Genesis, Part XXX

[Robbie C.]

“And you’re sure it’s still safe?”

Miguel Mendoza looked across the table at Esteban Morales and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is, Cristobal. This El Gato is only interested in cutting the balls off of Oscar Carrera, and Carrera’s interesting in protecting those balls for his young wife. Neither of them are looking past that conflict.”

“How can you be sure?”

“This is my city. I know how it works, my friend. Plus, Sonny Burnett is running Carrera’s security. That is a man who’s focused on efficiency, and a wider conflict isn’t efficient. It draws too much attention.”

“Very well. I’ll keep my original reservation. I’ll land in Miami tomorrow afternoon. Will your people be there?”

“Of course. We’ll pick you up and then we can go to my club for dinner. Fontino's has an excellent menu and even better wine list. Then we’ll drop you wherever you’re staying and meet the next day for our discussions.”

“That sounds good. I can’t stay more than a day, though. I have business up north, you see.”

You won’t even be staying a day. But Miguel forced a lightness into his voice. “I understand. I also have meetings here that can’t be moved. But with the changed situation around Lauderdale we have much to discuss in a short time.”

“And now that the unpleasantness of that last deal is behind us, we can move forward. Maybe you’ll think about expanding north? I have some ideas in that regard…”

“We’ll talk more the day after tomorrow. It will be good to see you again, my friend.” Miguel let out a long sigh the moment he hung up the phone. “Arrogant asshole doesn’t even know he’s measured for a coffin.”

“Are you actually going to have dinner with him?”

“No. Fontino’s is an Italian place out toward the swamps. It’s a good club, but an even better distraction. He’ll look up the name, see where it is, and not wonder why we’re driving toward the Everglades. Makes it easier to do what needs doing and dispose of the remains.”

Esteban nodded. “And we know his people hate him at least as much as we do, so no one will go looking for him. Lupe thinks his second in command, a punk named Vazquez, will pick up in his place. I agree.”

“What do we know about him?”

“A vicious bastard who isn’t especially bright. He can move product reasonably well, but is much better at doing what he’s told and nothing more. I don’t think he’ll be able to match what Santos can deliver for a few months…maybe more if he starts shooting his own people. It seems to be something of a Bolivian pastime, so it’s possible that’s what will happen.”

“It shouldn’t matter. Enrique has been in contact with a couple of people looking for buyers in the aftermath of Gutierrez’s fall. They don’t want to work with El Gato, and between them should make up for what Santos used to supply.”

“What will you need for the job?”

“A Mercedes we don’t mind losing. One of your people to act as driver and another as bodyguard. It has to look like something we’d normally use. I don’t know if Santos is traveling alone…he didn’t say and I couldn’t ask without making him suspicious. Every other time he’s come to Miami he’s had at least two guards., but if his situation’s changed he might not bring as many. So a second car close by would be good. They can deal with his guards once we’re clear of Fontino’s.”

“I’ll have two cars on standby. That way we can get you and the others clear before burning Santos and the other debris.”

“Good thinking, Esteban.” Looking at his watch, Miguel shrugged and stood up. “I’ve got a meeting with Holly in half an hour. Something about scheduling shows for Shock.” He smiled. “I love how happy that place makes her.”

“The amount of money it can clean doesn’t hurt, either.”

Miguel turned, then chuckled. “No. No, it doesn’t. And speaking of that, have your people take a look at Kilowatt. Their orders are down a hair, and I want to know if it’s competition or just a dip in patrons.” It wasn’t something he was really worried about, but he also didn’t like Esteban joking about Shock. In the end it didn’t make much difference, though. They did need to know what was going on at Kilowatt, and Esteban knew just how far he could push things with the club. He was right, though…Shock did clean a good deal of money for them, cutting down on their dependence on Jesus and other money laundering avenues they didn’t directly control. The more he could keep in house, the better.

 

“They say someone tried to hit Oscar Carrera.”

Enrique Mendoza looked up from the engine compartment of their latest boat. “So?”

Pasqual shook his head. “You don’t get it, man. Someone tried to fucking take out the head of the Carrera organization.”

“Again, so? Obviously they missed or you’d be jumping up and down.” He wiped his hands on a dirty rag, reminding himself to actually wash them before he left the boat house. Tiffy hated grease stains on her clothes, and he was sure he’d grab her as soon as he saw her.

“That means someone might be coming after us.”

