When Flash started it a few years back, it was just him. Then the Russians moved in. They had tried to get similar things going but hadn’t been able to make it work. Flash knew they’d moved into Miami big time as the old, Italian mafia gradually dried up. Konstantin Kuznetsov, the leader of a large and particularly diversified gang, was gobbling up a lot of the independent operations. Flash, reading the street, knew it was better to join than be consumed. At least that way he could shape the terms (like, “favorable percentages” and “remaining alive”). He’d approached Konstantin and told him about his racket, and how it could be not only a steady stream of income but an engine to launder funds from Konstantin’s other operations.
“Pitch me,” he said, like it was gangster Shark Tank.
Flash had started with the doctors. He had a sketchy private investigator do background checks on doctors running their own clinics, or ones that were looking for work (God bless the internet). He found ones that had a blemish or two on their records, but could still practice medicine. He targeted them first. They’d submit fake claims to Medicare and get reimbursements, and Flash would give them a cut. Then he started going after the doctors that couldn’t even practice medicine anymore. Guys who lost their licenses because of drugs, gambling, malpractice or whatever. It took so long for their licensure revocations to make their way through the various systems, it was sometimes years before Medicare found out these doctors couldn’t practice. Flash would open a clinic and have the doctors set up shop. The “clinic” was a cutout, usually rented office space, and the purpose was just to get the doctor’s information so that they can use it to file claims. These doctors got a larger percentage of the payout because they were taking a bigger risk, but most of them reckoned it was the only way they were going to stay in business. Flash shielded these operations with a series of holding companies.
Konstantin asked if the doctors could also write prescriptions.
The ones with the licenses could, Flash had told him.
Medicare Part D was a whole new ballgame. Drugs were the real growth market and the Russians wanted in. But drugs made Flash nervous. Submitting unnecessary prescription reimbursement requests was one thing—it was just squeezing more juice out of the Federal Orange. But actually dealing in drugs was something else. First, there were steeper penalties and possible, additional federal law enforcement agencies that might take notice. Second, this one had a human cost, one which his employers gave precisely zero shits about. This was one of the reasons that Flash wanted an out now rather than in two or three years time. The Russians were starting to press hard. There was a steady stream of counterfeit drugs coming in from Canada, and many of them were reasonable facsimiles of name brand narcotics. That might be okay, but you couldn’t be sure without a lab. Flash had no way of knowing if they were knockoffs, or the kind of rebranded rat poison that was coming in from India or Mexico.
Flash had held Konstantin off for about a year, saying it was important that they had the Medicare practice steady and reliable before they started getting into drugs, but now Kuznetsov’s patience was waning.
Flash leaned back in his seat, took a long drag of his beer, and stretched his legs. Flash was an even five foot eight—he’d read once that moderately sized people were more trustworthy. People got suspicious of the outliers. He jogged a fair amount and had gotten into open water swimming to stay lean, so he was deeply tanned. His face was all angles and Flash’s hair was a sandy brown but streaked blond, and people thought he used Sun-In, which offended him because that was his natural color. He was dressed in white linen pants and a three-hundred-dollar V-neck Zegna t-shirt that was, according to the salesman, the exact color of the waters off Miami Beach.
The fronton was barely half full for the matinee match and most of the guys were old school Cubans. Not much action on a Tuesday afternoon. Flash never took the time to learn the game, but in the end it was basically hundred-mile-an-hour-handball with those crazy scoop things that reminded him of seeing Tron when he was a kid. Still, it was a good enough excuse to sit in the air conditioning, drink a beer, and watch yourself make ten million dollars.
Flash often debated over telling Konstantin that he was getting out, or should he just disappear? None of this could last, the Russians had to see that. A hundred times in his mind Flash saw himself calmly explaining that to Konstantin. The mob acted like they were printing money and would go on doing it until it was time to quit. Flash shook his head at the short-sighted stupidity of it.
But that’s not how Konstantin saw it and not how he’d take Flash’s desire to leave. The Russian wouldn’t understand that, maybe, Flash just wanted to live on his boat for a few years without looking over his shoulder.
They could have had action for years if they just took their time, played it slow.
Konstantin wouldn’t see it that way either.
The Obama Justice Department cracked down on Medicare scams pretty hard, especially here in Miami. In a way, that had opened the doors for this operation because they’d largely cleared out the first generation scams and effectively made it an open city. This was just another instance of Eastern European criminal syndicates coming in and filling the holes left by the mafia now that the FBI had all but shattered it. So far, under the Trump Administration, the Justice Department hadn’t invested a lot of effort in rolling up fraud schemes like theirs and Flash believed they could be in a new golden age if these idiots would just take their time.
Be the bull who walks down the hill.
Fuck ‘em all.
But no. We want to take all of your American dollars. Flash could practically hear one of Konstantin’s Adidas-wearing goons now.
So, Konstantin wouldn’t exercise caution, would demand they get into narcotics faster, and he wouldn’t let the nucleus of this operation—meaning Flash—put his two week’s notice in. The only option left was Flash disappearing, after paying back the money he’d taken, of course. “Taken” was such a pejorative term, it was really more like an unacknowledged no-interest loan among friends. But a disappearance had its own unique risks, because that could let Konstantin draw his own conclusions, most of which had very dangerous implications.
