Genesis, Part XXXI

[Robbie C.]

“I still can’t believe you killed him.”

Miguel looked across the table at his younger brother. “After he tried to kill you, it was the least I could do.”

Enrique shook his head. “It’s not that. I mean he was a major supplier.”

“And we have more than enough others to replace what he brought to the table.” Miguel sighed. “Look, it was a thing that had to be done. He was disrespecting us. Cutting our shipments and expecting us to just deal with it. Not to mention he tried to kill you. Santos was on the way out, and everyone knew it. The Bolivian warrant was revoked because no one cared to deal with him.”

“Ok, I get it. Between The Bat and the other Peruvian we have enough to meet the basics. And those Columbians are good at filling in the rest. At least Gutierrez taught them how to conduct deals. But Santos could have been our hole card.”

“Or the asshole who screwed up everything. Santos wasn’t going to be happy until he made us his bitches. He was already trying to move in on Lauderdale, and I think he was trying to get a meet with Carrera as well. I do know he didn’t come to Miami just to see us.”

Enrique smiled his sloppy surfer grin. “I’m not arguing with you, Miguel. Don’t think that. I’m just running my mouth so I can make sense of what happened. And I’m glad we don’t have to deal with that slime bag and his rust-bucket Panamanian steamers any more. It’s just…”

“I know. Times are changing. And now we’re big enough we actually notice those changes. El Gato and Carrera will get tired of shooting at each other soon enough, or one of them will actually manage to kill the other and end things that way. In either case there will be pieces to pick up. Maybe we’ll grab some, and maybe we won’t. But we need to secure our business either way.”

“Speaking of that, I’m having to shift away from the seahorse route. Two of my guys have had run-ins with other go-fasts out there. One was just a chase, but shots were fired in the second one.”

“When was this?”

“Last week. I didn’t want to bother you with it because of everything that’s going on, but if we’re going to secure things you need to know one route’s been shut down for now.”

“Who runs these boats?”

“Columbian freelancers as far as Pasqual can tell. He was piloting the boat during the first incident. It sounds like the same boat was involved in the second one.”

“Is there any chance it’s Jesus again?”

Enrique shook his head. “I thought of him first thing. But I’ve got a guy in his company, and he says Jesus has been behaving himself since your visit. At least as far as he knows.”

“That’s the key. As far as he knows.” Miguel sighed. “Look, I need to get over to Pelican’s Nest. Otis wants a meeting for some reason. You want to come along?”

“Naw. I think I finally got a handle on the engine problem one of the boats was having. But I want to run her out before I put her back in the rotation.”

“You and your boats! It does sound like more fun, though.”

Once Enrique left, Miguel got up and walked to the door opening onto the wide back patio. He did have a meeting with Otis Forsyth, but he did know what it was about. And he wasn’t happy. He could just see the shimmering water though the screening bushes beyond the manicured lawn, and imagined for a moment he was out with Enrique pushing one of their SCARABs to its limits. Then he sighed and headed for the front door. Enrique had his job, and he had his. It was why the family was as strong as it was.

Pelican’s Nest never seemed to change. Miguel knew Otis liked it that way, as had his father and his grandfather. Nodding to the doorman, he went straight past the coat check counter and the bar to his club room. Otis was nothing if not punctual, and according to his watch it was time for their meeting.

Otis sat in one of the overstuffed leather club chairs, his suit immaculate as always. There was maybe a touch more gray in his hair, but it was hard to tell. He smiled when Miguel came in. “My boy! It’s been a spell as my father used to say. How’s your business coming along? And I hear nothing but good things about that club your lady friend runs. My congratulations to you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Miguel sank into the other chair. It was hard not to relax with chairs like these and Otis’s whiskey smooth voice. “Shock has done quite well. I think our mutual friend Mr. Blade would be properly impressed.”

“Oh, he is. Most impressed. And a touch jealous, I think. But I told him he’s got no right to fuss. You’re here seeing to business and he’s still chugging around in that tanker of a yacht of his. Sometimes you just have to pay the IRS what they think you owe and get on with things.”

“But I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about Newton.”

