Genesis, Part IXXX

[Robbie C.]

July 1988

After Mirror Image, White Lies, Flying Solo, Power Play

 

Miguel Mendoza sat in one of the balcony chairs looking out over the expanse of manicured lawn toward the shimmering sea. The balance sheets for Shock were spread out on the table beside him, but he’d turned away once his focus started wandering. It had been a hell of a couple of weeks.

He’d been lucky to have decided to pull back from major deals, moving only his normal product to their regular customers. With the killing of Alejandro Gutierrez and then Miguel Manolo, the drug world in South Florida was experiencing a massive realignment. The Carreras looked to be coming out on top, with a big assist from Sonny Burnett. Worst thing Manolo did was lose that one by accusing him of being a cop. Burnett a cop? No cop would do what he did to Hackman, let alone that bent cop up in Lauderdale. It made even less sense once word came out that Burnett had been the one to hit Gutierrez on Manolo’s orders. Why Manolo had decided to go after him was a question only the dead man could have answered.

But Burnett had paid his former employer back in spades. According to Esteban’s information he’d given Carrera the location of at least half a dozen of Manolo’s stash houses. And he’d led at least one hit on those same houses, snatching up Manolo’s emergency stashes and leaving the rank and file nervous and scared. His leaving had also left Manolo’s security wide open, and somehow old Oscar had found a way to exploit it. Two days ago someone had taken out Miguel Manolo. Now Oscar was left sitting on top of not only his organization but the remains of the ones run by Gutierrez and Manolo as well.

Even though Enrique fussed, Miguel didn’t worry about Oscar Carrera. He was of the older generation. Content to sit on what he had so long as no one tried to take it. He snorted when he thought of the son…a junkie who had no self-control and even less sense. No, the man who concerned him in the Carrera organization was Sonny Burnett.

But he’d found a way to use the turmoil to his advantage. Santos was getting nervous since no shipments had moved into Miami for weeks. None of his shipments, at least. Now he wanted to come back to Miami. To meet in person to, as he put it, sort things out. In spite of himself Miguel smiled. It couldn’t have gone better if he’d written it out himself.

“They said I’d find you out here.”

Holly’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, baby. I was looking over the reports from the club and lost track of time.” He got to his feet and took her in his arms, kissing her lightly on the lips. “Things are looking good, and I mean the club as well.”

“Now you’re being silly.” Still, she kissed him back, pressing herself against him. “Do we still have enough money to renovate the private room?”

“Of course.” Cash flow wasn’t a problem. If anything it had picked up since he still had supply and some of the other locals, like those idiot Hermanos brothers, didn’t. “There’s no problem there at all.” But it did bring to mind another possible problem. An old problem. Jesus Estevez.

“Even if we put a rush on it? I don’t want to spend the money, but at the same time we can’t close the club down for weeks to finish it unless we do a rush.”

“No, that makes sense. Go with the rush. Just let me know what you need and I’ll transfer it into the expenses account.”

“Do you think things will quiet down now?” She sat in the chair next to him, reaching out for his hand. “There have been so many murders…”

“I expect so. It’s always like this when you have rivals going at each other.” He looked at her and smiled. “And no, we weren’t involved. I like to keep things quiet. Predictable. Profitable. And fights like that are none of those things.”

“You’re right. People don’t like to go out when there’s trouble like that. Every time there was a shooting our profits dipped. At least they stayed out of South Beach.”

“The people fighting were coming down from Fort Lauderdale. South Beach isn’t on their radar. I think they were more interested in quick profits in places like Little Haiti and maybe Overtown.” He squeezed her hand. “But you don’t need to worry about any of that. But I do need to know if you want to increase the alcohol order ahead of that show next week.”

 

The boat shot through the water like a torpedo, leaving churning foam in its wake. Pasqual Benitez kept one eye on the gauges on the dash, but he was mostly interested in Enrique Mendoza. How his boss seemed absorbed by the boat and ignorant of what was going on around them.