“How do you figure? Everyone knows El Gato has a hard on for Carrera. Maybe literally as well. I don’t want to know. But odds are he’s the one who ordered the hit, and if they missed I’m betting it was because of Burnett. He runs Carrera’s security, doesn’t he?”

“That’s what they say. But still…”

“Look, Pasqual. Chill out, man. El Gato’s pissed because old Oscar took out his brother, right? And probably because he also took his Lauderdale turf in the bargain. So he’s gonna hit back. That queen don’t care about us at all because we don’t deal in the same circles. Different suppliers, different clubs. Hell, different wardrobes.” He climbed out of the boat and onto the plank surface of the boat house dock. “Look, we both know El Gato ain’t ambitious. Not at all. Unless it’s meeting new pretty boys. But you poke him with a stick, he’s gonna bite back.”

“I know.” Pasqual looked down at the boards. “You just gotta wonder when the other shoe’s gonna drop, you know? We been lucky so far…”

“Hell, luck’s got nothing to do with it. It’s all planning. That and patience. I know you want to move into other markets, but that’s gotta happen in a slow and steady way.” Enrique waved his hand back toward the boat. “You gotta have the boats to move product, the people to watch that product, and enough buyers to make sure you aren’t sitting on a bunch of stuff waiting to be sold.”

“Yeah. I get it. But we should be watching this Carrera-El Gato thing. Even if none of it blows back on us, some choice pieces might fall out.”

“Miguel’s watching it. You can bet on that. Me? I’m more concerned with finding out why that piece of shit back there keeps running hot on engine two.”

“Maybe we should be…”

Enrique sighed. “We should be focusing on what we do. Look, it’s like a body. Miguel might be the head, but the head don’t work without blood flowing to it. We’re the blood, man. Our boats keep the product moving and our connections get it out and bring the money in. Those Cubans Miguel sends are like the white blood cells protecting the red cells. We work as well as we do because we don’t worry about the bigger stuff, and Miguel doesn’t worry about how product gets from point A to point B and then gets sold at point C.”

“I know, man. Just with all these changes…I keep kinda waiting for someone to take a run at us.”

“They’ve tried a time or two and come up short each time. Hell, not more than a few days ago we took out some of Gutierrez’s old boys who were trying to set up shop in Liberty City.” Enrique started toward the steps leading out to the parking lot. Pasqual’s whining was getting on his nerves, and Tiffy had said something about wanting to go out. He didn’t mind the idea of a few drinks, especially after fighting with that damned engine most of the afternoon. “Look, I gotta run. Have Louis take a look at that engine, will you? He might see something I missed.”

He found his smile again as the Corvette’s V-8 roared to life. Boats and cars were things he understood. People…not so much. Too many things to go wrong and no wrenches you could use to fix them. Miguel had always been good with that side of things. As he accelerated away from the boat house and steered the car toward the expressway, Enrique smiled when he thought about how far they’d come…from running loads of Cuban cigars to being one of the largest movers of cocaine in Miami. They might even be bigger than grandfather had been. It was a humbling thought.

 

“At least his flight’s on time.”

Miguel Mendoza nodded, looking again at the “arrivals and departures” board. “We’ll wait here instead of at the gate. Don’t want to make it look like we’re too eager to meet him.

Esteban nodded. “Are you sure you want me with you?”

“Yes. He’ll think we’re talking serious business then.” Frowning, he checked his watch. “Are your other people in position?”

“Yes. They’ll follow close enough to do what needs doing but not so close as to attract his attention. I know he was police, but these men are good, too.”

“Trained by those old men?”

“Some, but others were trained by us. We’re doing our own training now, jefe. Too much demand.”

“And I expect it’s better than what the old men do. Or at least more practical.” Miguel was conscious of the weight of his grandfather’s Colt in the small of his back…another reason he didn’t want to meet Santos at the gate. He didn’t see any point in risking security, not with the cops on edge as a result of the attempted hit on Carrera. But the hit also ensured the cops were chasing after El Gato and maybe the Hermanos brothers or the Boroscos. Leaving him unnoticed.

“Looks like he came alone. That or his security’s gotten much better since his last trip.”

Miguel hid a smile when he saw Cristobal Santos coming out of the luggage claim area wearing a straw Panama hat with a black ribbon and a faded cream suit cut for the tropics. “I’d say it’s his ego. The same ego that makes him dress like he just walked out of a freaking Bogart movie.” He waited a moment, glued a wide smile on his face, and raised his hand enough to catch Santos’s eye. “Over here! We have a car waiting.” He turned to Esteban and winked. “My man can help you with your bag.”