“No. I did not. It’s your father, Miguel. He’s a dear friend, and an old one. But lately he’s been acting a bit…rash, shall we say. I think all this fuss and bother between Manolo and Carrera has unsettled his mind just a bit.”

Miguel leaned forward. “He hasn’t spoken to me about anything.”

“No, I don’t expect he has. Usually he just stays in that shack of his down by the water, but lately he’s been coming around the Nest. At first I was happy, you understand. Been a few years since I’d seen him and it was good to catch up. But then…” He shook his head. “This all happened in the bar, you understand. A public area.”

“What happened?”

“He started complaining. About you and Enrique. Said you were nothing without him, and how everything you’ve done was based on his ideas.” Otis snorted. “Rot like that. The first time I fed him some drinks and sent him home, but the second time he brought your mother’s brother with him.”

“Jesus?” Miguel kept a smile on his face, but he felt the cold anger staring to ball up in his stomach.

“Yes. That one.” Otis managed to sneer with his voice. “How he can pass himself off as cultured I’ll never understand. Anyhow, those two sat at the bar for an entire afternoon complaining about the two of you.”

“Did he say anything about the business?”

“No. The bartender had strict orders to call me at once if they started getting indiscreet, but it was a near thing. I don’t have to tell you people are on edge what with the whole Manolo thing and now that El Gato person and Oscar Carrera going at it like two hookers fighting over a drunken sailor. So I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate that, Otis. An extra case of scotch might have to find its way into your next order.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Our families have been doing business for generations, and it pains my heart when I see someone breaking with the old ways.” He leaned forward and chuckled. “And if I can be so bold, you remind me of what I remember of your grandfather. Your father just couldn’t measure up to the old man, and it took something out of him.”

“And he took it out on us. Me, mostly, since I kept him away from Enrique. And of course our mother.” Miguel closed his eyes for a moment, letting the buried memories wash over him. “But he and Jesus must understand their time is over. Done. I’ve already warned Jesus once, and Enrique did before me. Neither of them are up for today’s game.”

“No, dear boy. They aren’t. Not by a long shot. Of course I’ll let you know if I hear anything else, and I’ll do my best to discourage their teenage fantasies.” Otis made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle. “They really are sad when they get to telling each other lies, you know. Instead of being proud of you and Ricky, they’re jealous. And jealousy in old men is almost as dangerous as it is in pretty young things.”

Miguel nodded, closing his eyes for a long moment. Jesus he could handle easily enough, but papi was something else again. So much had changed between them, but in many ways he was still the frightened boy hiding in his room listening to the shouts and whacks as his father beat his mother. Knowing it would be his turn soon enough. Still, he’d managed to keep the worst of it away from Enrique.

“I think I understand. I was old enough to know what those black eyes meant.” Otis leaned forward, his eyes bright. “You’re a bigger man now than he ever was, Miguel. It might not hurt to remind him of that. Put the son of a bitch in his place, if I might be so bold.”

“You’re right, Otis. Everything Enrique and I have done has been on our own. That old bastard even came close to bankrupting the distribution business until I got back from college and could take over like grandpa wanted.” The frightened boy whimpered once, then looked up at the man he’d become. “I’m going to have a talk with the old fool.”

“I think if you do that, Jesus will go back into his hole. That one always needs someone to prop him up.” Otis gave him a shifty grin. “And if that doesn’t work…well…there are plenty of fishing charters in South Florida. He won’t be missed.”

Miguel looked at his old friend and then smiled. “No. I expect he wouldn’t be, should it come to that. Thank you again, Otis.”

 

What Otis called a shack was in reality a modern beachfront home nestled on a prime beach north of Miami. Dismissing the driver, Miguel handled the Mercedes himself. He needed the time and the quiet to figure out how he was going to approach Rodrigo Mendoza. The old man was unpredictable on the best days, worse if he’d been drinking. And from what Otis described he guessed Rodrigo was crawling back into a bottle.

