Genesis, Part XXXVI

[Robbie C.]

“We can take Morales any damn time you like. That’s the beauty of that Federal warrant. The trick’s gonna be throwin’ a net over the rest of ‘em.”

Castillo nodded. They were sitting in OCB’s conference room, Pete Washington doing his best Cracker George Jefferson act and the rest of his team adjusting to the chief deputy. “What do we have?”

Switek cleared his throat. “Not a whole damned lot. Kinda like the King before the Colonel took him in hand. I mean, we know what the hell they’re doing. We even have a line on a couple of stash houses in the Groves. But there isn’t a trail of bread crumbs leading back to the Mendozas.”

“And the women?”

“We had a bit more luck there.” Trudy smiled. “It turns out the Division of Alcoholic Beverages and Tobacco has been looking into them for a while now. Their Bureau of Law Enforcement had a pretty good file, and I convinced them to let me have a peek. It looks like there’s way more money moving through there than liquor sales suggest is possible. And almost all of its cash. Same goes for the booze orders, talent booking, you name it. Everything’s cash.”

Stan shrugged. “And that’s not normal?”

“Not these days. People like to use their plastic. And most clubs deal with distributors on an invoice basis. At least that’s what the DABT guy said.” Trudy shrugged. “He was speaking Greek as far as I know. But Shock only deals with Mendoza Distributing, which is unusual, and always pays in cash, which is also unusual.”

“They get any serial numbers on those bills?” Pete cleared his throat. “I might know a guy who could have a look at some lists.”

Trudy scribbled a note on her pad. “I’ll ask him. I’d bet they do, though.”

“See if they have any originating from Mendoza Distributing. That’s where the money will enter the system.” Castillo looked around the table. “Do we have any way to get money into their pipeline?”

“No, lieutenant.” Gina shrugged. “Once Sonny and Rico left, we lost our only deep-cover players. Stan’s got a couple of biker covers in the drawer, but they won’t work for the Mendozas. Now Cooper…”

“We do what we can. Make sure Chief Deputy Washington gets those numbers.”

“Call me Pete, damn it. Ain’t much on formal titles, especially if we’re takin’ down bad guys together.” Pete grinned. “You get me those numbers, detective, and I’ll have word back by the end of the day tomorrow. Treasury has a couple of things goin’ regarding drug money, and if we can link any of it I’ll have a seizure order in no damned time flat.”

“How did they pay for the property initially? And the renovations? That should be on file with the city. Trudy, take Gina and check on that. Switek, I want you to start working up a list of Mendoza Distributing’s customers. I want to find everything they have money in, especially the clubs Crockett identified in his notes. Take a look at the uncle’s charter operation, too.”

“Do you ever hear back from Financial Crimes, lieutenant?”

“Yes. They won’t be helpful.” Of course I didn’t ask them any specific questions. Money like the Mendozas have can buy a lot of friends. But they don’t seem to be doing much aside from looking for money the Manolos or Carreras might have hidden away. “Whatever we do, it’s on our own.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Of course.” Castillo looked at Pete and nodded. “I didn’t mean…”

“I understand, Marty. Hell, I had cases poached by damn near every alphabet agency you can think of. Usually the Feebs, but sometimes DEA or ATF feels left out an’ has to cut in on the dance. Way I see it, we’re workin’ together on this thing. Period.”

“Work the money. See where it leads. If the Marshals can get seizure orders we can shut down their income in a matter of hours.” He turned to Switek. “See if you can pin down a location for Esteban Morales. They’ll need to find a replacement for Pasqual if he is in fact dead, and Morales will play a role in that.”

 

Stan Switek had a serious love-hate with the old Deco hotels lining the beachfront. Love because they reminded him of better times, or what he liked to imagine were better times. If he squinted and the light was right he could even imagine Elvis himself holding court on some of the sun porches. Hate because they were either falling apart or being demolished to make room for more ‘modern’ piles of crap that looked the same no matter where you put them. And he also hated them because Izzy Moreno did most of what he called work there.

