Miami Burn (Titus Book 1)

by John D. Patten

  “You are the coolest preacher I’ve ever met.”

  “Truth.”

  He took down a pump-action Mossberg 500 and handed it to me. I opened the action lock and studied the craftsmanship.

  “My all-time favorite,” he said.

  “Classic,” I said and handed it back to him, “but I’m more partial to that Remington 870 there. Had one when I was a kid. Gift from my uncle.”

  “870 is classic,” he said and handed me the Remington. “But I like the tang safety on the Mossberg and the fact you don’t have to wrap your hand up here to chamber that first shell.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sighting a spot on the wall, “but this feels like home.”

  I handed it back to him. He took down a Springfield Armory M1911 EMP 4 and handed it to me along with a 9mm cartridge.

  “Nice,” I said, “but that’s a Luger cartridge.”

  He grinned. “Would I steer you wrong, Brother?”

  I put the Luger cartridge in the 1911 and it snapped right in with a solid click.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” He handed me a holster. “Hold onto it for backup.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” I said, tucked the gun into the holster, and clipped it to the other side of my gun belt opposite the Sig. I felt like Wyatt Earp.

  He took another one off the shelf and put it in his pocket. Then, he took the Python from its perch and checked it.

  “Let’s go say howdy do to Eddie Corrado,” he said with a big smile.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE ADDRESS JOJO BURLEY GAVE ME WAS ON SW 4TH Street. It was an old four-story cement block building with a garish wraparound railing hugging the top three floors. The whole thing was painted yellow-brown, although I’m pretty certain yellow-brown was not its originally intended color.

  Luther and I sat in his pickup truck across the street. We had been watching the building for fifteen minutes. Nobody came in or out.

  “Can’t picture your girl Allie Hayes living here,” said Luther.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Ready? And don’t give me a Bible quote about being ready.”

  He grinned and opened his door. I opened mine and we got out.

  We walked across the street and onto a path lined with cracked yellow-brown pavers. We passed through a yellow-brown door into a tiny lobby with yellow-brown floor tiles, most of them cracked. It smelled like moldy excrement wrapped in seaweed and dropped into a steamer. The air-conditioning seemed to be on life-support. There was a row of grimy mailboxes and an elevator on our left and a stairwell to the right of it. A hallway led straight ahead to a rear door that opened into what appeared to be an outdoor pool area. There was a yellow-brown desk for a front desk attendant. There may have been a front desk attendant the day Jimmy Carter was inaugurated. The most vibrant item in the lobby was a vending machine to the left of the desk. Its hum was loud in the small space. The cheerful Cokes and Sprites nearly begged to be rescued.

  “I have a new appreciation for my place,” I said.

  “What number are we looking for?” said Luther.

  “Nine.”

  The entrances to the first floor apartments were dark brown doors stretched over a long yellow-brown corridor that cut across the hallway leading out back. One, two, and four were on the left. Three, five, and seven were on the right.

  “No six,” I said. “Weird.”

  “Nine must be on the second floor,” said Luther. “If the numbering follows the same pattern, it’s on the left in the back. Only way up is in the center. Elevator or stairs?”

  “Stairs. Elevator may not make it.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Halfway up the yellow-brown carpeted stairs my Sig somehow appeared in my hand. I held it low to my side in case anyone was watching through peepholes, although it felt like we were the only people left on earth after a nuclear apocalypse.

  I turned left on the second floor, which had twice the yellow-brown charm of the first floor. The heat was thick and there was now a tinge of cooking spices behind the steaming excrement.

  Number nine was at the end, the door on our right, perpendicular to a window with an iron grate over it. I crouched under the door’s peephole and over to the other side by the window. I glanced outside, seeing nothing but the balcony of the building next door. Between the grate and the window pane a graveyard of dead insects floated like flak on puffy clouds of cobwebs over a sea of empty candy wrappers.

  I nodded at Luther. His gun drawn and at his side, he placed his back against the other side of the hallway about six feet back.

  I reached around, knocked on the door, and withdrew my hand fast.

  Silence.

  I knocked again, harder this time.

  Again, nothing. Not even a hint of sound.

  Luther glided with noiseless grace across the hallway to the other side of the door. He took a small case from his pocket and removed a bump key. He put it in the lock with the patience and skill of having done so many times before and the tumblers fell into place. Five seconds, tops. Proficient. He turned the knob and the door opened. No chain.

  Luther went prone against the wall again with his gun up. I tapped the door with the tip of my right foot and pointed my gun into the apartment with both hands as it swung open.