Turning onto the private drive, he entered his own override code into the gate lock. When he’d had the place remodeled just before his father moved out of the main estate, Miguel had taken care to make sure the entire security system remained under his control. He didn’t think his father was even aware of half of the features, and he kept it that way. The gate clanked closed behind him as he drove up the winding drive to the house.

He’d thought for a moment about bringing Esteban, but had discarded the idea. This was family business, and no matter how much he trusted the Cuban he wasn’t family. He’d left Enrique out for a different reason. His brother wasn’t fully aware of everything Rodrigo might be fucking up with his antics, and he wanted to keep it that way.

He found his father sitting on the back deck looking out toward the ocean, a bottle of rum and an empty glass on the table next to him. “So my son finally takes time out of his busy day to come see his father. I…”

Miguel swiped the glass and bottle off the table with a single swipe of his arm. The glass shattered on the flagstones, sending glittering shards spinning through the air. “Shut up, old man. Do you have any idea what you’re doing? The problems you’re causing running your damned mouth?”

“How dare you speak like that to me!” Rodrigo started to stand, his eyes flashing. “I…”

With a single, firm push Miguel sent him rocking back into the chair. “How dare you! Who do you think pays for all this? It sure as hell isn’t you! Who do you think rebuilt the family name…one stinking deal at a time? It wasn’t you! And now you and that idiot Jesus are trying to play big men and running your damned mouths about things you don’t even begin to understand.”

“Listen to the college boy! The boy who hasn’t even fired a gun…”

Before he knew what was happening, his grandfather’s Colt was in Miguel’s hand. “A gun like this, you mean? Oh, I’ve fired guns, old man. Part of rebuilding the family name requires that. But you wouldn’t understand, would you? The only men you’ve killed are in those lies you used to tell us when we were kids.”

“You expect me to…”

“Shut up. You don’t know what it’s like to watch the light leave someone’s eyes. I do. I was willing to do what it took to rebuild the family name. You just pissed it away. Don’t think for a moment I won’t protect that name against any threat.”

His eyes went wide. “You mean…”

“I will act against any threat.” He looked at the Colt again, seeing each spot where the bluing was worn away from years of use. “You might want to think about that. I’m not a scared little boy any more, father. You can’t frighten me. And if you try to beat me like you used to beat my mother, I will blow your fucking head off. That’s our trademark, you know. A single .45 round to the head. It has a certain precision, a certain sense of finality. Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know you anymore.”

“You never did know me. That much I’ve known for years. The world changed while you were sitting and pretended to be a bad man. While you were a minnow Enrique and I were growing into sharks.” He stuffed the Colt back into its holster. “And if I hear about you and Jesus running your mouths again in public, you’ll find out how quickly a shark can devour a minnow. Or maybe you’d rather go live in one of those trashy hotels with all the other old people and complain about your ungrateful kids. I think that’s about what your money could buy you.”

“Miguel…I…” Rodrigo started to stand, but fell back into the lounge chair. “You’d really shoot me, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat. If you threaten what Enrique and I have built.” He found that thin smile again. “That’s the different between you and me. You talk tough, but in the end you’re a pussy. I may not talk much, but I will do the hard things. Remember that, and if I see you about this again it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

He didn’t start shaking until he was back in the car, sitting with the engine off gathering himself. It wasn’t much, just his hands vibrating like he’d touched a live wire while working on an outlet. But it was enough. He focused himself on breathing…in, then out, then in again. But what really calmed his nerves was imagining what it would look like if he actually had shot Rodrigo Mendoza. The twitching of the man’s limbs as the dying brain sent its last commands and messages. The echos of the shot chasing each other out toward the ocean.

When it stopped, he opened his eyes and started the car. It was late, and he had a meeting with Holly to talk about yet another show. And then drinks with Enrique to talk about their new Peruvian friend Castena. Between him and The Bat the hole left by the elimination of Santos would disappear and they might even be able to think of expanding once the El Gato-Carrera thing shot itself out.

 

“Are you sure this is the right weight?”

“Sure it is, mano. Don’t you worry about that.” Pasqual Benitez shot a quick glance at his co-pilot as he loaded duffle bags into the stash compartments of the SCARAB. The boat bobbed a bit as the wind kicked up swells, pushing them away from the fishing boat they’d linked up with. “Just keep us from breaking something on that boat, ok?”