He still didn’t know quite what had happened on the last Santos run. Flaco wasn’t talking, which wasn’t unusual, but Ricky had been quiet about it, too. Maybe there’d been an issue with the product, or Santos’s men had tried something. The silence was odd.

“She’s got heart, this one!” Enrique kept the throttles all the way forward, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Be good for straight in and out runs.”

Pasqual nodded, keeping his thoughts off his face. He’d watched the fighting between Manolo and the other cartels with some interest, wondering when the brothers would move to claim their share of the spoils. But the word never came, even after Oscar Carrera snatched up some of Manolo’s stash houses. He knew from boat gossip the Hermanos brothers were moving in on some of Gutierrez’s old territory north of Miami, and word was the Boroscos were making moves of their own closer to the city. And still the Mendoza brothers did nothing.

Watching as the temp gauges climbed a hair closer to the red, Pasqual held his silence. He knew Miguel preferred to keep things contained, and he also knew Ricky would follow his older brother’s lead no matter what he might feel personally. But it felt like they were leaving money on the table in a high-stakes poker game. Folding when they had four kings and an ace.

He looked at the gauges again. “Best ease up, Rickey. We’re getting close to red on both engines.”

Enrique eased back on the throttles. “Don’t want to burn her up for no good reason, eh? Still, she’s fast. Damned fast.”

“No doubt. And once the mechanics get done working their magic she’ll be faster still.” Unlike us.

“Something on your mind, Pasqual? You seem distracted today.”

“No, Ricky. I’m cool. Just thinking about the next deal with The Bat is all. That Oswaldo is getting weirder each time out.”

Enrique laughed as he dropped the boat to half power. “Now I didn’t think that was possible.”

“I didn’t, either. But something happened up in Lauderdale that got him spooked. Don’t know what exactly. Maybe one of Manolo’s crews tried to rip him off. Whatever it was, he’s paranoid as hell. He’s got some kind of rig on his boat he claims is a jammer. Plays hell with the marine band is all I know.”

“Has his product slipped?”

“No. Quality and quantity are still there. It’s good Peruvian product. But he’s not such a good Peruvian product these days.”

“I’ll let Miguel know.” Enrique eased back more on the throttles and cranked the wheel, gently turning the boat back toward Miami. “We might have a line on a new supplier. He’s Columbian, but some things can’t be helped. Not everyone who worked for Manolo is eager to jump into bed with Carrera.”

“Sure.” So there is change in the wind. And maybe opportunity. Pasqual knew his cut from each deal was good…more than fair by the standards of many operations. But he also knew just how much was coming in, and how much he could make on his own just by syphoning a little bit off, cutting it more than the Mendozas liked, and selling it in shitholes like Overtown and Little Haiti. Places the brothers didn’t bother with, where a kilo could turn into three or four with the right cutting. At least doubling his profit.

As he watched, the temperature gauges settled down as the boat practically idled back toward the dock. Pasqual knew most of the Mendoza boats intimately, but he didn’t own a single one. Maybe that was what irritated him the most. Years of loyal service and they still didn’t trust him with his own machine. Still, he knew he had it good compared to the men who’d died during the Gutierrez and Manolo turf wars. Shot in the back of the head and dumped in the ocean or left to feed gators in the swamp. But he’d also been hearing rumors of how Sonny Burnett was running things with the Carreras…each man owned his own boat or truck and got a straight percentage of everything he brought through. Not just a per-run payment.

“You’re quiet again, my friend.”

“What? Sorry, Ricky. I was just thinking about hitting the clubs tonight. The Overton and then maybe some of the South Beach joints.” He grinned to cover his mood. “Chase some skirts and see if I can get lucky.”

Enrique chuckled. “The single life! Enjoy it while you can, man. Soon enough some lady’s gonna nail you down.”

“Like you?”

“Hell, I don’t mind. Tiffy’s a freak and knows how to party.”

