Genesis, Part XXXII

[Robbie C.]

Spring 1989

After Redemption in Blood and before Freefall

 

“Are you sure about this?”

Miguel Mendoza nodded, squeezing Holly’s hand. “Of course. We need to start making sure all our bases are covered, and to do that in this town you have to play politics. And that means donations.”

They were siting in Shock’s comfortable office, the soundproofing insulating them from most of the club’s sound system. Still, he could feel the vibrations from the bass speakers through the soles of his shoes. “I don’t know how you can stand all this noise.”

“It’s the sound of money, baby.” She smiled and winked at him. “The louder it is, the more people show up. The more people, the more they drink. Pure money.”

“Yes. Of course you’re right. It’s just not what I’m used to.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Anyhow, we need to look to the future. And do that we need allies. Or more exactly people who don’t know they’re our allies. Now that El Gato is dead and the Carrera organization is in ruins we have to look to the future.”

“Did you…”

“No. We had nothing to do with that mess.” He smiled, glad he could tell her the truth about the thing. “We sat back and let them tear each other apart. Though I do wonder what ended up happening to Sonny Burnett. He could be a threat if he should surface again. The man’s smart, and very capable.” He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “But that doesn’t matter now, either. Who do you know that could represent South Beach on the city council?”

“There’s a number of people who want the job.” Holly brushed her thick hair back from her face. He could see new lines there now…likely brought on by the workload at Shock. I need to get her some help. “Most of them are jackasses, but a couple of them see things as they are. They talk law and order, but look the other way when it comes to money flowing into the community.”

“Law and order, so long as it’s in someone else’s neighborhood.”

“Yes. So long as there’s no violent crime.” She chuckled. “The people I’m thinking of smoke pot at least, and one of the might be a recreational cocaine user. They don’t see drugs as crime on their own.”

“Good. Get me their names and we’ll make a donation or two.” And maybe I’ll have Esteban do some digging. See if these ‘upstanding citizens’ have any dirt on their hands. “It’s something we’ve done before with the distribution business. Drop money into the chamber of commerce to keep the wheels turning. This is the same thing, just different wheels.”

“What about other neighborhoods?”

“We’ll look at Brickell, too. Some of the new clubs going in might make good investment opportunities.” He smiled. “Not that I’d drop those on you, my love. Shock seems to keep you busy enough as it is.”

“It does, especially with the addition of the second stage. You wouldn’t believe some of the events we can put on now.”

He smiled, letting her talk without hearing most of it. Any time she talked about the club a light bloomed in her eyes, and he fed off her excitement. That and the knowledge he hadn’t been exaggerating. Things were good. Very good. With El Gato dead and buried, or in a big litter box somewhere, and the Carrera/Burnett organization blown to pieces Miami was taking a collective breath.

As soon as the shooting stopped, he’d started to move. Buying a controlling interest in another South Beach club and one in Brickell. Adding another connection to his growing list of suppliers, this one from the Carrera organization and capable of supplying just about any weight he required with only a day’s notice. They’d added six new boats to keep up with demand, making Enrique both happy and busier than he’d ever been. They’d managed to squeeze the Boroscos out of north Miami by flooding the market there with cut cocaine and pricing them out of business. And there’d been no more problems with his father or Jesus. In fact, Jesus was talking more and more about selling his business and retiring.

“You’re not listening to me.”

“Of course I am, darling. You were talking about how you had to fire your best bartender because you caught her screwing one of the doormen in the back room while the club was open. Then there were two two Metro-Dade visits that seemed to come out of thin air…”

She giggled. “Ok, you were listening. The bartender isn’t a big deal. I have two more who are almost as good as she was, but they’re not gonna screw security. The cops, though…that’s a problem.”

“Let me look into it.” One of the things he’d added to the family portfolio was a cop of his own. Two cops to be precise. One was a file clerk with a gambling problem and the other a beat cop assigned to South Beach with a taste for hookers who might not be 18. He’d heard rumors of someone having a cop inside one of the undercover units, Narcotics or maybe even OCB, but as far as he was concerned those were urban legends. He made a note to have Esteban reach out to their pervert patrolman and see what was going on.

She smiled again, leaning across the desk and giving him a good look down the front of her blouse. He smiled when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. “With the second stage, I think we can handle more money coming through here now. I know we were worried before, but…”

“I’ll see to it. Let me know what you think the max is and that’s what we’ll do.” He reached out himself and undid two buttons on the silk blouse. “That looks more comfortable.”

