She sped down the avenue while Deacon peeked at her profile, gauging the kind of trouble coming his way. Except for the fact that the lipstick marks on her cigarette matched her nail color, she didn’t appear to be someone who had it all together.
“You speak from experience?” he asked, anticipating another gruesome story.
She didn’t reply at first. Then she shook her hair behind her shoulders again and said, “Yeah, I do . . . they took someone I loved very much. He meant everything to me.”
“Who did?”
“The worst of the bunch, a drug lord named Chalfont.”
“French dude?”
“It’s just a cover.”
Deacon shifted in his seat. “Is your name really Claudia Safire?”
“Not in a million years.”
Deacon stood with Claudia in the alley between The Carlyle and his new home, the Leslie, a bright yellow and white hotel on Ocean Drive in the center of South Beach’s famed Art Deco District. Its entrance faced Lummus Park, a palm-lined public stretch of grassy land with paved walkways, playgrounds, and volleyball courts that separated the strip of hotels from the beach.
Claudia was still rambling as Deacon chewed on his tongue, listening. He didn’t feel like spending another moment with this chick. He wanted to run—far from her, and especially this place.
“Are you hearing what I’m saying, Xavier? I’m in charge of you now. I can help you become the mole we need to bring these guys down. One false move means a call to Kodak and Eastman—and then you’re toast, remember that. Because they’ll find you. Count on it.”
She met his furrowed gaze head-on. He noted the navy-colored ring around her clear blue eyes that lit up when she was angry, like now.
The sooner I do this . . . He closed his eyes and gave her what she wanted. “When do we begin?”
Claudia practically squealed, bouncing around and nearly touching her forehead to his. “That’s more like it! Come on, we have to go in through the back before people see you like this.”
She looped her arm through his like she was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz as they walked. She practically skipped in her pink high heels, pulling him along beside her. Her mane swung around as she talked.
“First stop, a private salon that I know. We’ll start practicing your Spanish and teach you to pepper your sentences with some Spanglish, as they say. I’ve got tapes you can listen to. You’ll need to know enough Spanish to get by, since the real Xavier Coyne has drug connections in Colombia. He was born there but he grew up in the States, so using English around the cartel will be fine. Later on, we’ll go shopping. Show you how to act around these guys. Comprendes?”
“Great, so now you’re my pimp and I’m Richard Gere from American Gigolo?”
“That would be your choice, but I wouldn’t recommend sleeping with their chicas.”
“Their who?”
“Their girlfriends. Could get very messy.” Claudia grinned wider, exposing a small gap between her front teeth. The flaw added to her bevy of eccentricities.
Deacon felt a lump grow in his throat. “Like what happened to the last mole?”
“Wasn’t pretty, Xavier.”
CHAPTER 16
THE FEDS BLAMED HIM FOR BRINGING THE CHILL OF Massachusetts with him. A few days after his arrival to Florida, the whole East Coast plunged into an arctic freeze. Florida was experiencing the coldest temperatures in its history, which meant Miami wasn’t seeing anything outside of the mid thirties.
“Figures, you come down here and all hell freezes over,” Kodak mocked, sending Eastman into a twittering fit of laughter. The agents scarfed down their hotdogs, stuffing them into their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in days, while Deacon and Claudia stood shivering outside their car.
“We’ve heard rumblings that they’re moving a large shipment in the next few weeks. Claud, we need Xavier’s introduction to Chalfont to be pushed up so we can intercept the drop.”
“Got it, we’ve already begun practicing,” she said, lighting up a cigarette and nervously eyeing Deacon.
Deacon scratched his scalp, which was itchy from the bleach, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He averted his eyes to the ground so he wouldn’t have to watch Kodak spit pieces of food as he spoke. He hated how they were discussing his fate like he wasn’t even there.
“Are you even listening, kid?” Kodak barked.
“Yeah, I got it,” he said.
“You better. And drop the victim act. You need to sell that you’re Xavier Coyne, teen kingpin of Miami.”
