focusing on what he was about to do. And pushing the Cacos deep down inside himself. Along with the fading memories of being shot. “Gutierrez wants it to look like a deep sea fishing expedition. The moron fancies himself some kind of trophy fisherman, I guess. Or maybe it takes the sea breeze to air out those cigars of his.” He shot a look at Stan Switek. “I never thought those things of yours would smell good, big guy. Hell, I think even the fossilized turds Gorman smokes smell better.”

Ricardo Tubbs chuckled. “And who’s on the guest list?”

“A veritable who’s who of Miami’s finest narcotics salesmen, headlined by Miguel Manolo himself. And our host, Alejandro Gutierrez. Along with a lesser cast of dealers, runners, and maybe a banker or two.”

“You should be wearing a wire.”

“Can’t risk it, lieutenant. Those two trust me, but trust only goes so far in that business. Especially when the stakes are this high. Neither of these bozos trusts each other, no matter how many times they say they do.” Sonny forced a chuckle. “Besides, this is just the first meeting. It goes ok, there’s gonna be more.”

“And you’re sure you’re ok after the indecent with the Angel? Your cover’s intact?”

“Sure. I don’t think those two ever heard about it. The players involved were well below their pay grade, and we know Maynard doesn’t like to advertise his operations.” Sonny shook his head, trying to forget the slender girl with the red hair who’d wanted him killed, or the sniper with the same name who’d almost pulled it off. “No, I’m still solid.”

Rico shook his head. “I don’t like it. Out on the water like that. There’s no way to have backup close if something goes wrong.”

“Nothing’s gonna go wrong, Rico. Hell, I’m just going fishing.” He got up from the table. “Now let’s get in position. The sooner this happens the sooner we can reel those two in.”

 

Esteban Morales waited until Lupe was done with his report before asking his questions. “And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yes. Burnett shot him once. And as we know, once with a .45 is all you need.” Lupe smiled. “He uses one of the new Smith & Wessons if you were curious.”

“I see. And nothing will come back on him?”

“Doubtful. The locals liked the money of his patrons much more than they liked Hackman himself. My sources say they’re glad to be rid of him and the attention he brought. They tried like hell to keep it quiet, which is why it took over three weeks to confirm.” Lupe paused. “We’re still hearing those rumors about some kind of meeting between Gutierrez and Manolo.”

“How reliable are they?”

“More reliable than we might like. And Burnett’s involved as well. He seems to move between the two men.”

“I know the boss isn’t too concerned. If those idiots stop shooting at each other, it’s fewer bullets we have to dodge. But this is good to know. Have your people stay on it, and I’ll let the boss know.”

Once Lupe was gone he made his call and relayed the information. Then he sat in the silence of his apartment office, listening to the sounds of the street leaking through windows shut against the early summer heat. The whole Burnett thing still nagged at a corner of his mind, but he couldn’t fault Miguel’s logic. Or the reason Burnett wanted to go to the Cacos in the first place. What bothered him was they had no way of collecting on the debt.

Turning, he reached for a bottle of rum and poured himself a generous measure. He had to remember to have Lupe dig a bit deeper into Sonny Burnett. The man had moved up fast; maybe too fast all things considered. But he wouldn’t spend much time on it. Miguel was looking for another club to invest in. Something away from South Beach but still located where it would make decent money. Maybe he’d call one of his ladies and have a night on the town. First hand experience was always better than Miami Magazine reviews and rumors.

At least the streets were reasonably quiet again. The shooting a couple of weeks back seemed to have been a local affair…two small-time dealers trying to figure out which of them was more insignificant in the scheme of the Miami narcotics scene. There had been a couple of random shootings on the edges of Little Haiti, likely connected to his little operation. But it was all to the good. They kept Metro-Dade running around like headless chickens and the Dominicans and Haitians consumed with their endless cycles of revenge.

As he sipped his rum, Esteban wondered what the old men would think of his choices. Locked in their phantom struggles with Castro, he doubted if most of them would even notice. Of if they did, they’d write him off as some kind of boat lift trash, even though his parents had come over before Castro took over. It was funny in its own way: they championed capitalism, but he likely had more money than three of them combined.