She grabbed his hand and moved it to cup her breast. “That’s even more comfortable. Silly me. I forgot my bra this morning.”

 

It still felt strange. Sitting at his desk like nothing had happened after everything that had happened. Sonny Crockett stared at the red toy helicopter that had anchored one side of his desk for years, feeling like he was looking at it for the first time. It was a feeling he was still adjusting to.

He knew they were still looking at him. Not like the had the day he walked into the squad room still believing he was Sonny Burnett, or like they had during the first week he was back from sick leave. But he still felt their eyes on him from time to time. Stan’s most of all, which he could understand. He’d hung the big guy out to dry when he’d ducked out to finish things with Cliff. And he had no idea how to make it right. So in keeping with tradition, he ignored it. But a part of him, the new part uncovered while he was Burnett, told him that wasn’t a sustainable solution. Sooner or later the bill would come due, and he’d have to pay up.

They still had him on light duty while the shrinks, the suits, and IAB tried to figure out just what to do with him. Sonny didn’t mind. Not really, even though he liked to complain about it. He wasn’t sure he was ready to go back in the field…wasn’t sure he trusted himself enough to go back out there, especially undercover. He’d thought he was ready before the boat explosion, and as Tubbs liked to remind him ‘look how that turned out.’ Still…it wasn’t not being able to do the Job that kept him sitting where he was. It was the fear of doing it too well. Or part of it too well, at least.

He still snapped awake some nights, wondering what happened to Celeste. He’d never sorted out his real feelings for her: they were too complicated, too intertwined with hazy memories and unresolved longings for Caitlin. He smiled a very thin smile. He’d paid enough attention to the shrink to know at least a bit of the lingo. And it made sense. He didn’t think she’d come after him. Knowing her she’d taken all the money she could lay her hands on and run for the hills. Still, the part of him that kept waking him up wanted to see her one last time. Just to resolve things in his head.

But he always came back to the doing the Job too well part. Burnett had been efficient. He had to give the guy - no, give himself - credit for that much. He’d blown through two major cartels and two minor ones in less time than it took OCB to collect enough evidence for a warrant in a bigger case. There were huge gaps in his memories from that time…when he tried to remember it was like watching a flickering movie someone had cut up and spliced back together out of order. But he did remember the attention to detail The focus. Both were very familiar, but from someplace back in his past. Sort of like the name Artie Rollins. He had a new appreciation for what the FBI agent must have been going through.

Shaking his head, he reached out for one of the folders. ‘Reading up’ Castillo had called it. “Catching up more like,” he muttered as he read the label on the tab. “Mendoza. Now them I do remember.”

“Got some light reading there, partner?” Rico was trying to keep his voice light, but Sonny could still hear the tension. He wasn’t surprised. After all, he’d taken two shots at the man. He wasn’t sure he’d be as forgiving if their roles were reversed.

“Something like that, Rico. Gotta update the old program before I get back in the game.” He waved the folder. “You guys dig up anything new on these bozos?” He didn’t mention he remembered the name from Burnett.

“Nothing of note.” Rico paused, scratching his chin through his neatly trimmed beard. “Wait. There is something. You remember that chump Santos? Bolivian ex-cop who snuck into Miami a time or two?”

Sonny wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Yeah…I think I do.” He flipped through one of the files and nodded. “Had a lead to a kid named Pasqual something or another that never panned out. The kid worked for the Mendozas.”

“Yeah. Anyhow, ol’ Santos turned up a while back with a bullet in his head. Out by some supper club on the way to nowhere. Homicide thinks he might have tried to cut in on the Mob and got shown the door the old-fashioned way. But he was shot in the head with a single .45 round. Ballistics linked it back to those Haitians in Liberty City and that Jaime kid who got taken out a few years ago.”

“It’s gotta be them, Rico. No one else uses the .45 to the head. Not even the Mob.”

“Gotta go with you there. Hell, I worked Mob cases back in New York. The wise guys like to use a 12 gauge under the chin. No ballistics and it makes IDing the vic almost impossible unless the prints are on file.”

“Santos was a supplier, right? Supply side, not Miami delivery. So why would they take out a supplier? Especially if he’s one they used.”

“Maybe he got greedy?” Rico shrugged. “Guy was a real piece of work. The kind of chump who’d torture his own mother just to find out where she hid the cookies. Even if he already knew where she hid them.”