“I hear you, boss.” Leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat, Pasqual continued to keep his thoughts off his face. He knew Tiffy well enough to not trust her. There was something about her eyes…something that kept shifting away if you looked at her long enough. She was hot, though. No question about that. And he’d heard enough of the stories to know she was a serious freak. But he wasn’t ready to settle with one woman yet. Not until he had something of his own he could offer.

“How much storage do you think we should add to this one?”

The question bounced him out of his thoughts. “Enough for a hundred kilos, maybe? I don’t know if we want to risk this one on the bigger runs. Maybe save her for the emergency deals when time’s more important than quantity.”

“I think you’re right. Once they’re done she’s going to be the fastest thing on the water within a couple hundred miles. Gives us more options. Hell, she works out I might get a couple more. You can never have too many fast boats. Am I right?”

“You got it, boss.” Pasqual kept his eyes focused on the dock as Enrique guided them in. “You got that right on.”

 

“What do we know?”

Ricardo Tubbs tugged at the sleeves of his Armani suit coat. “Not much, lieutenant. Word on the street is Miguel Mendoza got hit by one of his own people…some chump called Cliff who had something to do with his transportation. All we know for sure is Oscar Carrera’s sitting on top of the heap now.”

Castillo nodded. “Talk to me about Carrera.”

“He’s old school. Likes to imagine he’s the biggest, baddest thing to come out of cocaine in Miami.” Rico grinned. “He’s not, but thinking he is keeps him in check. More or less. He’s never been much for expanding past what he thinks is his territory.”

Trudy Joplin nodded. “Word on the street is he’s comfortable with what he has. Manolo bumped up against his turf when he tried to expand out of Lauderdale. That’s what kicked this off.”

Gina Calabrese shook her head. “There are two wild cards in the Carrera household. His new wife and his only son.” She slid a grainy picture of a blonde out of a folder. “Celeste Carrera’s young, pretty, and ambitious from what we hear. She doesn’t play a role in the old man’s business, but he wants to impress her. If she says something, he’ll listen.” The second picture was of a dark-haired man with a narrow face and haunted eyes. “And this is Mikey. The only son. Confirmed junkie and booze-hound. He’s got ambition, but no brains.”

“What influence does he have on the old man?”

Rico looked at his notes. “Not much, at least according to our CIs. They like to fight about damned near everything, but in the end the kid always backs down. He’d like to grow the family business but doesn’t have a clue about how to do it.”

Castillo nodded. “What are their relations like with the other organizations?”

Stan Switek cleared his throat, and Rico noticed his bloodshot eyes. “They’ve mixed it up with the Boroscos a time or two, but that’s it. Old Oscar’s got himself positioned as a supplier of other suppliers, so he doesn’t deal directly with many of our familiar faces.” He paused. “But that might be changing. One of my CIs says he’s hearing things about the Carreras expanding their transportation network. Moving into markets Manolo used to supply. He doesn’t know what, but something’s happening for sure. And it’s too organized to be Mikey.”

“Does he have any connection to the Mendoza brothers?”

“None that we can find.” Stan flipped through his notes. “Carrera’s been moving in different circles mostly. He’s mainly into bringing product in fast and turning it quick to anyone who’s got the cash. The Mendozas don’t do business that way.”

Rio nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s my take, too. They know each other. No way they couldn’t. But they don’t work together or have any heat with each other. More like ships passing in the night.”

“Could that change?”

Rico looked around the table and decided to answer for the team. “We don’t think so, lieutenant. If it did, it would be because Mikey got a wild hair. The Mendozas have their clubs an’ regular dealers. Besides, Carrera’s gonna be busy trying to hold everything he got from Gutierrez and Manolo. And if Manolo’s brother deals himself in…”

“You mean Ernesto Manolo.”

“That’s right, lieutenant. Or El Gato.” Rico grinned. “He’s a freak, no question. Has a string of pretty boys he likes to take out for drinks and was the laughing stock of the Dade County underworld. Until Carrera killed his brother Miguel.”