Shanking his  head, he reached for the phone to call Lina. She was always up for anything, and he felt like celebrating. His fingers just touched the receiver when the phone rang. “Boss? It’s Juan Carlos. You ain’t gonna believe what just happened…”

 

The private room at Pelican’s Nest was quiet, filled only with the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional boat horn from the marina outside. Miguel Mendoza drew smoke from his cigar in and let it hiss out between his lips. “And you’re sure about the casualties?”

“As sure as we can be.” Esteban sat across from him, his eyes intense. “Manolo wasn’t present, but a number of his top people were. They’re now fish food. Juan Carlos estimates someone used about three pounds of C-4 on that boat. Alejandro Gutierrez seems to have survived.”

“Of course he did. The hit was likely his doing.” Miguel watched the smoke swirl toward the ceiling. “It reeks of him. Cheap overkill. And careless. Unless he had some reason for taking out Manolo’s top people and missing the man himself.” He paused as a name floated up in his head. “And what of Burnett?”

“There was no sign of his body, and the police are looking. We know that much from monitoring their scanner traffic. He might have made it clear of the boat when Gutierrez made his break. We know he’s resourceful.”

“That he is. And sitting in the middle. I wonder whose play he will back now?”

“What about Gutierrez?”

“I think he’ll try to insert himself into Manolo’s organization. Pose as someone trying to find out the truth about the explosion and maybe take credit for saving Burnett and one or two others. He’s a slug, but an ambitious one. That much we know.”

“And what do we do?”

“Business as usual, my friend. I already told Enrique to continue the runs, but shift away from the Lauderdale area for now. If Gutierrez is still planning something I don’t want our people wandering into the line of fire. Or being mistaken for someone else. Manolo is likely to try to hit back, and he’ll flail around until he finds a target. We don’t need to be his target.”

“Do you have instructions for me?”

“Have your people watch the clubs closely. Some might see this as an opportunity, and we need to make sure they know it isn’t. At least not on our turf.” He paused, chasing another idea. “And have your boys keep their ears open for any new clients. There’s bound to be some, what do the call it, interruption of services with this and we should be ready to move in where we can.”

“The usual neighborhoods?”

“Yes. Brickell and South Beach. Maybe North Beach as well. We’ll let the curs squabble over the other areas. But watch Liberty City closely. No one needs to get ideas there.”

Esteban nodded. “Do you think they did get Burnett?”

“If Gutierrez did this, he should hope he got Burnett.”

“Why? He’s not on his payroll.”

Miguel nodded, contemplating the glowing end of his cigar. “And he’s not on Manolo’s, either. He’s his own man, and for an opportunist like Alejandro that makes him very dangerous. Think about it, Esteban. This man’s been moving up slowly but surely. Starting with his own boat and making a few runs here and there and then graduating to major scores with connections in New York City. And then the meeting on the boat. If Manolo wasn’t there, maybe Burnett tipped him off. I don’t think he knew what Gutierrez was planning, but he seems like a smart man to me. He’d figure it out.”

“I see what you mean. And if he’s alive…”

“We let them fight it out amongst themselves. We have our own challenges. The last thing we need is to get mixed up in someone else’s turf war.”

“That reminds me. There’s a new group of Columbians starting to work in North Beach. One of Ricky’s men mentioned it to Leon, and he passed the word.”

“What do we know about them?”

“Not much. It sounds like they’re working the beachfront mostly. Small sales of lower-grade product. But they’re aggressive and possibly violent.” Esteban chuckled. “But they’re Columbians, so that’s expected.”

“If they get out of line, crush them. A few punks selling ounces or grams isn’t worth our time, and it keeps the police distracted. But if they move in on any of our clubs, mess with any of our people, your boys are to bury them.”

“Understood.” Esteban finished his drink and got to his feet. “I’ll go pass the word. Leon’s crew is both solid and dependable. They’ll do well to watch these punks.”

Once the Cuban was gone, Miguel took another long puff on the cigar. He’d spoken with Otis earlier, noticing the man’s pleasure about Shock and the other moves he’d made. He didn’t know everything, but Otis was connected and had a better feel for Miami’s reality than many gave him credit for.