He heard him before he saw him…the Spanish-accented nasal twang as unmistakable as the symptoms of some nasty disease. “Joo know joo want these choose. Look at the craftsmanship! Theese were sewn by hand jobs in the high mountains of Italy. The soles are of the highest qualitativeness. Joo won’t…”

“Hey, Moreno! Strut your stuff on over here for a minute. These guys aren’t going anywhere.”

Izzy stretched a hurt look on his face as he waved a hand holding a cheap knockoff disco shoe that might have been in fashion in 1974. Maybe. The assembled old, bald men turned to glare at Stan. “Joo can see they want theese, man!”

“Hey, guys. I only need the count for a second, ok? He’ll be right back. I promise.” Grabbing Izzy’s skinny upper arm, letting him feel the strength in his hand, Stan pulled him off the sun porch. “Be glad I don’t make a call to your parole officer, you freak. You know you ain’t…”

“I know, Switek. But a man has needs, an’ I can’t meet those needs flipping burgers.”

“I need to know if Tiffy Franklin is spotting clubs for the Mendozas or Holly Miller.”

“Hey, the street, that’s what she says.” Izzy lowered his voice. “Me? I don’ trust that cheap strumpet at all. The street, I mean. All I know about the blonde with the big ‘eadlights is she trots her assets into a club, an’ two weeks later it grows money. An’ she’s Ricky Mendoza’s lady, so joo do the mathematicals. Me? I’m not so good with mathematicals.”

“Well, maybe I can help you with that.” Stan let Izzy have a quick peek at a couple of hundreds. “That’s all yours if you can point me in the direction of someone special.”

“Hey, Switek. That ain’t my game. I don’ know working girls.”

“Not that, you moron. I mean someone like Esteban Morales.”

Izzy’s face lost what little color it had. “No way I wanna lock the bull horns with that one. He’s a certifiabled bad man, joo know. Tiffy’s one thing, but that cat…”

“I know. That’s why he’s worth ten times your usual rate.” Stan pushed the bills back in the pocket of his baggy suit coat. “But if that’s how you’re gonna be…”

“I might be knowledgeable about something with this man. Joo know I’m the man in Little Havana.”

“I heard at least two gangs threatened to cut your little Izzy bits off if you came around again.”

Izzy waved his hand. “That was a major miscommunicationing. All is understandable now. But the man joo want meets his men at a bar called The Lame Bull.” He snorted. “As if the mighty beast of Emingway could ever be lamed! The fools. No true Cubano would ever…”

“We know about the bar., Izzy.”

“But do joo know he meets one of his main unmentionables there every Wednesday night? The look on jore face says no.” Izzy grinned, his face looking even more lopsided than usual. “But I don’t know more than that. It’s not wise to know too much informationals about that one.”

Nodding, Stan handed the little con man the two hundreds. “If this is one of your tricks, Izzy, I’ll come back and shove that shoe someplace you ain’t gonna like. Now beat it. And try not to con too many of those old guys, ok? Social Security don’t go as far as it used to.”

 

Two weeks later they were sitting in the conference room. Castillo flipped through the papers Gina and Trudy had given him, letting the numbers soak into his brain. They’d gotten the bank records for every club on their target list, including Shock. “How did we get a warrant for this?”

“The chief deputy.” Trudy smiled. “He made a call to the AUSA and the paperwork showed up not two hours later. And they were sealed warrants, so the Mendoza legal team didn’t a call. This guy’s got some major pull, lieutenant. Even if he does look like George Jefferson.”

“The AUSA made it look like it was a routine tax thing, like the DABT running an audit.” Gina chuckled. “I don’t think they have any idea what’s going on.”

Castillo nodded, letting his eyes run down the sheets. Lots of money going into these places. And almost the same amount coming back out. And most of it’s cash. “Did the chief deputy run those serial numbers?”