Stan nodded. “One of my CIs is in that scene. He says El Gato is pissed as hell and looking for revenge. If there’s gonna be a war, my money’s on El Gato trying to take out the Carreras.”

Rico saw the look on Gina’s face and raised his finger just enough for her to see. “Still no word on Sonny, either. Not since he blew away that dirty Lauderdale cop.”

“We don’t know…”

Rico felt the anger then. “The hell we don’t. That bastard gave me up to Manolo. I don’t know what’s going on with Sonny, but that chump he wasted was dirty. Lauderdale IAB knows it, but isn’t doing squat. We all know it.”

“It’s not our case.”

“I know that, lieutenant. But I’m not gonna buy into that ‘Sonny’s dirty’ story without a hell of a lot more proof. Something’s not right with him. I know that. Hell, he took a shot at me. But think about it. Sonny’s a good shot. At that range, he would have gone for the head to be sure. He didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but he hasn’t turned.”

“We can’t touch this.” Castillo looked up, and Rico felt the heat in his eyes. “Too many people are involved. Too many agencies. Our priority now has to be preventing a war between Carrera and El Gato. The Mendoza brothers will have to wait unless they jump in on one side or the other.”

Back in the squad room, Rico watched as Stan gathered his notes and headed for the door. Then he cornered Gina. “Is Switek ok?”

“I don’t know, Rico. Why ask me?”

“Because you talk to him. He was hung over in the briefing. That’s not like him.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. He hasn’t been around as much, but I don’t know what’s bothering him.”

“Solid. Just thought I’d ask.” Rico retreated back to his own desk and his notes. Maybe later he’d do a little checking of his own. But for now he needed to get a better handle on Ernesto Manolo. “El Gato. Who the hell calls himself The Cat?” Then he looked at the photo clipped inside the records file and chuckled. “Now that makes sense. This chump looks like he’s a pineapple short of a fruit basket. And that ain’t a good thing in this line of work.”

But no matter how hard he tried to lose himself in the files on Carrera and El Gato, he kept seeing Sonny’s face, lost in the haze in the alley and lit on one side by a flash of lightning. It had been Sonny, but at the same time it wasn’t. There was something different about his face. His eyes. There’d been a hardness there he’d never seen in his partner before. What the hell happened to you, man? he thought as he flipped through El Gato’s rap sheet. And how do we get you back?

 

“We need to meet.”

The international connection had its usual hisses and pops, but Cristobal Santos’s voice was especially grating today. “I agree.” Miguel Mendoza managed to keep the excitement out of his voice. “What about next week?”

“I think I can manage that. I have other business in South Florida, and it seems one of my international entanglements has been dropped.”

You mean you finally found someone high enough in the new Bolivian government you could bribe. “That’s excellent news. Let me know when you’ve confirmed your arrangements and we’ll meet. The situation here has been…shall we say…fluid, so I have to manage my time.”

“Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Miguel.”

“Asshole.” Miguel muttered the word moments after hanging up the phone. “At least this is the last time I need to deal with him.”

“So you’re still planning on resolving the situation?”

Miguel looked over at Esteban. “Yes. We know he’s talking with that freak El Gato about shipments, and that El Gato hopes to reestablish what his brother had in Lauderdale.” He allowed himself a thin smile. “I think we both know he won’t succeed, but he’ll make a hell of a mess in the trying of it, which gives us exactly what we need.”

“Your father called me yesterday.”

“Did he? What did he want?”

“I think he was trying to find out what we were doing with Jesus Estevez.” Esteban smiled. “I told him nothing.”

“He’s a foolish old man who still thinks he has some say in what we do.” Miguel paused, thinking back over the last few months. They’d reduced the amount of money going into Jesus’s charter fleet, and the older man hadn’t kicked. But there was always a chance he was slipping back into old habits. “Have you heard anything about my uncle?”

“No. He’s been sticking to hauling tourists around and charging them too much to catch fish. El Gato is trying to recruit boats, but I think we both know Jesus would never work with him.”