Still, he couldn’t smile for long. The business with the boat bothered him. It was a fool’s stunt, and he hadn’t thought Alejandro Gutierrez was that big a fool. Reckless, yet. But not this. At least the bulk of their fight was north of his usual territory.

There was also Jesus Estevez to consider. The old man had been quiet since his visit, but Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on with the charter company. Jesus hadn’t said a word when he’d reduced the cash flowing into the business, and that alone made him wonder. Maybe he was sulking after having his hand slapped. Or maybe not.

“You could at least turn the fans on.”

Miguel looked up to see Enrique waving his hands theatrically. “I didn’t expect you so soon, brother. Otherwise I might have, given your delicate sensibilities.”

“Delicate my ass. I just don’t like the same cigars you do.” The younger Mendoza chuckled as he sat down. “I assume you’ve heard?”

“Yes. We’re going to take no action aside from the usual precautions. Avoid Lauderdale and the surrounding area. We don’t need to get caught up in their shooting war, if there is one.”

“I agree. We’ve got another load coming in from that pig Santos in a couple of days, and Pasqual picked up one from The Bat last night. We’ve actually got a bit of a reserve now if things get bad and we have to suspend runs.”

“How much?”

“I’d say two weeks for our usual customers. Maybe more.”

“Good. Don’t let it become much more than that, though. It’s easy for a reserve to become a target.”

“Don’t worry, Miguel. It’s covered. We can always cut some product and dump it in Liberty City or Little Haiti if we have to. We’ve given some of the smaller dealers there a taste, and they like our product.”

“Good thinking. Just let me know if the cash intake jumps too much. I’ll need to plan which club to route it through.” He looked at the tip of the cigar again. “Have you heard anything from Jesus?”

“No. I was going to ask you the same thing. Do you think he’s up to something, or just sulking?”

“I don’t know. Keep your ears open.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “You know, if this business between Manolo and Gutierrez heats up, or Manolo and anyone else for that matter, it might give us some cover to settle a few matters. Santos. Uncle Jesus.”

“You think it will come to that?”

“With Jesus I don’t know. Santos? I’d like nothing better than to be rid of that pig. But he’s given us no reason so far, and his product is still good. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Enrique looked at his watch. “He still makes his deliveries on time and at the purity we agreed to. Some loads are a bit light, but never by more than a couple of kilos. He always insists it was a loading oversight, and we don’t pay for product we don’t get.”

“Good. Are you handling the next delivery?”

“Yes. Me, Flaco, and a couple of those silent Cubans of yours.”

“Make sure they deliver everything that’s promised. I don’t like the idea of Santos assuming it’s ok to short us product when he feels like it.” He smiled. “Things are going well, brother. I’m going to look at another club in South Beach in the next couple of days. See if we can buy in at a reasonable price. I want to have an ace in the hole in case Metro-Dade decides to close something down.”

“Are they sniffing around?”

“Not at Shock. We’re keeping it clean. But they keep probing The Palm. After Frankie and all I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What about Kilowatt?”

“Good idea. I hear they might not be doing so well these days. It’s always easier to buy into these places when they start to slide and the owners get desperate. That and we already have a network there.”

“I’ll leave you to the high finance, then. But just so you know, I’m looking at another boat tomorrow. Something faster than anything we have now. I think we might need the speed with some of the new ships the Coast Guard is starting to field. Let alone the competition.” He grinned. “Better to outrun them than trying to outfight them is what I say.”

“Use the usual account. It’s got plenty. And yes, I agree. We fight when we must, or when we choose to. If we let someone else make that choice for us, we’ve already lost.” Miguel looked at the wall clock and crushed out his cigar. “And I’m going to be late for dinner. Holly’s meeting me here to go over a couple of shows she wants next month.”

 

Aside from the occasional ringing in his ears, he felt fine. Things were still a bit stiff, but that was to be expected. At least he felt fine until he tried to remember who he was. At least, as the doctor had pointed out, he knew what he was.

Sonny Burnett looked at the components of the semi-automatic pistol laid out on a cloth on the low table. SIG P220. I know that without thinking, but how? I even know how to take the damned thing down, clean it, and put it back together with my damned eyes closed. But I had to read my name off my driver’s license.