“He sure as hell did.” Pete Washington swept into the conference room like a tornado. “And we hit the damned jackpot. Lots of numbers on those lists that track back to major narcotics activity. Even a few that our compadres over in DEA used for controlled buys. No question there’s drug money in each of those clubs, and a whole shit ton in Shock. The AUSA’s writing up warrants for asset forfeiture now. They still gotta clear a judge an’ all that, but it’s Federal court. You reckon these boys have pull there?”

“Not yet. But they will soon enough.”

“An’ that’s why we gotta nail ‘em now.” Pete sank into a chair, grinning at Trudy and Gina before slapping a surprised Switek on the shoulder. “I hear you got a location for the Cuban Ghost outa that CI of yours.”

“Yeah. Club called The Lame Bull over in…”

“Little Havana. Sorry…I worked Miami back in the days when I was still a baby marshal. Place is loaded with them anti-Castro boys, which makes sense given ol’ Esteban’s background.”

Castillo looked up. “If we take them, it has to be simultaneously. Or as close as we can manage. Once word of the arrests leaks, the brothers will disappear.”

“That could be a trick. But given the choice, I’d rather scoop up Morales. The women aren’t as critical to things.”

“I’d like to talk to Morales before we move on the brothers.”

“Now that could be a trick. Unless we do one of those sneaky-pete things an’ just toss a net over Morales.”

“Black bag him.”

“Yep. I knew you had alphabet agency background.” Pete grinned. “We can scoop him up quick an’ no one will know for a bit, at least. What kinda picture do you have of his movements?”

Castillo nodded at Switek. Show him you’ve earned your place. The big detective didn’t disappoint. “The Ghost keeps to himself. He’s got a condo in one of the new tower things. Nice place, but not so nice as to attract attention. Drives himself in a reasonably new Mercedes, meets with ol’ Miguel once or twice a week, either at the Mendoza homestead or Pelican’s Nest. His right-hand’s a guy named Lupe Garcia-Sosa. CIA-trained as far as we can tell, and a hell of an intel guy. They meet a couple times a week, more if something’s going on.”

“Sounds like you got the old boy’s life story down.”

“I’ve been tracking this clown for over three months. Following him. Listening to his phone calls. The only thing I haven’t done is detail his car. One thing I can tell you for sure. After he has that pow-wow in Little Havana there’s a window of close to twenty-four hours where he doesn’t do a damned thing. No meetings, no calls. Unless there’s something on. And as far as we can tell the Mendozas are sitting back right now. Likely while they break in whoever’s replacing Pasqual.”

Pete had been nodding. “That’s it, then. My boys will scoop him up either in his pad or right close by once he’s done in Little Havana. Keeps us outa that snake pit, too. You’ll get your quality time with him, Marty. Then we can pick up the little ladies the next day.”

“Do we have warrants on the brothers yet?”

Pete looked at his watch. “Gonna call about that in ten minutes. Check on the orders of forfeiture, too. Miguel is the easy one. The distribution company’s in his name, so we got him on the financial stuff. Enrique is harder. But we can still hit the boat house he likes to hide in an’ grab his boats. He’s bound to fuss, an’ we can bring him in on that.”

“Miguel is the key. Take him and the organization crumbles.” Castillo got to his feet, suddenly tired. He knew he’d need to focus, to center himself, if he was going to take a run at Esteban Morales. He didn’t entertain any delusions about breaking the man. He was too well-trained and experienced. But he might get something.

“You mind if I take the big guy along?” Pete grinned at Stan. “He knows the ground better than my people, an’ I need some help planning the raid.”

“Of course. Detective Switek will help in way he can.” Castillo looked around the room. “We need to know where the women will be within the window after Morales is brought in. Gina, Trudy, put together a surveillance plan, please. Maybe the Marshals…”

“I’ll send a couple people your way. Expect ‘em first thing in the morning. We got a day or so in hand before ol’ Esteban is gonna have his sit-down.”

