by A. C. Fuller
Walking slowly up the street, he studied the angles between the homes and apartment buildings and the target. He needed height, but most of the buildings across the street were single family homes.
A black Land Cruiser pulled around the corner and turned into the estate when a metal gate opened. Two men jumped from the back seat and guarded the gate as it swung smoothly back into place. Good security. Above average.
It was not the car of a financier, though. That was a fourth-level bulletproof Land Cruiser. Extra-thick doors, bulletproof glass, completely dark so he hadn’t even glanced the target, if she’d even been inside. Even the tires were reinforced to take multiple, perfectly-placed shots before they’d flatten. And even if he took out a tire, the car was still drivable. He’d known she rode in a Land Cruiser, but not that it had been armored to one step below a presidential limo.
Walking casually away from the estate, he ran a hand over his smooth face and squeezed his jaw to make sure he wasn’t developing jowls. He worried about his age showing, wanted desperately to have a life once he retired. He hadn’t been with a woman he hadn’t paid in fifteen years. It wasn’t fair to bring a woman anywhere near his line of work. But once he retired, maybe he’d have time for love.
He walked north, toward downtown Miami. One block, then two. The buildings grew taller the further he got from the estate. A block ahead, a small hotel, maybe six stories, sat across the street from the beach. He let his eyes move slowly up the face of the building. It was a creamy off-white, and each room had a balcony. If he could get a room facing the target’s estate, he’d have an angle.
Yes, this would do nicely.
6
Cole finished her coffee and crossed the street, careful not to look directly at the shirtless man. Around five foot five, the same height as her, he had thick, muscular calves that poked out from the bottom of his shorts, which bore a Miami Heat logo: a flaming red basketball cresting a rim.
She leaned on a parking meter and pretended to stare at her phone, then followed his gaze to another woman, this one coming from the other direction. She had black hair and black jeans, a yellow bikini top barely concealing huge breasts. The man repeated his routine. Shirt off. Flash a smile. Flex. From her new vantage point, she saw that his shaven, muscular chest was oiled up.
He slung the shirt over his shoulder as the woman passed, again flexing and this time adding, “Hey, mama.”
The woman slowed long enough to laugh and say, “Poquito!”
He put his shirt on as she disappeared down the block.
Gathering her snark, Cole approached. He spied her from twenty yards away and, as he began to pull the shirt over his head, she called, “Don’t bother!” Extending her hand, she said, “Jane Cole. I’m a reporter from New York City.”
He stepped back, looking her up and down. “Bro, I knew word about my music would get out.” He spoke quickly, with only a slight hint of a Cuban accent. “Didn’t expect The New York Times to send a reporter down to talk to me for at least another year.”
She stared, stone-faced.
After a long look, his face broke out in a wide smile. Apparently he’d been joking.
He took her extended hand in both of his. “I’m Pipo. I rep the 305, I run Little Havana, and soon, the music industry. I’m the next Pit Bull, baby.”
She looked up and down the block, then said, “You don’t seem to be running much of anything around here today. And by the way, I don’t work for The New York Times. I’m freelance.”
“So you came up just because you liked what you saw?” He lifted his shirt, exposing the bottom half of a bronze six pack.
Cole pulled the shirt back down. “I’m twice your age.”
“Don’t bother me.”
“You and me is never gonna happen, but I saw you taking your shirt off and I figured you’re the kind of guy I need.”
He smirked. “You said it, I didn’t. But yes, I am the kind of guy every woman needs.” He broke into a slow, crooning singing voice. “Soy el chico que necesitas. Lemme buy you a mojito.” He flashed the smile again. Cole had to admit, he had a certain charm. Most men concealed their intentions. They lied, obfuscated, gaslighted. Pipo had what she thought of as innocent narcissism. He was full of himself, sure, but at least he wasn’t lying about it.
“I’ll take a rain check on the mojito—I’m a tequila woman, anyway—but I’ll pay you $200 to help me for the day.” She scanned the area. “Looks like no more ladies around anyway. You seem to have free time.”
“I’ve got a studio session scheduled this afternoon. Wasn’t kidding about my music.” He yanked a phone out of his pocket and, before she could stop him, he blared a rap song with a catchy Latin beat behind it.
“That you?” she asked.
“Damn right. It’s on YouTube.”
Unable to stop himself, he began rapping along with the track, gesturing and pointing at Cole like he was in a music video. She didn’t understand most of the words, but he had a decent flow. She raised a hand to stop him when he rhymed “Mi amor” with “Show the ho the door.”
“Excellent,” she lied. “Help me for the day and I’ll send links to some music writers I know.”
His eyes got wide, then narrowed slowly. “And let me take you out for a mojito? A tequila, I mean.”
She nodded. “I assume you’re a Miami resident?”
“Told you, I run the 305.”
“Right, right. And how do you feel about local entrepreneurship?”
7
A rusty bell clanged as Warren walked into the dingy bait and tackle shop. The man behind the counter looked nothing like the SG he remembered. His face was round and flabby, his chin connected to his thick chest by a triple chin. Warren wondered whether he’d gotten some bad information.