Flash raised his cup. “Well, here’s mud in your eye,” he said, toasting the air, and drank. An old Cuban guy with a thick head of steel hair and a full-on Thomas Magnum mustache turned around and looked at him. Flash shrugged. He guessed it was kind of a weird thing to say to no one in particular, especially as the match was going on.
Speaking of the match—Diego Vega was his guy this round. He was kitted out in yellow and green, a bright white helmet, and had the kind of pencil-drawn mustache that was a physical cliché of a gentleman Latin athlete. His bio was in the match program, which Flash hadn’t bothered to read—he just assumed it was a bio. He couldn’t imagine what in the hell else they’d dedicate a full paragraph to. He had to hand it to Manny. That guy was a hustler’s hustler. Flash decided he was going to get him something nice as a favor for tipping him. A bottle of scotch or something or—Flash snapped his fingers—that bourbon people were stealing and selling on the black market. That was it. Classy and just a little illegal. Much like this game ….
Wait, what?
Flash looked down at the court—fronton—he corrected himself. The wrong guy had his hands in the air. Flash told himself, maybe that’s what you did in jai alai? You lose the game and you throw your hands up in the air in the universal symbol of victory. It was the merry game, after all. Maybe the Latins had some kind of line on irony? The old codger in front of him, Cuban Magnum, tore up his betting slip and tossed it with some relish on the ground. Flash didn’t know Spanish, like really know it, but living here you picked up enough. Especially the curses. The man just said something about Diego Vega, Vega’s mother, and his general qualities as a man—things that Flash guessed he wouldn’t say to the athlete’s face.
It was pretty clear now, even to Flash.
Diego Vega lost.
> The words circled around Flash’s head for a moment like a bug that couldn’t get through mosquito netting.
Diego Vega lost.
Oh shit.
The realization came hard and cold like the winter sun.
Oh shit!
Flash sat, numb, through the next match as another guy Manny told him to pick got his ass handed to him too. Flash didn’t need to see more to figure things out. He didn’t bother to wait for any more matches. It wouldn’t matter. He’d already lost. He’d just lost nearly a million dollars that belonged to Konstantin Kuznetsov.
Flash was in a kind of like freefall. He imagined this was what falling out of a plane felt like. At least, the part right before you were about to hit the ground and there was nothing you could do about it.
He got up from his seat, still only half aware of his surroundings, the unfinished beer left on the tray attached to the back of the seat in front of him. Shell-shock turned into panic alarmingly fast. He needed to act. Flash made fast steps to the stairs, not pausing to apologize to any feet he crushed on the way, and took the steps two at a time until he was into the casino floor and racing for the parking lot.
He pulled his phone out and dialed Manny Diaz.
PROPER VILLAINS: CHAPTER 2
Demetrius Dawes stepped out of his car, a black ’05 Mercedes S55 AMG, and smoothed out his lime green golf shirt. The car was thirteen years old, but he kept it in pretty good condition, washed and waxed it once a week, and changed out the headlights when the plastic started to yellow. It was important that he put on a professional appearance and his car was part of that. Success conveys success, that’s what the man said. People aren’t going to believe you’re a professional if you roll up in a 2005 Hyundai Accent.
Demetrius stood in the lazy morning heat as the last traces of air conditioning on his skin boiled away. It is positively tropical out here boys, the running backs coach used to tell them at nearly every practice. There was a special place in hell for people who walked around South Florida and conversationally talked about how hot it was. Demetrius reached into his car and pulled out a clipboard. None of the clipped papers flitted in the stagnant air.
Though he was a sight leaner than in his playing days, Demetrius still topped two-ten, and at six foot three he looked like could suit up and walk onto a professional football team. He ran sprints, he lifted three hours a day, he conditioned. Demetrius was in his low forties, so he knew that his playing days were well behind him, but he could still coach. It was late spring and by now most of the coaching positions had already been filled for the year, but you never knew, someone could always fall out. Demetrius had just come from the post office where he’d carefully packaged and mailed training videos, plays, and conditioning programs he’d drawn up along with his own stats, to all of the collegiate and professional football programs in the state of Florida. This would be his year, he knew. A former teammate was the new linebackers coach at the U, and he’d get Demetrius in the door for an interview at least. Plus, Demetrius was an alum and that always played.
Or at least, he would’ve been, had he graduated.
Until things changed for the better, and his football career began anew, he had this.
Demetrius walked across the street confidently and with a straight spine, just like the man in the Selling For Profit! seminar had taught them to do. Demetrius went to that thing three different times and knew he had it down cold. He went over to the next house on the street, rang the doorbell and waited. This was a quiet, middle-class neighborhood and the statistics told him it was mostly retirees, who hopefully wouldn’t be freaked out seeing a six foot three black man at their doorstep. There were a handful of newer construction homes, however, and all of the real estate websites told him that this was one of the next places to become upper middle class. The house was a squat, square white stucco bungalow with a Mediterranean-style roof and lots of windows. There were blinds up because, from the look of it, they got direct sunlight all hours of the day. There were a couple stubby palm trees in the yard and it was well maintained. Demetrius tried knocking on the door and after a few moments a craggy-faced, slightly stooped retiree greeted him. He was bowlegged and skinny, but with a sizable paunch that tucking his t-shirt into the walking shorts didn’t help.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Demetrius Dawes and I run Home Security Solutions. We’re in your neighborhood today offering you a free, in-home security consultation.”