Santos still loved the sound of his own voice. “It’s good to be back in Miami, my friend. Especially with no pesky warrant hanging over my head. It’s a new day in my country…a good new day. And that means better days for us all.” He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the Mercedes’ back seat and grinned.

“Yes. We’re going through some changes here, but things will even out again. They always do.” Miguel caught Esteban’s eye in the rear view mirror and nodded. “I figured we’d eat first and then get you to your hotel. I can’t expect airplane food does much for you.”

Santos laughed. “No. If I were still in my old job I’d have the idiots who plan those menus shot.” He scratched his ear. “But what’s this I hear about someone trying to kill Oscar Carrera?”

“It’s just El Gato playing at revenge. Nothing that needs to concern us.”

“Does anything ever concern you, Miguel?”

“Many things do. But El Gato only has a few guns, while the Carreras have many. They’ll make a lot of noise, especially El Gato with his fondness for all things theatrical, but in the end the Carreras will still be there.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Santos turned to look out the window. “Somehow your organization always manages to weather these disturbances.”

“We live within our means.” Miguel bit the inside of his lip. “This whole thing started because Alejandro Gutierrez wanted a cut of what Miguel Manolo was doing in Lauderdale. It didn’t help that Manolo was expanding south and running into turf Gutierrez thought was his. Most of these fights start over uncontrolled expansion, going all the way back to Calderone. People get greedy and try to take more than they can use or hold.”

“And you do not.”

“No. We expand, yes, but it’s always controlled. Planned. Within our means. Why bring in more product than you can sell? Or promise dealers more than you can supply? Fools do that, not us.”

“And that’s why I like doing business with you, my friend.”

Like hell you do. You’ve tried to rip me off at least four times, twice putting my brother in danger. He was very conscious of the bulk of the old Colt, but he bit his lip again and chuckled. “That and we make you lots of money.”

“That’s why we’re in this game, yes? To make money.” They were heading out of Miami now, and Santos turned to look at Miguel. “I thought you said we were going to eat.”

“We are. Fontino’s is a supper club with enough privacy for us to discuss serious business. They also have the best Italian food in South Florida.”

“When in Rome, right?” Santos laughed again, tugging at the foolish straw hat.

“Exactly, my friend.” Miguel was sure the inside of his lip was bleeding now, but he couldn’t afford to give anything away. Not when they were so close. Esteban made the turn, guiding the Mercedes onto the side road leading past Fontino’s. Somewhere behind them he knew the chase cars were waiting, following in trail like birds of prey.

“Wasn’t that the sign back there? I thought I saw neon…”

Looking up, Miguel saw Esteban nod. We’re close enough. And there’s no one around. Reaching down, he pulled out the big Colt. “Things were going so well,” he said, hiding a grin as Santos’s eyes went wide. “Well…they were going ok, I suppose. And then you had the fucking balls to try to rip off my brother. Tried to kill my brother. What do you think we are? Fucking dumb peasants you can rob and kill as you see fit?”

“That was an accident. My people going off on their own.”

“No. It wasn’t. Your trigger man talked before he died. We know it was on your orders.”

Santos was starting to sweat. Miguel could see it running down the sides of his narrow face. “He misunderstood his orders.”

“I think he understood them very well.” The car eased to a stop, and Miguel knew it was almost time. “You underestimated the Mendoza family, Santos. You slimy piece of shit.”

“We can make this right!”

Miguel smiled. It was genuine this time. “You’re right. We can.” The old .45 came up in a smooth motion. Santos started to scream, and then the boom of the shot erased all other sounds in the car. Miguel flipped on the thumb safety and turned to the front of the car. “Get the fire ready, would you? I’ll need to change out of these clothes.” The smell of burned powder and blood bit his nose. “We won’t light off the car until your people get here.”

Ignoring the mess on the seat next to him, he wiped a bit of blood and flesh from his face. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon air. Reaching back into the car, he plucked the spent brass casing from the seat. No reason to leave anything behind. As the reality of what he’d done sank in, he felt his fingers start to twitch. Just a bit, though. Santos had been a pig, and in many ways shooting him had been a public service. And Miguel knew the Bolivian would have done the same thing to him without batting an eye.

Tires crunched on gravel as the chase car arrived. Esteban walked over and returned with a gym bag. “Your pants look clean,” he said as he handed it over. “Maybe just the shirt and coat need to go.”

Nodding, Miguel unzipped the dark nylon bag and pulled out clothes. “Get it started. I won’t be long. We need to be clear before it goes up.”