Claudia’s private salon had ended up being the basement of some hairdresser’s apartment that reeked of Giorgio—the same intense floral perfume his mother wore—and a mix of those nose-burning hair chemicals.
The yellow gingham curtains strung across the basement windows swayed when they stepped through the doorway. Deacon didn’t know what Claudia’s relationship with this guy was, and he found it interesting that she had her own key to the basement’s exterior door.
The cramped space exploded with color: splattered neon paint colors covering its low tiled ceiling, cement walls, and floor. Styrofoam headstands topped with wigs lined one wall; rainbow racks of clothes and shoes filled the other.
A squat, burly man in his mid-fifties glanced up from his Vogue. He seemed uninterested at first, but his eyes sprang to life once he zeroed in on Deacon and he whistled softly, rising from the lone barber chair. He removed his long purple silk robe and hung it on the end of a rolling rack comprised of evening dresses swirling in vibrant colors. Rhinestones and sequins spilled out from the shoulders and sleeves, along with a few feathers, as if Cher had just stepped out of them.
Deacon was startled by the man’s lack of eyebrows and hairless face, which contrasted with the black, curly hair poking out from his stretched white tank. His arms and legs were waxed and shiny. He wore striped boxers and black dress socks tucked inside pink slippers, and introduced himself as Vivian.
After hearing the word “transformation” roll off Claudia’s lips several times, Vivian bleached the majority of Deacon’s head a white-blond color, leaving only the roots dark. He trimmed several inches off the top and sides so it would easily stick up with the help of some gel, à la Billy Idol. He showed Deacon how to style it with a lilting, lisping voice. I look like an ass, he thought.
Next they headed to one of those claustrophobic tanning bed places a few blocks away, where he was given the same skimpy Speedo suit he used to wear as a competitive swimmer, along with some little eye goggles, and instructed to climb inside.
While he tanned, he overheard Claudia, on the other side of the door, scheduling appointments for him three times a week, confirming that bronzing would be a part of his new regime so he’d fit in with the rest of the perpetually suntanned locals of South Beach. The more his skin deepened, the more his teeth appeared to be glowing like he was in an Ultra Brite toothpaste commercial.
In between Spanish lessons, Claudia took him on private shopping appointments—early in the morning, before the stores opened and the streets filled. All sorts of elegantly dressed male and female storeowners pulled his outfits together, acting like they were sculpting him out of clay.
Each time he emerged from a dressing room in his newly tailored clothes, he didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. He looked like he was headed to a costume party— except this was now his life.
In the last store, he paraded in front of Claudia in a pastel-pink dress shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned, a loosely knotted, squared-end knit tie, gray Versace cashmere pants, and a matching jacket.
“Ooh, sexy. The Eurotrash look is perfect! You seem years older, too,” she crooned, flicking her cigarette ashes into the black-and-white lacquer ashtray stand.
It made him uneasy the way her pretty eyes surveyed his body.
“Here, try these on,” she commanded, passing him a pair of dark Gucci sunglasses. She frowned. “No, these.” She handed him a differ
ent pair and stepped back. “One more thing . . . that’s it, perfect,” she said, wrapping a scarf around his neck like he was Snoopy.
Deacon snorted. “I look like a joke.”
“Let’s test it out. See how people react to you when we walk around South Beach. Especially the women.”
CHAPTER 17
darien, Connecticut
“YOU DIDN’T COME TO SEE ME MUCH.”
“I-I know. I-I’m sorry for that.” Hannah gulped at the air. Her stomach contracted with nerves. Not wanting to be her mother’s human pincushion hadn’t been her only reason for not visiting her again in rehab. She’d also worried that she was interfering with her recovery by being there. She’d kept her feelings from her father and managed to avoid additional visits by claiming she was unwell, one time even using the “bad cramps” excuse on him.
“It’s good to have you home, Mom.”
Her father held her mother’s elbow and guided her up the driveway and into the house, though it didn’t appear she needed the assistance. He steered her to one of the living room couches until she gestured to him that she was fine. Still, he hovered.