  The smell that hit me in the face and churned my stomach told me what we would find. Still good to be cautious, though.

  The air conditioning had been left on high by whoever was here last. The place was as cool as any room could probably be in Florida, but that didn’t kill the stench of rotting flesh. A handful of big noisy flies nosedived all around.

  The living room directly ahead was clean and sparse. An old couch, a widescreen TV, a low white formica coffee table from another era, and two lamps with square shades.

  I moved forward and spun to my right toward a short hallway that led to what looked like a bedroom on the left and bathroom on the right. Luther came in behind me and turned immediately to his left, gun held out toward the small empty kitchen.

  We both froze, listening for any sound. Again, nothing.

  One forlorn orange tea kettle sat on the stove, but there was little else. Two trash bags sat against the far wall, full of pizza boxes, Chinese take-out boxes, and assorted cans and bags. Whoever lived here moved in recently and brought only the bare minimum. It also looked like they didn’t plan to stay long.

  I moved down the hallway, glancing quickly into the bathroom. Nothing in there.

  I held my breath, the putrid odor filling my sinuses as I neared the bedroom door. I gritted my teeth, preparing myself for the sight.

  I rounded the corner.

  Eddie Corrado’s lifeless right eye looked at me from his spot sitting on the double bed. His left eye was long gone, in its place a gaping hole that oozed something like petrified pink and gray bubbles. A gaggle of flies buzzed all over it, having a party.

  Eddie sat up at an odd angle, like he fell to his side after being shot but his muscles locked up and stayed that way. Blood had trickled down and saturated his naked chest and blue plaid boxers. He wore no socks or shoes. His skin was blue-green.

  There was some blood splatter on the bed, but not much. The small bullet from the small gun went right into his mushy brain and kicked around, probably still in there somewhere. There was a suitcase on the floor, half-packed. Several items of men’s and women’s clothing were strewn about. The closet was full of mostly women’s clothes. I recognized a purple wig and a silver space costume.

  “Allie was here,” I said, pulling up my t-shirt to cover my nose and mouth from the stench.

  “You think she did this?” Luther said, doing the same.

  “Don’t know. I’d guess small-caliber gun, fired at close range from someone Eddie knows. Allie had one, but it didn’t appear to have been used lately—although she could have cleaned and re-loaded it.”

  “Or used another gun.”

  “Or that.”

  “I think Ed
die planning on going somewhere.”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking L.A. Allie is fixated on escaping there.”

  “So why didn’t she just go?” Luther said. “Get on a bus or a plane? Why go to your place after shooting Eddie?”

  “Maybe she was scared,” I said. “Confused. Maybe she figured someone would call the cops after hearing the gunshot and be looking for her.”

  “People in this neighborhood don’t call the cops.”

  “Bed is in disarray. Looks like there may have been some carnal activity going on. Maybe they were interrupted by someone.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they got into a fight and she got mad and shot him.”

  I walked to the back of the room. A large window looked out onto the wraparound balcony that stretched all the way around. It was an easy drop from there to the ground for a lithe nineteen-year old girl with a purse and a green duffel bag with red trim.

  Hey, wait. What happened to the green duffel bag with red trim? Allie didn’t have it with her this morning when she ran off. She must have left it at my place, but I didn’t see it anywhere after she was gone. I made a mental note to check when I get back.

  “Even though there not much blood splatter,” said Luther, “she bound to have some on her. Maybe that’s why she ran to your place—to shower.”

  “She could have showered here,” I said. “Unless she was so upset about Eddie that she just couldn’t. No, I’m thinking she leaped out the window onto the wraparound balcony, jumped down, and ran across the back. The screen is torn. That’s how the flies got in.”

  “That would mean someone else was here shooting at her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then what?” Luther said.

  “She could have walked to public transportation,” I said, “which is risky. She could have called an Uber or a taxi, which is also risky. Maybe Eddie had a car and she took it.”

  “And why run to your place? Don’t make no sense to run to your place.”

  I thought for a moment about that.

  “Unless she wasn’t lying to me,” I said, “and my words actually did have an impact on her the other night. Maybe she did see me as a source of protection, seeing as this source was now defunct.”

  “My my my,” Luther said, “somebody in this room think he’s ‘The Girl Whisperer.’”

  I walked around the room like I was walking on eggshells, careful not to touch nor disturb anything. I looked under the bed and found only dirt. I pulled out the drawers of a low chest to find nothing but a sparse collection of men’s clothes. I recognized the shiny red shirt Eddie wore the night I met him at Sinz.

  “Okay,” I said, “I think I’ve seen enough.”