Grinning, Esteban hefted a small object. “Got that covered, jefe. Modified road flare with a delay fuse. We’ll have about twenty seconds to get clear and then boom!” He paused. “That was a nice piece of work.”

“No one will know about it, but some might guess who caused him to disappear. And those are the ones who matter. They’ll think twice about fucking with us.” Miguel noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he unbuttoned the shirt, and also that it disappeared the second he focused on it. Good. Control. “Get the chase car turned around.”

 

“Who called it in?”

The state trooper looked annoyed as he pushed his mirrored sunglasses back up on his nose. “Some local stuffing his face at that supper club back by the turn off. Guess they came out and saw the smoke.” He peered again at the ID and his tone changed. “Sorry to call your guys out, lieutenant, but it looked like a hit to us”

Martin Castillo nodded, leaving his own sunglasses on even though the sun was becoming a memory on the western horizon. “It’s what we do.” He looked at the smoking metal and plastic that had once been a car. “What else do you have?”

“Not much. Car was a Mercedes 300 class, I think. We’ll know more if the lab can find a VIN in that mess. No plates, so we don’t have anything there. The body in the back seat’s mostly burned up, but from what I saw it looked like he’d taken one to the head.” He turned and jerked his head in the direction of approaching headlights. “The ME will be able to tell you more, and it looks like they’re coming on scene now.”

“Thank you.” Castillo gave the trooper a short nod and then circled the scene, trying to stay as far away from the wreckage as he could while still noting details. He’d taken the call alone, knowing the rest of his team was tied up with surveillance on the Carrera organization. While there was a chance this was somehow connected to the fight between Carrera and El Gato, he had his doubts. And until he was sure he wasn’t going to divert any resources.

He could see where a second car had come down and turned around, but doubted there was anything special about it or its tires. This had professional written all over it, from the burned-out car to the body in the back seat. It was too clean to be El Gato, and too private to be Carrera. Meaning someone else was in play. Or it was totally unrelated to narcotics. He knew the CIA favored removing troublesome individuals in the same way. Out here it was also possible the Cubans were feuding again…Castro’s people taking out a rival or one of the anti-Castro combat brigades eliminating someone they suspected of working for Castro or informing on them.

He looked back to see the medical examiner’s team poking around the back seat. “Any chance of identifying the body?”

The thickset woman shook her head. “Not here. Maybe back at the lab, but I can’t say for sure.” She looked back at the charred body. “Not your standard drug hit, is it?”

“No.”

“Looks like one shot to the head, but I’ll know more once we get him back. Guy must have just come into town, too.” She waved her hand back toward the rear of the car. “Crime scene found a suitcase back there. They’re gonna play with it and see what they can find.”

“Thank you.” That added another layer to the problem, but also removed one. If this had been a deal gone bad, the shooters would have taken the bag with them. As he watched the various teams poking, prodding, and photographing the scene and the body, Castillo let the questions float in his head without chasing any of them. It was too soon to reach any conclusions.

Still, he wondered about the location. Why take someone this far out and not just go all the way into the swamp? There had to be a message in it somewhere, but he wasn’t sure what. It was public enough to make the news, but not the front page or lead broadcast story because it wasn’t in South Beach or the Gables.

“Lieutenant?” The forensics tech looked like he’d just graduated from high school and hadn’t talked to a cop since he tried to explain away his first minor in possession. “We don’t know who this guy is yet, but he flew in from somewhere. The suitcase has the remains of a checked luggage tag on it. We might be able to clean it up enough to tell where it’s from, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Do what you can.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off a looming headache. “I’m heading back in. Send your results to OCB, please.”

The next morning he found Stan Switek waiting in his office. The big detective’s eyes were bloodshot, and he didn’t look like he’d slept more than a couple of hours. “You ain’t gonna believe who that body was, lieutenant. Cristobal Santos. At least that’s what the ME says the dental records say.”

Castillo stood for a moment. He hadn’t expected to hear that name again. “How is he in the United States? Doesn’t he have…”

“Had, lieutenant. They had one of those government changes in Bolivia and in the process his warrant disappeared. So he wasn’t on any watch lists anymore.” Stan shrugged. “At least none the Customs people watch. I’ve got a call in to the airport, and maybe we’ll get lucky and find out when he came in.”

“Thank you.” His desk chair made its familiar creak as he sat down, straightening his thin black leather tie out of habit. Cristobal Santos. I would have expected him to be killed in his own country, not here in Miami. “I’ll make some calls. Someone might know why he was coming to Miami.”