Miguel laughed. “I can just see Uncle Jesus’s face if that fairy ever tried to ask him anything. One thing you can count on with Jesus: Mother Church is strong in him. In some ways, at least. Still, something must have prompted my father to ask. If he calls again, tell him to speak to me.”

“I did. He said he’d been trying but you weren’t taking his calls.”

“Now I know something’s up. Any time the old man lies, he’s got a scheme in the works. Maybe he’s trying to convince Jesus to move something for him.”

“I’ll look into it, jefe. One of Jesus’s top pilots has a bit of a gambling problem, and we own his debt.”

“Good.” Miguel turned to look out the window. “We do have another problem, though. Some of the trash left behind by Gutierrez is trying to make inroads into Liberty City. It might be a shithole, but it’s our shithole.”

“I didn’t…”

“No reason you should know, Esteban. I only heard because Holly heard it from another club owner. The guy has a spot in the better side of the street, if you know what I mean, and he said a crew’s been working the block for the last couple of weeks. Selling badly-cut coke and running off his customers. It’s only a matter of time before they get balls and try to move in on our operation.”

“Dead men don’t make moves. I’ll have Oscar’s crew see to it. He needs the experience.”

“Good. And Esteban? Let them know this is to be a warning.”

Esteban smiled. “I’ll see to it personally.”

 

The rain didn’t do much to break the heat, and it just made the humidity worse. Growing up in South Florida, Stan Switek was used to the shifting summer weather. But he didn’t like being pulled away from a baseball game in Mickey’s…especially when he had two hundred riding on the Yankees. He parked a bit back from the patrol cars, the Thunderbird’s wiper blades swiping uselessly at the rain on the windshield. “Fuck it,” he muttered as he got out into the wet.

The lead officer was a guy he’d known back in Patrol, and the man’s face split into a grin. “Stan the Man! You pull the short straw this time out, buddy?”

“Something like that.” His Hawaiian shirt was starting to stick to his skin, and he wished he’d grabbed a rain jacket. “What do we have that got you to call out OCB?”

“Five bodies.” Fritz waved in the general direction of the sheet-covered mounds, the rain doing its best to thin the blood soaking through the cloth. “ME should be here in five so we can get ‘em tagged and bagged all proper.”

Nodding, Stan looked around. They were about a block into Liberty City, boarded up windows competing with liquor stores and signs hawking the services of bail bondsmen and ambulance chasers. “What’s your read, Fritz? I’m guessing this is your beat.”

“Yeah. I pissed off Lieutenant Carlone and got sent to the back of beyond. Again. Those boys ain’t locals. Couple of the locals who do me a solid now and again said they were new…trying to muscle in on the rackets already here.” He snorted. “Drugs, mostly.”

Stan nodded, feeling the rain dripping down his back. Turning, he walked under the scant cover of a crumbling awning over the door to what had once been a sandwich shop. “Sorry. Forgot my Patrol raincoat. And these damned Hawaiian prints run. Your CI got any idea where they came from?”

“If he does he ain’t sayin’. But my educated guess is they’re leftovers from that Gutierrez-Manolo thing. LC’s a black neighborhood, and those boys look Columbian or maybe Honduran. Someone’s hired help left to fend for themselves.”

“Great. So the locals took ‘em out?”

Fritz shook his head. “That’s the funny thing, Stan. I don’t think so. No one, and I mean no one, is talking about that. Crime Scene might be able to tell you more, but I don’t think this was one of them drive-by jobs, either. Not enough collateral damage. No, someone came up on these guys and did them proper. Heavy caliber slugs to the head.”

Stan turned to look at Fritz. “Did you say heavy caliber?”

“Yeah. .45s I’d say. No more than two rounds in each vic. And right out in the open for God and everyone to see.” Fritz turned and looked back the crime scene rapidly being washed away by the rain. “You ask me it was a message.”

“Oh, I’d say it was a freaking message. Thanks, Fritz. I don’t know if we’ll end up taking this one or not, but between you and me I’d say someone just told whoever’s behind these punks to stay the hell away.”