It had taken him all morning and into the early afternoon to track down his old CI. He’d been hung up on by two buddies in the NYPD, failed to find him through a public records search, and had finally resorted to texting Gabriela for help. As usual, she’d come through, tracking SG to a bait shop fifteen minutes from the hotel in Little Havana.
Warren walked to the back wall, where three old drink fridges hummed, fighting to keep cool. He shot a look at the counter. The man’s eyes were glued to his lap, where he fiddled with a plastic price tag gun.
Warren cleared his throat loudly. The man looked up, his eyes flashing a brilliant light green. SG’s eyes were unmistakable, but they hadn’t registered any recognition when landing on Warren, which gave him a moment to plan his approach.
He’d met SG through another informant, a weed dealer from Brooklyn who Warren had busted his first month on the job. In exchange for looking the other way, the dealer had connected Warren with a half dozen potential informants. The best of those had been SG, which stood for Sea Glass. Not only did he have bright green eyes, when they’d met he’d been an addict so they often had a glazed, glassy look to them. They contrasted so strikingly with his dark black skin they looked like they were trying to escape his face, which, at the time, had been scarred, hollow, and bony. Warren had known he was an addict right away, and used that to his advantage. He’d followed SG for a few hours, watched him buy a bag of heroin, thrown him up against a wall, then made him promise to keep an ear to the ground for him in exchange for letting it slide.
Some cops had some hesitation about using confidential informants who were themselves criminals. Warren never had. Though he’d taken an oath to enforce the law, he was a libertarian when it came to drugs. He enforced drug laws when violence was involved, but couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about a broken young man choosing to kill his body with substances. In retrospect, he wished he’d taken drugs more seriously. Maybe his laissez-faire approach to drugs had just been foreknowledge of his own coming issues.
Warren approached the counter. “Not where I expected to find you, SG.”
He looked up, studying Warren’s face. “What in the hell? Rob?”
“It
’s me.”
SG waddled out from behind the counter like he was going to give Warren a hug, but instead walked past him to a small rack of Miami fishing guidebooks. Back to Warren, he began putting price tags on them. “Not where I thought I’d end up,” he growled.
“What do you call this part of Miami?”
“Overtown.”
The name rang a bell, but Warren couldn’t place it. “Tell me something about it.”
“People think Miami’s all beaches, or maybe cigar shops and pastelitos. This is the real Miami. Spot we’re in used to be called ‘Colored-Town.’ Designated section for folks who looked like you and me. A little gentrified now, but still poor as hell.” He set the price gun on the bookshelf and sat heavily on a stool, breathing hard. He squinted at Warren, studying him. “Don’t tell me you brought your in-shape NYPD ass to Miami for a history lesson.”
“You aren’t glad to see me?”
“You used me to bust my friends.”
“I could have arrested you.”
“Maybe you should have. Might have cleaned me up earlier. You never gave a shit about me.” His tone was bitter. Warren didn’t know why he’d expected anything different. The cop/CI relationship was a complicated one, and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that SG’s memories weren’t as fond as his.
Warren smiled, trying to keep it light. “I thought Florida was supposed to mellow people out.”
“What can I say? I guess the drugs made me more fun to be around.” He patted his massive belly. “Skinnier, too.” He turned back to the books.
“Better sober than nice, I guess.” Warren paced the store, picking up a book on local wildlife, then putting it back without turning a page.
He was about to ask for help when SG spoke first. “Heard you had some trouble back home.”
Warren had hoped to use his place in the NYPD to get cooperation. That SG knew about his suspension made his task more difficult. “Reporter screwed me. Still hoping to get reinstated.”
“What? I was talking about Sarah. Marina.”
“I…” Warren faltered. The air left his chest. “What?”
“Heard she dropped you.”
SG hadn’t heard about his suspension, but he’d heard about the separation. As much as this pissed him off—the conversation with his old friend Bakari Smith still burned in his chest—it confirmed that SG was still the gossip he’d always been. “You were my best CI. I bet you still keep an ear to the ground.”
SG walked slowly back to his seat behind the counter and pulled off his hooded sweatshirt. His t-shirt read: I thought I was in a bad mood, but it’s been a couple years. I guess this is who I am now. He folded his meaty arms across his chest. “I don’t owe you.”
“You don’t, but I bet you want to help me.”
The bell clanged and a young white couple entered the store. Warren thought they looked lost and he backed away from the counter as they approached.
The woman asked, “You got pinfish today?”
Wordlessly, SG walked to the far end of the counter. Grabbing a net from a shelf, he dug into a fish tank that looked like an old brown bathtub and pulled out three fish, each about the size of a hand. In a surprisingly deft motion, he scooped up a plastic bucket and dropped the fish in it, then topped it off with water from the tank.
Pulling out his wallet, the man asked, “Where the amberjack biting these days?”
“Sugar Bear Reef is usually good this time of year. Fella told me last week he got a forty pound Jack at Belzona Two. Been there?”
The man smiled proudly. “Pulled a forty-five-pounder there last year.”