“Use the time wisely. We won’t get a second shot at these people. If we miss, they’ll leave the country.” Castillo picked up his folders. “We know they have at least two houses in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands. If they get out of Miami, we lose them.”

 

Stan Switek sat in the back of a plain brown van, clutching a borrowed M-16 and wearing a ballistic vest with ‘U.S. Marshal’ in gold on the back. Sandwiched between two slabs of beef with close-cropped hair and monumental Copenhagen habits, he snuck a quick look at his watch. It was almost time.

He’d spent the last day or so with these guys. Big, quiet men with scruffy beards, hair of varying length, and wearing jeans most of the time. But they listened to him, unlike the meatheads on Metro-Dade’s SWAT team, and actually worked him into the operation. Not only were they professional as hell, he was impressed with their undercover chops. Take the vests away and they’d disappear in almost any Miami crowd.

“You know the drill?” Frankie picked up the Coke can he kept between his feet and directed a stream of tobacco juice inside.

“Yeah. I mean I guess so. You guys pile out, I stay back and out of the way. Make sure no one shoots you in the back, including me.” He grinned.

“No chance of you shootin’ us, boss. You’re a good cop. Hell, a little more time and we’d get you up to entry team pace. But yeah. Hang back. But it’s not to keep you out of the way. There’s always a chance someone else is watching the target. His bosses have enemies, and I’d bet he does, too. Always gotta have someone watching your back on operations like this.”

The van made the final turn, and Stan braced himself as the big vehicle rocked a bit. Then it slowed and came to a stop. “In position.” The driver’s voice was low and calm, reminding him of a late-night DJ. “Two minutes.”

“Spotters got eyes on the subject?”

“Confirmed. Just him and his Mercedes.”

Frankie was the team commander, and he raised his voice just a hair. “He’s in the car and alone, so we use drill Charlie. Take him as soon as the dome light comes on and he’s got one foot out of the car.” A side door slid open and two deputies eased out into the darkness. The initial arrest team.

Once it started, it moved so fast Stan thought it might be a dream. The main door rolled up and the team piled out, breaking into two pairs of two and converging on the car. Esteban Morales stood just outside the vehicle, his hands high above his head and the two members of the arrest team covering him with Colt .45s. Stan brought his assault rifle up, swinging to cover the darkness behind the still-idling Mercedes, and heard Frankie’s voice again. “Esteban Morales. You’re under arrest on a Federal fugitive warrant. Don’t move.”

 

Martin Castillo looked up at the single flickering fluorescent tube in the interrogation room’s light fixtures. He didn’t expect the trick to have any effect on Esteban Morales, but he wanted to use it to establish that the Cuban wasn’t in any way special, either. Just another punk sucked up by the law enforcement machine.

Pete looked at him. “They’ll be puttin’ him in there in under a minute. You gonna wait for him there, or keep him in suspense?”

“I’ll be in there.” Turning, Castillo opened the observation room door and crossed over to the white room with the bad light.

Esteban Morales didn’t look defiant when they brought him in. He didn’t look scared, either. He just didn’t look at all, his face frozen in an indifferent stare. The deputies sat him down, and the clank of his handcuff chains hitting the table filled the room. Castillo didn’t look up. “Remove those.”

“Are you sure?”

“If he tries anything, I’ll kill him.”

As he’d hoped, that drew a reaction from the Cuban. “You don’t expect me to believe you’d kill a prisoner in your custody?”

“If you try anything, I will kill you.” He paused. “That should be easy enough to understand.”

Esteban nodded and switched to Spanish. “I didn’t think you cops had the balls.”

Castillo still didn’t look up. But he replied in his Cuban Spanish. “Fuck with me, and you will be the one without balls. You have a Federal warrant for arms trafficking with the Puerto Ricans. I’m sure ATF is anxious to talk to you. Maybe you can con them. You can’t con me.”