It was another routine deal with The Bat. Twenty kilos moved one way and a bushel of cash went the other. Except this time the load was one kilo short. Well, maybe not quite a kilo. Pasqual wasn’t sure of the exact weight of the one package he’d slipped off the top of the bag. It wouldn’t matter in the end. The Mendoza brothers expected the occasional loss from larger shipments. Damage from weather and careless handling. You name it. He’d seen the numbers, so he knew just how much he could get away with.

The Cuban riding shotgun was up in the bow, keeping an eye on the fishing boat crew. They were shiftier than usual, which helped convince Pasqual to make his move on this run. Four greasy Columbians who looked like they’d sell their own sisters made for a perfect cover. They also weren’t regulars. The Bat hired stringers from time to time, and this was one of those pick-up crews.

He slammed the compartment door with a flourish. “Ok, we’re done. Let’s get the hell out of here, ok? I’ll take the wheel as soon as we’re clear.” He waved to the deckhand on the fishing boat, not caring if he got a response or not. It was all for show, anyhow.

He didn’t say much on the run back, but then he never did. Usually it was the let down after a successful rendezvous out on the water, but this time he was trying not to give anything away. It wasn’t hard with the Cuban. Those guys never said much. But Vacco liked to talk. Luckily he didn’t much care if anyone answered him or not.

“Man, I hate those fuckwits. I hope we don’t have to deal with them again. The Bat’s bad enough with his damned giggling and all, but those guys stank like rotting fish.”

“Of course they did. They’re on a fishing boat.”

“Sure, but man…there’s gotta be a shower on that damned thing somewhere.”

Pasqual just nodded, letting him rattle on. The real test would come when they handed off the load to the next link in the chain. He felt sweat beading in his palms, making the wheel slick to the touch. Focus, damn it. It’s just a key. Maybe not even that. Hell, they ain’t even gonna notice.

It took all his self-control to keep a distant look frozen on his face as he idled the boat up to the dock and nodded to the driver of the truck. “It’s in the usual spot. Near as I can tell we’re clean, but it was a pick-up crew on the other end.”

“Gotcha.” The driver winked as he pointed toward the boat. “Hey! You vatos get with it, hear? Just the duffles. Nothing else.”

Pasqual shifted his stance as the two men jumped down and started opening the compartment. They grabbed the bags and climbed back up to the dock without even checking. “We good to go? I want to get this beast gassed up and put to bed.”

“You got it, mano. Have a good night.” The driver winked again and walked back to the panel truck. Pasqual rolled on the throttle and cranked the wheel, turning away from the dock and out into the water before the guy was even back in the cab.

He’d made sure to tuck the package deep in his shirt, but it felt like ten tons and he was sure everyone could see it through the thin fabric. Still, Pasqual went through the motions of gassing up the boat once they got back to the boat house. Losing himself in the routine so he wouldn’t think about the package slipping around inside his shirt, slick with sweat. Vacco wasn’t paying a damned bit of attention, and the Cuban had taken his leave five minutes after they idled in and shut the big doors. Another five minutes and I’ll tell Vacco to fuck off and go. That just leaves the security guys, and they never give me a second glance.

Vacco was glad to leave early, and Pasqual had to force himself to keep moving at his normal pace until the last system on the boat was checked and shut down. Then he nodded to the guard on duty by the side door and sauntered out to his Mustang. But the second he shut the driver’s door he started shaking. Suppressed fear crashed through his body, and he just sat there and shook for almost two minutes.

What if they find out? He night be able to buffalo Ricky, but Pasqual had no doubts about Miguel’s reaction. Behind the smiles and soft words the older Mendoza brother was cold. Plus he’d killed people. Single shots to the head if the stories were true, and Pasqual had no reason to doubt them.

Still, what was done was done. Now he needed to figure out what to do with the product. Starting the car, he took a deep breath and pulled out of the parking lot. The easy part was he knew where he couldn’t sell. Liberty City. South Beach. Brickell. The rest was fair game, assuming he wanted to dodge bullets from El Gato and the Carreras. The Mustang’s headlights played across the pavement as he turned onto the main road and headed back into the city. The coke was also at least eighty percent pure. He’d need to cut it before he could think about moving it.