“He sure did,” the woman added. “And I pulled a thirty-pounder.” She stretched her arms out wide, exaggerating the fish’s size. “Guess they didn’t learn their lesson.”
Warren studied his old source as he rang up the bait. SG had always been a gossip. Someone who got off on knowing—and sharing—everything about everything. Then again, he’d always been high. Now that he was clean and sober, he’d changed. But Warren didn’t believe the gossip in him had died out completely.
The bell on the door clanged as the couple left.
“You’re allowed to have a tub of live bait behind the counter?”
“Technically not. It’s my private stash. Only people who know about it can buy.”
“Pinfish, they said? What’s it for?”
“Wreck fishing. Bottom fishing. Pinfish are the best for that. Tougher than most other small bait fish.”
“Sounds like you know your stuff.” Warren knew nothing about fishing, and didn’t especially care, but he wanted to keep SG talking. “What’s wreck fishing?”
“The larger fish, like Amberjack, search out the deeper reefs where they can find food. The deeper the water, the bigger the fish. Deep enough, they find shipwrecks. The shipwrecks offer the Jacks just what they need: cover to hide in while they dine on the smaller fish.”
“Seems like you still keep an ear to the ground. Least when it comes to fishing.”
“Does it now?”
“Sure does. My bet is that, even though you’re well out of the game, you still hear things from time to time.”
SG offered up a wry smile, a smile Warren recognized. His bright eyes flashed and twinkled.
Despite SG’s changed appearance, his old CI was alive and well.
8
Cole and Pipo waited in line in front of a small convention hall in Little Haiti.
Cole gestured at a small banner hung above the door, marked with the logo for the Bank of South Florida. “What have you heard about Ana Diaz?” she asked.
“She’s the shit, bro. Chica has so much cash they call her Money Bags.”
“You really comfortable calling one of the most powerful bankers in America ‘Chica’?”
“Settle down, lady. What are you, the friggin’ PC police?”
“So what do you know about her?”
“She’s the most successful Cuban-American business-lady in Miami.”
“Looking for stuff I can’t get from a Google search. Do you know much about how she got to where she is?”
Pipo shook his head, but it was clear he’d stopped listening. He nodded toward two beefy security guards in yellow shirts who were checking IDs. “Lemme do the talking when we get up there.”
As they inched closer, Cole grew nervous. The men were intimidating, like bouncers at a bar. The worst that could happen was they’d turn her away, but something in her was concerned. The level of security seemed unnecessary for a local event about minority entrepreneurship.
When they reached the front, Pipo put his arm around Cole’s waist. “Dale,” he whispered.
They stepped forward together. “Qué bolá asere.” Pipo spoke like the security guards were old buddies as he handed over his ID.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” the man said, inspecting the ID.
“Bro, you live in Miami. Qué bolá asere is like the national anthem around here.” He was talking fast, congenially. “Came down here to learn how to get my music studio off the ground.” He pulled the “305” chain out from his shirt and held it up, then raised a hand to fist-bump the guy. “I’m the next Pitbull, bro. 305, right?”
The man ignored him, wrote his name on the clipboard, and looked at Cole. “ID, please.”
“Bro, this is my aunt from New York. Brought her down because she’s gonna help fund my music studio. Why you think I’m here?”
The man glared at Pipo, unimpressed.
“Technically she ain’t from Miami but the 305 runs in her veins.”
“No,” the man said simply.
“We thought you could bring a guest.”
“Policy change. Miami residents only. Please step aside, ma’am.”
The guy was like a mountain. Huge and immovable, both physically and emotionally. She imagined Pipo could talk his way into many places in Miami, but this wasn’t one of them.
She pulled him out of the line. “If y
ou can’t get me in, how about you help me find out where she lives. We’ll meet her when she gets home.”
* * *
For the next two hours, Pipo led her on a wild-goose chase through Miami, always promising the answer lay at the next stop. They toured Coconut Grove, West Miami, and returned to Little Havana to visit Pipo’s uncle. Finally, they wandered into the lobby of a hotel on South Beach where Pipo claimed he “knew a guy.”
Cole waited as Pipo searched the lobby, looking in vain for his friend. It was fairly typical for a mid-size hotel: a check-in area, some plants, a few chairs and a small table with newspapers laid out. The main difference between it and any other hotel were the colors—bright oranges and whites, with a floor of textured cork tiles in soft yellows, greens, and teals. He took her hand and pulled her outside to a circular bar at the pool.
To her surprise, Pipo did seem to know someone there. A tall, lanky black man sat on a stool, staring at his phone and sipping absentmindedly from a giant red drink that had an upside-down can of beer in it. Various fruits garnished the edges.
When she caught up to Pipo, he was saying, “Dude, bro, when are you gonna get my jams on the radio.”
“Mike makes those decisions.” The man’s demeanor was surly and standoffish. Cole figured Pipo had bugged him about getting his music on the radio.
“I was with you before your show got huge, man, now you’re gonna do me like this?”
The man looked up at Cole. “Ben. I work for a radio station upstairs.”
She shook his extended hand. “Jane Cole. There’s a radio station at the hotel?”