“We got that, whatchoo call it, neighborhood watch.”
“I understand that, sir, and while community watch programs have proven to be somewhat effective, do you know what their downside is?”
“Yeah, you gotta have that Maurie Stiglitz show up when he’s supposed to be on watch.”
Demetrius forced a chuckle.
“That is part of the problem, sir. You see, for a community watch program to be effective, you need to be—well, watching, twenty four hours a day, and you and I both know that we can’t count on the Maurie Stiglitzes of the world can we?”
“Got that right,” he said sourly. Demetrius began to pick up the dragging tones of a fading New York accent.
“Now, were you aware that home invasion and personal property theft were the most frequently committed crime in the Miami-Dade area? Furthermore, did you know that those crime rates have risen eight hundred percent in last three years? Those are some pretty staggering statistics, aren’t they, sir?”
The old guy folded his bony arms across his t-shirt and glowered. Demetrius couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at the interruption to his morning or this was just the way he always looked.
“Now, I used to play professional football. And the thing that the coaches always taught us was coverage. Defense wins championships, you know? So, how about I offer you some defense for this wonderful home of yours?”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “I see it now. Thought you looked familiar.”
He’d never seen Demetrius a day in his life. People always thought he was fucking Terry Crews.
“I grew up here in Liberty City,” Demetrius said with a practiced ease that made it sound extemporaneous, just like Selling For Profit! had taught him. “And when I knew my playing days were over I moved back here and opened up my own home security consultancy. You see, I know what these streets are like and what can happen, even in really nice neighborhoods like this one. This is something I’m very, very passionate about.”
The old man was inscrutable. He scratched at his stomach. “You wanted to do something, you shoulda worked with those inner city kids.” Guy actually said, “inner city”, like he was on 60 Minutes…in the seventies. “Give something back, you know? This,” he waved dismissively. “You don’t want to do this. Walking around in this farkakte heat. Listen, you want a calling?” Now the guy was pointing at the air. “You work with the kids. I’m telling you.”
The old guy added that he wasn’t interested.
Demetrius thanked him for his time and the old guy patted the air as he left, a gesture that was half “farewell” and half “get off my lawn”. Demetrius went on to the next house.
He gave it another hour before he turned around and headed back to his car. One person took a business card, but he suspected that was out of politeness. Demetrius thought the football angle was good and it kept people talking, but even he had to admit that it was a stretch to go from playing professional ball to “realizing his true calling was selling bottom-rung home security systems”. Hell, when he did close a deal, he bought the shit at Ace Hardware and installed it himself. He wasn’t licensed to do this, not that anyone ever checked. The guy in Selling For Profit! said every sale has a Moment of Truth™ where you’d either make the sale or you wouldn’t, based entirely on whether or not you had a compelling reason for them to buy your product. Demetrius always thought that his football story—about how he used the game to get off the streets until he got hurt, then used his past as motivation to do something good for folks—that was his Moment of Trut
h™. But most times people just poked holes in his story like that old New Yorker just did.
Demetrius came up the hard way in Liberty City. He didn’t get into too much trouble in high school because he was usually playing ball, and if he wasn’t playing, he was practicing. A standout star at Miami Northwest. But the street was still the street and growing up in one of Miami’s roughest neighborhoods, you couldn’t really avoid it. He wasn’t a bad kid, not for that area anyway, but Demetrius still had his share of theft and weed dealing. What the hell else was he going to do? Couldn’t work at no McDonald’s and still have time to ball. Football was his way out of the neighborhood. Demetrius got a scholarship to the University of Miami. He was good enough to make the depth chart, but he only started a few times. Still, he saw a lot of field time, and coaches said he had talent and just needed more touches, more hustle.
Demetrius was working his way up the chart and there was talk that he was going to be the featured running back in the 1996 season, his senior year. In fact, he’d had such a huge game against Syracuse—a hundred yards and two TDs—Demetrius knew he could have a thousand-yard rushing season the following year. Coach Davis was talking about putting him in the Orange Bowl, giving him a shot. Then the team got banned from the bowl game. The NCAA uncovered a massive Pell Grant scam where players were fraudulently filing for financial aid and instead of using that money for classes, spent it on whatever the hell a suddenly flush nineteen-year-old D-1 athlete would spend it on. Most of Demetrius’s money went to clothes, stereo equipment and weed. At the time, he honestly didn’t know it was illegal. Some guy from the athletic department told him to sign a form and Demetrius would get some money from the government. Since he was already on a scholarship for football, he could spend it however he chose. Demetrius didn’t ask any questions.
Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3) Page 44