Her mom looked as if she’d come back from vacation: well rested, and with some color back in her cheeks.
“Where’s Kerry?”
“Gamma Mimi’s. Your father brought her there yesterday.”
“Why? . . . I didn’t know . . .” Hannah’s stomach plunged. She didn’t want to be alone with just the two of them. She’d been looking forward to hanging out with Kerry and starting to be a more attentive big sister. She couldn’t wait to squeeze her into a hug and play with her hair like they used to when Kerry was a preschooler. She’d missed her little sister so much it hurt.
“The doctors thought it’d be best. She comes home Friday. Gives me time to get settled here,” her mother said, watching Hannah’s father’s face as she spoke.
“Are you hungry?” Hannah asked. “The fridge is stocked and—”
“That’s all I seem to do is eat these days. I’m sure I’ve put on a few pounds over the last month and a half.” Her mother laughed tightly.
“You look great, Mom, really.”
“Hannah, I think your mother would like to rest now,” her father said in the same tone he used with neighborhood solicitors. He tilted his head, motioning for her to go to her room.
Hannah flushed. “W-why? I haven’t seen her . . . I just want to—”
“Go,” he ordered, giving her one of those leave her alone, haven’t you done enough? looks.
Hannah stared at him slack-jawed for a couple of seconds while her mother ignored them and was busily inspecting her hands like she needed a manicure. She’d been furious with her mom the last couple of times she visited her in rehab—but the fury had later turned into guilt, gnawing at her. Now that her mother was finally home, Hannah didn’t want to leave her side. She longed to make it up to her and be that caring daughter, if she’d let her.
A sudden sadness draped over her, witnessing her father’s demeanor. It was hopeless when the two of them joined forces. She stomped to her room, kicked her door closed, and dove into bed, sweeping up her pillow into her face so they wouldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter, though. She could hear them.
“Can I fix you something?” her father asked.
“That would be lovely,” her mother said sweetly.
CHAPTER 18
South beach, Miami
IN THE PICTURES CLAUDIA SHOWED HIM, CHALFONT reminded Deacon of exercise fanatic Richard Simmons. In them, the drug lord wore loose-fitting pastel tanks with dolphin shorts, as if he’d come from the beach. He was a diminutive man, barely clearing five foot two, with unusually long, hairy arms that seemed disproportionate to his body. His black, wiry hair sprang from his head in an irregular afro, framing his tanned, pockmarked skin and obsidian-black eyes. Eyes of a psycho, Deacon thought.
Beads of sweat poured from the back of his neck the closer he got to Chalfont’s secret location. Two and a half long weeks of learning his lines, practicing his backstory, and adopting basic Spanish words and phrases into his speech to help him sound authentically Colombian-American under Claudia’s tutelage, and he was nowhere ready to face the most wanted drug lord in Miami.
What the hell did I get myself into? If the Feds couldn’t catch Chalfont, how in the world was Deacon supposed to without getting killed?
He gripped the crumpled paper wrapped around the steering wheel of Claudia’s white Ferrari, smearing Chalfont’s address more. It reminded him of the Blow Pop box Jack had used to scribble down the address of his first drug errand. Second time in a month he’d thought about those days of being separated from his family, utterly scared, and powerless over his own life. He was going through it all over again, trying to survive in a world where he didn’t belong. Same shit, different day.
He’d have to use whatever he’d learned over the past ten years to stay alive on the streets of Miami, where they took selling to a whole new level. He was no longer dealing with teens, kids around his age. In this world, whole crime families and underground organizations ruled the trade. And the Feds had assigned him to infiltrate the worst in Miami’s history.
Deacon clasped the back of his neck, where moisture spewed from around his collar. The cold snap he’d brought with him had disappeared. He wiped the sweat, grumbling to himself how it could be this warm in January.
Claudia had dressed him in one of his new Miami street ensembles: a tan, lightweight suit and loosely knotted pastel tie. He looked like he was headed to a nightclub, not a business meeting. That’s how they do it in Miami, she’d told him. She approved of the way his appearance was changing. The more he became Xavier Coyne, the more Deacon Giroux faded away.