“But they wouldn’t have taken him out unless they could replace what he was delivering.” Sonny opened the folder again, sensing his mind flowing back to the dark corner that was Burnett. “These guys are sharp. He must have done something to piss them off. Something big. And then once they knew they could replace the weight he was bringing, they took him out. Quietly. They don’t seem to care much for public messages.”

“Unless it serves a purpose. Like those Haitians. We had a couple more that had Mendoza fingerprints on them. But yeah, like you said it was always for a purpose.”

“What else do we know about them? Recent stuff, I mean. I read the file twice now. It looks like Miguel’s trying to go legit. Or at least look legit. And his girl’s got that club…Shock, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Damned funny name, but it is South Beach. It’s gotta be his money behind it.”

“Yeah. Holly Miller was a club promoter until ol’ Miguel took a liking to her. He might be backing a few other clubs. The Palm in South Beach. Kilowatt over in Brickell. That’s where one of his message hits went down. There might be a couple more, but we can’t connect the dots yet.”

“He’s too careful for that, Rico. This guy doesn’t leave a trail. Maybe a crumb or two, but no trail.” Sonny stared at the file photo, blown up from some publicity shot or another. “Hell, he doesn’t even have a parking ticket.”

“I don’t get…”

“I want these guys, Rico. They’ve been three steps ahead of us for years. Three steps ahead of me, too. The doc says I need a hobby, so I think I’ll make the Mendozas my hobby again.” The rational side of his mind knew it wouldn’t fly, even assuming Castillo would let him on one of the cases. There was just too much going on in Miami, too many fires started as the narcotics underworld reordered itself in the aftermath of what he’d started as Burnett. He raised his hand. “Don’t say it. I know the lieutenant won’t let me. But a guy can dream, right?”

The doubt in Rico’s eyes was obvious. “Yeah, I suppose so, Sonny. But you gotta stay out of that rabbit hole, ok? You know the one I’m talkin’ about.”

“Yeah, I do. Look, I just want to keep my eyes open for leads is all. Maybe lean on Noogie or Izzy and see they heard anything.”

“Now that’s a stretch. Neither of those two chumps move in the same circles as the Mendozas.” Rico shook his head. “Ok, maybe Izzy tried to sell shoes or that powdered bull crap to their old man, but Noogie ain’t stirred much from his DJ spot down at Rizzo’s. We haven’t had a lead from him since…since before you left.”

“Yeah. Like I said, it’s just something to do. Kind of a way to link my mind back to stuff that happened before. The doc says that’s important to do. Anyhow, I’ll bet the lieutenant will keep you so damned busy you ain’t gonna have time to breathe, let alone find Izzy. And as soon as they unchain me from this desk, I’ll be that damned busy, too.”

Rico was about to respond when the conference room door opened and Trudy called him in. Once his partner was gone, Sonny let out a slow sigh and turned back to the folders. It was a familiar reminder…he was on the bench.

As he stared at the case files, he felt his mind shifting. Changing gears as surely as the Ferrari did when he downshifted going into a tight turn. The anger drained away, replaced by something else. Something focused. His world narrowed to the files and what he saw there, and also what he didn’t see there. He felt his fingers close around a pen as he flipped open a notebook. At least some of the answers were right in front of him. He just had to find them.

By the time Rico was done with whatever briefing Castillo had called, Sonny had filled six pages with notes. Not about the Mendozas as much as they were about their women. Holly Miller and Tiffany ‘Tiffy’ Franklin. A quick call to Records told him they’d both gone to Florida State University, majoring in advertising, marketing, and partying. They were both sorority girls, members of one of the top-tier houses on campus. They were something of an odd couple…Tiffy coming from money and means while Holly clawed her way into school and the house. They both had the usual assortment of college misdemeanors on their records…a couple of MiPs, warnings for driving while impaired. Nothing major, and nothing that ever stuck.

They’d split a bit after graduation. Holly started working for a promoter while Tiffy floated around the boat scene and generally spent her daddy’s money any way she saw fit. He guessed that was where she met Enrique. They’d been spotted together a few times, and then became what looked to be an exclusive couple. “Tiffy and her hot racer” was what one of the gossip pages called them. He couldn’t tell just where or when Holly and Miguel met, but they’d also become exclusive. And harder to track. They both shunned the spotlight and managed to stay off the gossip pages.