As he slid the barrel into the slide and followed with the guide rod and recoil spring, he thought back to the explosion. Or what he remembered of it. There’d been something about fishing. Then a flash of something in the water. He remembered jumping a second or two before the blast, a wave of sound and yellow light pushing him down into the warm salt water. Then nothing until he woke up on the table in some doctor’s back room.

Gutierrez and his damned cigar. No way he could forget the smell of that stogie. And somehow he knew memories linked to other things like smells tended to be stronger than other memories. At least he thought he knew that. He slid the slide and barrel combination onto the SIG’s stainless steel frame, pulling it all the way back and locking it in place before turning the disassembly catch back into its locked position. The whole thing was as automatic as breathing, and he didn’t know why. Finally he slammed a full magazine into the pistol and released the slide locking lever, sending it forward and feeding a round into the chamber. A quick press on the decocting lever and he slipped the pistol into a shoulder rig he’d scrounged. It wasn’t his usual rig, but it would do until he remembered just what his usual rig was.

It had either been a stroke of luck or damned good planning that kept Miguel Manolo off the boat that day. But that didn’t gnaw at Sonny as much as Alejandro Gutierrez. He said he’d been on the boat, but the flimsy sling on his arm didn’t seem enough given the power of the explosion. He blinked, feeling the heat from the blast in his face again as he turned to look out the wide window. Something wasn’t right about the whole thing, and sooner or later he’d figure it out.

But for now he had to earn his keep. That much he knew, and like the doctor said he knew what he was. All he had to do was convince Manolo to put him back in the game. So long as he stayed busy things were ok.

 

The weather had turned sour between when Enrique talked with Miguel and when he was out on the water heading for another meet with Santos’s people. He’d let Flaco take the wheel, content to watch the radar and let the wind whip at his hair. The last rain squall had been intense but short, and he figured they had at least half an hour before the next one hit. The two Cubans were content to stay in the bow compartment, out of sight but ready to bring their Mini-14s into play at the slightest sign of trouble.

As soon as the blip showed up on radar, he had Flaco change course. “They’ll have seen us already,” he said, peering down at the scope. “That tramp steamer should have better radar than we do. So cut speed a bit and just ease up on them. Those Panamanians can be jumpy.”

“Yeah.” Flaco eased back on the throttles. “Got a bit of chop tonight, too, boss.”

“Not a bad thing. Keeps the sightseers in the marina.” Leaning over, he looked down the companionway. “You got the buy money ready? I’ll need one of you to come over with me. The other should be ready by Flaco.” He grinned, even though he knew they couldn’t see it. “The usual drill.”

He recognized the grunt of the bigger Cuban. “Money’s ready, jefe. I’ll come over with you. I got the shotgun. Might make them think twice about doing anything stupid.”

Reaching down, Enrique checked his own Colt. Overhead the clouds were thick and menacing, with only a faint tracing marking the location of the half moon. The tang of impending rain mixed with the salt in the air, and he looked over at Flaco. “Smells like it might start raining again sooner than we thought. Stay on the wheel and be ready to move if we have to.”

“Expecting trouble?” Flaco made a slight course correction, steering them toward the looming dark shape of the tramp steamer.

“Not really. Just playing it safe.” His thoughts went back to the earlier buy. “I don’t trust Santos’s contract help. Hell, I don’t trust Santos, either. If anything goes south we’ll jump back over. Cut the line and haul ass.”

As they got closer, he could see a man with a line standing along the rail, his face highlighted by the small freighter’s navigation lights. He moved to the side of the low-slung SCARAB, catching the line when the figure tossed it and using it to haul the small boat closer to the larger vessel. Making it fast, he reached out for the gym bag held by the bigger Cuban. “You ready to deal?” he shouted over the thumping of the freighter’s diesel engine.

“Always.” The man’s voice was deep, carrying over the engine noise and slapping waves like a bullhorn. “Come aboard and we get this done, Holmes.”

Enrique turned, seeing the shadow of the second Cuban near the co-pilot’s seat. “Keep us covered. Remember, cut the line the second we get back if there’s trouble.” He just saw the man’s head shift in a nod before turning and gauging the distance for his jump to the freighter’s deck.