A younger patrol officer walked over from one of the cars. “ME’s a block out, boss. And I just heard on the radio. The Yankees lost.”

“Shit.”

 

“And your contact in Patrol couldn’t give you any more?”

“No, lieutenant. But Fritz has worked Liberty City for years off and on. He knows that turf. The five vics were a crew trying to muscle in on the street action there. None of it’s real organized, so it was easy for them. Until they bumped into the wrong people.” Stan looked down at his hands, still feeling the sting of the loss. He’d dropped four games in a row now, and was in over a grand. He was good for it, but…

Rico tapped his pen on his legal pad. “And you said these were headshots?”

“Yep. All five took one or two rounds to the head. Fritz thinks it’s a message, and I agree with him. They didn’t have any drugs on them, but the IDs are coming back linking them to the crew Alejandro Gutierrez used to run. This ain’t some home-grown turf war. It was someone trying to make a move and getting the taste slapped out of his mouth.”

Rico stared at him for a long moment, and Stan hoped he’d chewed enough gum before coming in. Fritz wouldn’t have said anything about the whiskey on his breath, but the lieutenant would. “I think Switek’s right, lieutenant. This is a message, and I think we know who’s sending it.”

Trudy nodded. “Seems a hell of a lot like that shooting a couple of years back. The Haitians in front of the bar. Did Homicide ever get anywhere on that?”

“No. Gangs didn’t, either.” Castillo sat in silence for a moment. “We’ll wait for the forensics to come back. If it’s .45 ACP again, we’ll take it.”

Stan scribbled something on his pad to make the others think he was paying attention. But his thoughts had wandered back to the Yankees game as soon as they brought up the Haitians. Who cares if they’re related? We’ll chase our tails again, it will go cold, and the lieutenant will toss it back to Gangs or whoever stands still the longest. I need to figure out how to get my luck to change. Maybe the ponies….or better yet dogs. Izzy might be able to cage a tip or two from his uncle. If they’re on speaking terms again.

“What do you think, Stan?”

Rico’s voice startled him, even more so because he was actually asking for his opinion. “I agree it looks like the same crew, but can we be sure it’s the Mendozas and not just some Cubans these guys managed to piss off? Gutierrez and his crew were starting to dip their toes in Little Havana, and we know they don’t take kindly to outsiders.”

“You got a point.” Rico nodded slowly, rubbing his groomed beard. “There’s gotta be something more than just .45 slugs if we want to…”

The door to the conference room opened and Dibble stuck his head in. “Sorry to break up the party, but we got a priority call. Someone just took a shot at Oscar Carrera. At least three bodies, and none of ‘em are his.”

Castillo looked around the table. “We’ll sort this out after we see about Carrera. If it’s Manolo’s brother trying to get revenge this takes priority over the Liberty City homicides. We can’t afford another war on our streets, and if those two are going after each other it will be a war.”

 

OCB moves into Hostile Takeover

 

Esteban Morales took his time counting out the bonus money, making sure Oscar’s crew had plenty of rum to celebrate. “Excellent work,” he said as he handed each man a packet of bills. “The boss is pleased. And we let those putos know what happens when you try to move in on our turf.”

Oscar, a thickset man with a bushy mustache, nodded. “It was nothing, boss. Hell, those idiots were just standing around posing and trying to talk big. They didn’t even know we were there.”

“It makes you wonder how Gutierrez got as far as he did.” Esteban grinned. “But we know things are easier in Lauderdale.” And he was pleased with how things turned out. Dead bodies laid out for all interlopers to see. By his reckoning it should buy them another couple of months. Maybe more if El Gato took a run at the Carreras. From what little he knew of the man, Esteban was sure he would. And while they shot the shit out of each other, he’d go about securing Mendoza territory. Patience paid off, at least for now. And maybe the boss would finally get rid of the Bolivian prick. Santos had been making fools of them for too long. Maybe it was time to send a different kind of message.

Edited April 21, 2023 by Robbie C.