It got interesting when he started tracking Holly and Shock. Within three months of opening the place had become one of the top-grossing clubs in South Beach. He even had a vague memory of them trying to book Caitlin before…he shook his head and chased the memories away. But the place shot to the top and stayed there. And somehow it stayed clean. No major drug busts. No nothing aside from the occasional fight or fake ID. And it didn’t add up.

Sighting, he set down the pen and closed the notebook. Maybe he’d let it sit for a bit and come back to it later. Let the dark corner of his mind chew on it. It had to be Miguel’s money behind the place, but if so why keep it clean? Most of the kingpins they’d gone after just couldn’t resist running their own party favors through the clubs they owned. It was like bonus points or something. Then it hit him, and he snatched up the pen and starting making more notes. Miguel was using Shock to both launder money and as a kind of base of operations. Someplace clean he could hold meetings, make plans, and court supporters outside the drug world. After all, he’d been running a successful distributorship before getting into coke. He knew legit business better than anyone they’d gone after except maybe Lombard.

A quick look at his watch told him it was almost quitting time. It still felt strange, going back to the boat after months away from her. At least the marina had looked after her, and somehow Tubbs had managed to convince them to keep feeding Elvis as well. At least Sonny assumed it had been Rico: his partner hadn’t said anything and he didn’t ask. He’d only been back to Caitlin’s house a couple of times, mostly because he didn’t want to deal with Angie’s looks of disgust. He still thought of it as her house even though they’d lived there together for a few months.

Signing, he shut the folders in a desk drawer and got to his feet. They’d been the happiest months of his life, even though at the time it hadn’t always felt that way. Now she’s gone. Her and Will both. I never got to meet him, and it feels like I’d only just started to know her. At least the boat didn’t hold many memories of her.

 

During Too Much, Too Late

 

I still can’t believe he’s just walking around the squad room. Stan Switek shook his head as he watched Sonny ease out of the building, likely chasing down some lead for Tubbs or Valerie. He was working on one of the new microphones Castillo wanted to try in conjunction with some camera or another, but it was hard to focus. He hadn’t had that problem when Larry Zito was still alive, but now…

The meetings didn’t really help. He’d tried to convince himself they would as he waited every Tuesday outside the church where they were held. But then he’d go in, start hearing the stories and see where his slide started, growing from a few simple bets with the bartender at Mickey’s while he knocked back a couple of beers in the dark days after Larry was killed. Thinking about Larry spiked the pain again. Then he’d duck out and make a last-minute bet. Anything to avoid the pain. Now he was on the hook for more than he could handle. The irony of it almost made him laugh out loud. He’d made a few bad bets and could get fired if they found out, while Sonny had done God knows what while blowing apart some drug cartels and got off with basically a slap on the wrist. He’d even taken shots at Tubbs not once, but twice.

And then there was Tubbs. Chasing off again with that crazy woman from New York. The only one who couldn’t see she was just using him for her own purposes. Stan had never really cared for Valerie, and over the years she’d just gotten worse. Still, she was nice to look at and he could see how she might have been a good cop once. He figured he could judge given his own recent failings.

“Some guys just have the luck,” he muttered, checking a connection on the microphone for the third time. He snuck a glance over at the far corner, seeing Gina and Trudy working on some sting operation they’d been stuck with at the last minute. Talk about luck. He knew Gina still carried a torch for Crockett. It might just be a flickering match now, but it was still there. After all the other women, including a marriage, she still pined for him.

“Crap!” He looked down at the bright red dot of blood blooming on his left index finger, and then at the probe in his right hand. “Damn things are sharp. Gotta pay attention to what I’m doing.” Blotting at the blood with a tissue, he set the microphone down and reconsidered the problem. Larry would have figured it out in two seconds, and then laughed at Stan for sticking himself.

When he dropped the tissue in the trash, he caught Trudy looking his way and grinned. Too classy for me. She likes to hide it, but I’ve seen those paintings she does. Naw, no velvet dogs playing cards in her pad. That’s for sure. Stan prided himself on having no illusions about his taste. He liked his beer cold, his Elvis and Hawaiian shirts loud, and that was that. His father had done a damned good job of smacking most of his illusions out of him at an early age. And knowing he was hanging onto the only job he’d ever loved by a thin thread did the rest.