“Just who the hell…”

“I know all there is to know about you. And the old men who trained you. I might have been trained by them at some point. The lines in that world are very blurry, as they say. I know you went against them when you worked with the Puerto Ricans. And you continue to go against them by working for Miguel Mendoza. Another Puerto Rican.”

“They are old fools with fever dreams about toppling Castro!”

“Perhaps. But they have a long reach. If they learn where you are being held, do you really think they won’t be able to get to you? Especially if they’re led to believe you have truly betrayed them.”

The confidence began to bleed from Esteban’s face. “But you’re a policeman. You can’t…”

“You forget. I was trained by the same people who trained those old men.” He paused for a moment, still not looking up. “The people who trained them. That should tell you what I’m capable of.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. But I see you.” He looked up, catching a quick flash of confusion and what might have been fear in Esteban’s eyes. “In the eyes of the old men you’re nothing but a whore selling your wares to the highest bidder. They won’t have moved against you because of the power of Miguel Mendoza, but what do you think will happen once that power is gone?” He put his hands on the table and used them to push himself out of his chair. “I’ll let you think about that.”

Back in the observation room, Pete greeted Castillo with a low whistle. “That was some slick talkin’. You serious about knowing the boys who trained him?”

“Yes.” It was a chapter in his past Castillo didn’t like visiting, let alone talking about. “And he knows every word I said is true. But he still won’t break.”

“So long as he’s squirmin’ I’m a happy camper. Might take a turn at him myself in a bit. Assuming he doesn’t ask for his lawyer.”

“He won’t. He won’t want anyone to know he’s been arrested. Word travels fast in the anti-Castro community, and any lawyer he has will have a foot in as many camps as he can manage.” He turned back to the window, watching Esteban sitting immobile in his chair. “We need to get the women. Before word reaches them about his arrest.”

Pete nodded. “Got a call while you were in there. From Detective Joplin. She said they monitored a call between Holly and Tiffy.” He paused. “Who the hell names their kid Tiffy? Anyhow, they’re plannin’ some kind of lunch at Joe’s Crab Shack tomorrow morning.” He looked at his watch. “I mean later today. The warrants came through, so we can pick them up there.”

“We’ll need to hit the brothers at close to the same time. Do you have the manpower?”

“Sure. I’ll send a couple of regular deputies after the women. They don’t move with security according to Switek an’ should be easy enough to scoop up. We’ve got teams on both brothers, so it won’t be much to send teams in anytime we want. We’ll know where they are. I’ll make a call and see if we can wrangle ourselves a bird from the Coast Guard. Mostly for Ricky. If anyone’s gonna bolt without warning, it’s him.”

“I agree.” Castillo just stood, watching Esteban on the other side of the glass. He hides his fear well. But you can see it in his fingers if you know how to look. We might be able to flip him come time for a trial. I don’t think he wants to go to prison.

 

Miguel Mendoza looked at the sheet of paper. “You think he’s the one to take Pasqual’s place?” He saw his brother twitch and raised his hand. “I don’t mean replace. No one can do that. Is he ready to take over those duties?”

“Yes.” The single word was slurred, and Enrique let his head roll a bit to the side before catching himself. “He’s done runs before and not run aground. The rest of the boys like him well enough, and he’s cool under pressure.”

I wonder how much he had to drink before he came over? “We don’t have to do it right away if you’re not comfortable. Take a couple more weeks.”

“No. Let’s just rip the fucking Band-Aid off now. He’s as good as we’re going to get, and he doesn’t steal from us. I’ll ride with him the first few times and review his runs. See how he allocates resources.”

Miguel nodded, feeling the ticking clock on the study wall beating its way into his brain. “I’ll back whatever you want to do. You know that.” He paused, looking at the empty rum bottle by his brother’s elbow. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I keep seeing his face, you know.” Enrique picked up the bottle and tipped it in the general direction of his glass before realizing it was empty. “Shit. Is there more?”