The DEA wasn’t helpful, and they’d only just learned Santos no longer had a Bolivian arrest warrant. The supervising agent he talked to didn’t seem at all upset Santos was dead, and he got the same reaction from the FBI when he finally got the SAC on the line. He didn’t bother with CIA…if they knew anything they wouldn’t tell him, and if they didn’t know anything they might lie about it to make him think they did know something. Still, it nagged at him. Why was Santos here?

“I heard the good news, lieutenant.” Ricardo Tubbs had his usual dancing swagger as he came into the office, but Castillo could see new lines in his face under his beard. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear Santos got hit.”

“No one is.” He looked down at the battered top of his desk. “But no one knows why he was here, either. Or that he was even coming here.”

“You think it’s got anything to do with Carrera?”

“No. Carrera’s pipeline is Columbia. Not Bolivia. He’d have no reason to see Santos.”

“What about El Gato? He’s been trying to up his status since his brother got whacked. And he’s gonna need cash at the rate he’s losing guys to Carrera.”

“It’s possible. The lab hasn’t come back with anything on the car.”

“Yeah. I’ll feel better when we know more about it. And what killed Santos.”

“The ME on scene thought it was a single gunshot wound to the head. A large caliber round.”

Rico shook his head. “Didn’t Santos blow in a while back to see the Mendozas?”

“Yes. We had a lead on Pasqual Benitez, but could never develop it further.”

“I remember now. Santos an’ his guys roughed up some hookers. One of them tried to finger old Pasqual, but it never went anywhere. You think they’d have the stones to hit Santos?”

Castillo started to shake his head, then stopped. “I don’t know. There’s too much we don’t know about them. But if they did kill him, why did they do it?”

“Maybe he was trying to cozy up to the Carreras? Or the Boroscos tried to make a play?” Rico shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We haven’t seen this kind of turmoil since the Revilla brothers got taken out.”

“We’ll wait for the ballistics report.”

“You really think they used the same gun?”

“It’s possible. We’ve seen the same .45 in at least two homicides now. The weapon has significance to someone. We just need to find out who it is.”

“It could also be a community gun. One that gets passed around with no real owner. Makes it hard for the chump caught holding it when the music stops, but it doesn’t mean he’s connected to everyone else who was killed with it.”

“Yes.” But Castillo knew the weapon belonged to one man. He couldn’t explain how he knew it, but he was as sure of it as he was sure the sun would rise in the east. “Have the lab run the ballistics through the national database when they have something.”

“Solid. See what else this piece has been doing.” Rico paused, and Castillo knew what was coming. “Anything new on Sonny?”

“No. Not since the reports from the Carrera shooting. I understand you’re concerned, but it’s still officially Homicide’s case. And Internal Affairs. We need to focus on what we can do.”

Once Rico left, Castillo rocked back in the chair and took a long, deep breath. The death of Santos was a puzzle, but so was whatever was happening with Sonny Crockett. The reports of him being on scene during the attempt on Oscar Carrera’s life were too consistent and too reliable to be anything but fact. He knew it, and he knew Tubbs knew it. Somehow he was staying two steps ahead of everyone. The question was why.

Even though he’d killed a cop, Castillo didn’t think Crockett had gone over. As Tubbs liked to remind everyone, Yagovich had been a dirty cop. Working for Miguel Manolo if the intelligence was correct. Had Manolo sent Crockett there to be killed? The grainy video recovered from the gallery made it seem like a very distinct possibility. And if he knew Sonny as well as he thought he did, it made sense he’d run to Manolo’s biggest adversary. Oscar Carrera could provide protection and maybe a way to square things with Manolo.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. That might be what had happened, but it didn’t explain why it had happened. Maybe the explosion did something to Crockett’s brain. Castillo had a made a few discrete inquiries to doctors he knew, and they’d all said such a break was a distinct possibility. Especially given the recent personal traumas Crockett had suffered. Caitlin. Hackman. The incident with Angel Conner. And add in years of repressed trauma reactions from the job they did. They’d all agreed the explosion could have driven Crockett into the one place he felt safe and in control: Sonny Burnett.

A sharp knock on the door dragged him back into his office. “Lieutenant? We go some movement on Carrera’s people.” Stan Switek shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway. “Rico thinks he’s calling some kind of meeting.”

“I’ll be right there.” He let the chair rock forward and stood up, pushing thoughts of Sonny Crockett to a deep corner of his mind. There was work to do.