The shaking had stopped by the time he reached the Florida Turnpike and traffic picked up. I got this. Reaching down, he turned on the radio and let the music fill the car. Yeah, I got this. Time I got mine, damn it.

 

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Burnett. Looks like El Gato’s boys. They hit the boat right after it made the pick-up.”

Sonny Burnett drained his glass in one long swallow and poured more bourbon. His head hurt, and the damned dreams had been getting worse and more frequent. The black guy he could almost understand, since he’d recognized him, but the Hispanic one was still a mystery. A face lurking just out of reach. The bourbon helped, but not as much as it had.

“So what do we do?” Miguel Carrera looked around the office, then raised the tooter to his nose and snorted the cocaine deep into his sinuses.

“Easy there, Iron Mike. I don’t want to have to explain how you burned out your nose to your father.”

“To hell with the old man! We have to hit this bastard back!”

Sonny pretended to think for a moment, then turned to his security man. “Take some of the boys and hit one of El Gato’s stash houses. One of the ones up toward Lauderdale. He wants to play games, we can respond in kind. Get the product if you can, but his people need to bleed.”

“Hitting back without my permission, Sonny?” Oscar Carrera stood in the doorway, a champagne flute held loose in his hand. “I heard about the boat. It’s the cost of business, yes?”

“Not when it’s the third one in two weeks, Mr. Carrera.” Sonny leaned back in his chair, looking up at Oscar through dark Ray-Bans. “We can’t give the impression we’re weak. I know you don’t want a war, but if we don’t protect what’s ours other bozos are gonna show up and try to take their piece. The Mendozas, for example. I hear they’re starting to flex again.” Something’s familiar about that damned name, too. Can’t get to it, though. Damn it!

“The Mendozas are Puerto Rican punks.” Oscar slurped some bubbly from the glass and refilled it from the bottle in his left hand. “But you’re right. I could see them trying to swoop in. They’re like buzzards. Same could be said for the Hermanos brothers as well.”

Sonny snuck a quick look at Mikey, who was rubbing his nose and glaring at his father. “So we need to hit back. It’s not a big thing, just a stash house. I was going to let you know before the boys rolled out.”

Once the Carrera men finished squabbling and left, Sonny sank back in his chair. What he really wanted to do was shoot both of them and dump their bodies in the swamp so he could get on with business. But he knew it wasn’t time. Not yet. Mikey wasn’t quite there yet. Another couple of pushes and he would be, though.

“He makes my skin crawl.”

He hadn’t heard Celeste come in. “You’d better get back out there, darlin’. The twins might miss you.”

She came around the side of the desk, her slender body only just concealed by a swirl of dark-colored fabric. “I don’t care. That coked-up greasebag was drooling over me all afternoon. And Oscar…you know what he’s like when he’s drunk.”

He reached out and touched her thigh, feeling her warm skin through the cloth. “They’re almost there. Another push or two and Mikey will make his move. I could see it in his eyes when he snorted up just now.”

“What about El Gato?”

“What about him? He’s a convenient distraction.” Sonny chuckled, running his hand up along her backside. Feeling her press back against him. “He keeps those two bozos squirming. He ain’t doing any real damage to us…nothing that can’t be undone in a day or two at any rate. I always let Mikey think it’s more, and convince Oscar it’s less. Keeps ‘em at each other’s throats. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

She reached down, her eyes hot. “This is what I want, Sonny. And right now. I need it if I’m going to keep letting that maggot slobber at me.”

He grinned, glad his sunglasses hid his eyes. There was something about her need he always found disturbing. Like she was trying to play him. And he guessed she was, at least partly. Just like he was using her, partly. He cleared the desk with a sweep of his arm, and she giggled as he lifted her up onto it. In the end it didn’t matter. They both wanted the same things: each other and the Carrera empire. He just had to stay focused so he’d be one step ahead of her when the time came.