“Only if you stay here tonight. I can’t let you drive.”

“Sure. Whatever.” He took the full bottle, twisted off the cap, and filled his glass almost to the rim. “Does it ever stop?”

Miguel started to speak, then swallowed the words. For him it had. Within three weeks of killing Jaime, and only a few days after the Haitian. He’d never lost a second of sleep over Santos, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or not. His own rum tasted bitter in his mouth, and he forced himself to swallow it before speaking. “Maybe it’s good for you that it doesn’t. Then you think twice about doing it. Consider if it’s necessary or not. And Pasqual was necessary. He stole from us when he could have asked, and exposed our operation to risk.”

“But did it stop for you?”

“Yes. But I don’t know if that’s good. You see Pasqual and ask if it’s necessary to kill someone. I think about Santos and have to convince myself not to kill someone.”

“Does Holly tell you that?”

“No.” Esteban does, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. “I have to keep reminding myself. When it becomes too easy, it’s the first thing you consider instead of the last. We’ve survived in this business as long as we have because we don’t get greedy and we don’t leave a trail of bodies behind us. Killing should be a means to an end, not the end itself.”

“That’s too damned deep for me, bother.” Enrique sighed as he took another deep drink. “I just didn’t think it would be this hard.”

I offered to do it for you. But this isn’t the time to remind him of that. “Pasqual betrayed us. Betrayed you. And did he ever show remorse? No. He spit in your face.” Miguel took a deep breath. He could feel the anger building and knew it wouldn’t do Enrique any good. “But we need to look to the future, yes? Now that we have a city council member in our back pocket, things in South Beach can move quickly.”

“I suppose that’s true. How much did that bastard cost us?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars. Or one load. I’d say it was a decent investment. Our friends on Metro-Dade cost about the same, and they’ve repaid the investment tenfold.”

“Speaking of those putos, what have they been saying?”

“That special unit is still well understrength. But there’s been some Federal agency sniffing around the last few weeks. The officer in Patrol knows nothing, and our friend in Records only says new faces have been showing up pulling files.”

“Our files?”

“She doesn’t think so. But she can’t find out without attracting attention.”

“Is the the damned FBI again?” Esteban laughed, the first real laugh Miguel had heard from him in hours. “I love losing their people in those damned Fords. Why they think they can keep up with a Corvette is a mystery to me.”

“It is to us all. But no, she doesn’t think they’re FBI.” Lupe asked her that directly. “They might even be DABT investigators. It’s that time of year again, and even though our books are clean they do like to sniff around.”

Enrique started to nod, and then his head rolled further forward than he’d planned. “Shit! That rum’s got some kick. Maybe I should…”

“I’ll get you upstairs. Your old room is waiting for you. And I think Tiffy’s there, too. She’ll take better care of you than I could.”

Once Enrique was safely in the hands of Tiffy, who just snorted when Miguel tried to explain, he wend back to the study and sat down. He sensed rather than heard Holly come in. “He was a mess.”

“Yes. Enrique has never handled stress well. Even when we were boys. He’ll be ok, though.”

She ran her hands along his shoulders. “I never doubted it. Tiffy and I are going to lunch tomorrow. We’re going to pick our next investment target. Did you want to come with us?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a meeting of my own until almost noon.” He turned his head and kissed her hand. She didn’t need to know his meeting was in fact an inspection tour of their boat houses. “I need to finance this new target of yours, after all.”

“It’s all coming together so well, Miguel. Our plans for the future.”

“Yes. Yes they are.” He got to his feet, turned, and took her in his arms. “There’s nothing but the best ahead for us, my love.” He kissed her hard, feeling her press back against him. “Nothing but the best,” he whispered against the smooth skin of her neck before scooping her up and carrying her upstairs.