When he started glaring at the microphone he knew it was time to call it a day. Getting mad at the gear didn’t help, and usually ended up costing him take-home when he had to replace stuff that happened to bounce off the wall five or six times. Maybe sleeping on it would help. Sometimes it did…sometimes the numbers and wires just fell into place in his head behind his closed eyes and the next morning it all made sense. Not always, but sometimes. He treasured those sometimes moments.

“You ladies have a good one. Don’t break any heels chasing down pimps, ok? I hear those things are hell to replace.” He gave them his lopsided grin. “I know mine were, but they’re also blue suede. Had to have them done custom.”

Trudy giggled and elbowed Gina in the side. “I’ll bet they’re just darling on you, Stan. I gotta go check with the lieutenant before he leaves about backup for tonight. Be right back.”

He nodded, wondering what was up. Trudy never checked with the lieutenant about backup. “Tell him if he sends Gorman to make sure he leaves those cigars at home. The bad guys can smell ‘em from half a mile off.”

“That looks pretty nasty.” Gina nodded toward his finger.

“Naw. Just stabbed myself with a tool. It always looks worse than it is.” He looked over toward Rico’s desk. “He off with Valerie again?”

“Yeah, they’re still looking for that crack dealer.” Gina shook her head. “There’s something off about that whole deal, Stan.”

“There’s always something off when that lady comes to town.” He shifted from one foot to the other. There were some major college games on tonight, and he needed to get his bets in if he wanted to have any chance of digging himself out of his hole. “Look, I hate to gossip and run, but…”

“How’d you like to get a drink some night this week.”

His jaw hit the floor. At least it felt like it did. “I…uh…what…”

“I can’t tonight, because we have to work, but how about Thursday?”

“Uh…you want to have a drink with me?”

“More than one, hopefully. Maybe some dancing. I don’t know.”

“With me?”

She smiled, and he felt his gut melt. “Yes, Stan. With you. I thought it would be nice. Especially after that mess with the YMCA or whatever that goofball called his outfit.”

“Yeah. That was a disaster waiting for a place to happen. At least they’re out of our hair now.” He looked around, checking the corners for Crockett or Tubbs. This felt like something they’d pull. “So what’s the punch line?”

“What punch line?” She narrowed her eyes. “No one put me up to this, Stan. Well, maybe Trudy kicked me in the butt a little about it. But it’s my idea.”

He raised his hands. “Sorry…it’s been one of those weeks. Who am I kidding? It’s been one of those months. I’d love to get drinks with you, but I gotta warn you these blue suede shoes aren’t built for dancing. Get me a fur coat and I’d look like a dancing bear in one of those old circus acts. Or maybe a hippo. The bear would dance better.”

She laughed, and he felt his mood lighten at once. It was easy to forget how pretty Gina’s laugh was, at least until you heard it again. “I don’t mind dancing with a bear, Stan. Maybe I can show you a move or two.”

“You pick the place. About all I know are sports bars and grungy places people like Gorman hang out in.”

“How about Cuba Libre? It’s a little place in Little Havana. They play lots of salsa, so you won’t have to get too crazy.”

“Sounds good.” He checked his watch. Damn! Gotta get to a phone. “How about eight? I can pick you up. But now I gotta run. Meeting with a CI, and if I miss the punk I won’t be able to find him again for like six weeks.” He hated lying to her, but the thought of breaking even was taking over his brain. To the point he damned near forgot that she’d been the one who asked him out. If he’d have known how the evening was going to end he would have stayed at his desk.

 

OCB Finishes Too Much, Too Late and moves through Freefall

 

“What’s the word from that cop you got on the payroll?”

Miguel looked over at Enrique and smiled. “Two senior detectives dropped their badges and quit the force.”

“And that makes you smile why?”

“They were both in the Organized Crime Bureau. That fancy name they gave the old Vice unit.” He sipped his rum. “My guy says the two who quit were the best detectives in the unit.”

Enrique laughed. “Now I get it.”

“Yes. It makes our lives much easier. My source also says there are rumors about the unit being shut down completely. Some kind of scandal, but they’re keeping it very quiet. If he asks it will draw attention.”

“Either way, brother, it’s good news. We know the regular Narcotics squad is undermanned, and with these guys down people it can’t be anything but good for the business.”

“Yes. I want you to look into increasing runs by ten percent. We might have a new supplier soon, what with all that trouble in Costa Morada. The Columbians are looking for reliable replacements…people who have more independence. We need to be ready.”

“We will be, brother.” Enrique’s smile radiated confidence, and Miguel was glad. “We will be.”