Putting on the costume helped him become the ever-cocky teen kingpin. Adding the feigned bravado and debonair charm had also come easily around the women Claudia had introduced him to at the various nightclubs where they’d practiced his new persona. But the clothes still felt like a straitjacket.
If the Feds’ intelligence was incorrect and Chalfont knew the real Xavier Coyne, Deacon would succumb to the same fate as the previous informants. At least they’d agreed he shouldn’t wear the wire during his initial meeting. Only once he’d gained Chalfont’s trust would the mission to collect enough evidence to trap him commence.
The safe house that Chalfont occupied had initially been used to hide illegal immigrants from Cuba. Chalfont had started sharing the space with them under the pretense that he could provide the families protection. Eventually, he forced all of the undocumented immigrants out and his operation swelled inside.
The single-story ranch appeared modest and unremarkable from the street. The exterior had probably been white at one time. Now shadows of age stretched across its eaves and broken pickets lined the front of the yard. The vanilla house sat amongst other faded exteriors in a neighborhood that Deacon guessed few visited at night. The average Joe could have lived there, which was probably the point.
Deacon knocked—three short knocks, as instructed— and the door cracked open. After a beat, a man poked his head through. He was a striking twentysomething with chiseled male-model features whose wandering eyes traveled from Deacon’s face down to the area between his legs. As his gaze dropped, the corners of his mouth rose.
He ushered him through the sweet coconut fog of suntan lotion and into a larger room whose flamingo pink walls were lined with a horde of South American men in tank tops and snug-fitting dolphin shorts. Their scant clothing set off alarms inside Deacon’s head; was he was walking onto the set of a porno?
The guards’ faces locked on Deacon. Whispers started. One man called him una estrella de cine. Deacon puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, forcing himself to not make eye contact. At first glance, one would have thought Chalfont’s men were gigolos; the black machine guns and assorted armaments strapped to their well-built, tanned bodies, however, endorsed the notion that this was one serious protection detail. Chal
font definitely dabbled in paranoia—and had a penchant for beautiful men.
In the corner, static sizzled from a shortwave radio, broken by bursts of decipherable words. A well-dressed blonde sat next to the radio, copiously taking notes. Encrypted radio network. Dealers down here communicated in code, Claudia had told him.
The man from the pictures suddenly appeared. “Ahh, Xavier, mi paisano. I’ve heard much about you. Carlos speaks so highly, says you’re going to be a gran adición to our team. Colombian but raised in America, he say. Miss the homeland?”
Deacon shrugged. “I left when I was a bebé.”
“Ahh, yes, well. This is mi compadre, Luis,” Chalfont motioned to the guy next to him. Luis towered over Chalfont. He wore his slicked hair in a low ponytail over the collar of his baby-blue suit and white tank. His eyes tightened on Deacon and he slipped one hand inside his pants pocket, as if covering a weapon. Sounds of a camera shutter went off several times. Deacon’s head snapped around to either side, but he was unable to detect its origin.
“You come with información?” Chalfont smiled like a cheetah, revealing a few gold teeth and distracting Deacon from remembering his next line.
He feigned a cough and quickly got back on script. “Sí, my suppliers in Colombia show great interest in your operación.” Deacon hoped his newly acquired accent—which he and Claudia had worked tirelessly to perfect—and false charm weren’t slipping under the weight of his faltering nerve.
“From the pockets of the Melendi cartel?”
“Sí, the same.”
A slow grin spread across Chalfont’s face. He glanced at Luis, who nodded his approval. Chalfont rotated his body to the side and stomped his foot like a matador. A large wall behind the drug lord moved aside on a track in the floor. Mountains upon mountains of white appeared before him. Deacon’s eyes grew tall. He blinked rapidly at the bags of cocaine stacked like pancakes, higher than his head. He laid a hand on his heart, which was cantering inside his shirt. It was by far the biggest supply he’d ever seen. Its snowfall of worth re-lubricated the inside of his mouth.
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