  “Good,” said Luther. “Let’s get out of here before we need to burn the clothes we’re wearing. You going to call five-oh? ‘Cause if you do, I need to exit stage left.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll do it anonymously. I’m not in the mood for an anal probe today, either.”

  Once back in the truck and on the road, I scrolled to a site on my phone that I used to use as a cop. I used it to anonymously text the Miami-Dade crime-stoppers tip line about the location of a dead body.

  “Think Tommy Nero know his boy is dead?” said Luther.

  “Let’s find out,” I said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  IN TERMS OF ATMOSPHERE COMPARED TO WHERE WE had just been, The Saltwater Bay Crab Company may as well have been on Jupiter. Waiters in white shirts and bow ties whirled trays of seafood around a dining room of white tablecloths, mahogany furniture, and glistening hardwood floors. Along the far wall was a spectacular view of the beach through a row of windows overlooking the boardwalk from three floors up inside the Jade Atlantic Hotel.

  “Tommy Nero owns this restaurant?” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” said Luther, “but you won’t find his name on any L-L-C papers.”

  “I’m sorry, sirs,” said the young maître d’ in a tuxedo as he looked us up and down with a sad smirk. “Our lunch reservations are full.”

  “We have an appointment to see Tommy,” said Luther.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know any—”

  Phil, who will always be Thinning-Red-Hair to me, walked up behind the boy and placed his hand on his back.

  “It’s okay,” said Phil with some reluctance. The boy seemed to retreat inside a cocoon of himself to the right of the podium.

  Phil motioned us in. We followed. Today he wore a Panama hat, dark red sunglasses with gold wire frames, a light green plaid sport coat over a brown shirt, tan pants, and brown shoes.

  “Hi, Phil,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “Such obscene language for such a fine establishment,” said Luther.

  “I know, huh?” I said. “And us so charming.”

  Armaud leaned against a wall. I smiled at him. He stared at me with no expression.

  I saw the unmistakable crater-on-beach-ball silhouette against the brightness of the beach. Tommy Nero was cracking open the biggest pile of crabs I had ever seen, tossing the shells into a big glass bowl.

  Tommy looked up as we approached his table. A viscous white gob of crab had attached itself to a ridge on his puffy cheek.

  “Luther,” he said with his mouth full, “I’m surprised at you, hanging around with this lowlife. Thought you were a man of God.”

  “Tommy,” said Luther, “the man got something to say. Might do you good to listen.”

  Tommy chomped some more, wiped his face with a white linen napkin, and motioned us to sit in the two chairs opposite him. We did.

  “You like my restaurant, Titus?” said Tommy.

  “Figures you would own a place where there’s lots of bones being cracked,” I said.

  “Funny. Joe’s Stone Crab is closed in the summer, but my place is open. I have Maryland blue crabs flown in. I like them better anyway.”

  “Eddie Corrado is dead,” I said, noticing the glob of crab was still on Tommy’s cheek.

  “So?” said Tommy. “What’s that to me?”

  “Tommy,” said Luther. “No need to play it that way. Titus is cool.”

  Tommy stared at both of us for a good long beat. We stared back. He picked up a crab leg and cracked it. He sucked some of the meat out and resumed chewing.

  “Fine,” Tommy said. “Who the fuck cares that Eddie Corrado is dead? I didn’t do it.”

  “We know,” I said. “It was an amateur.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Again, what does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Last time we spoke,” I said, “there was a hint that Eddie Corrado was skimming money off of you. You found out, but you let him continue. There are only two reasons you would do so, either A or B. A would be to find out if he was skimming for someone else. B would be to figure out where he hid the money so you could get it back. Which one was it?”

  Tommy laughed.

  “Let’s just say,” he said, “just for fun, that one of those is true. Why would I tell you?”

  “Because maybe I can help you get your money back,” I said.

  He stopped chewing. His colorless eyes jiggled in his big head.

  “I thought you found the idea of working for me distasteful,” he said.

  “It’s B, isn’t it?” I said with a smile. “I’m thinking Eddie Corrado stole a lot of money from you, beyond the basic skimming. That’s the real reason you let him live. You needed to figure out where he hid it. If Eddie is dead, he can’t tell you where it is, can he?”

  Tommy wiped his face again and missed the glob of crab again. He leaned back in his chair with folded arms.

  “You think you’re so goddamned smart, don’t you?” he said.

  “You said it yourself, Tommy,” I said. “You love money. Everything you do is for money. The only reason you would let Eddie Corrado live one second longer than necessary would be for money.”

  Tommy leaned forward, glanced out at the ocean, and
folded his hands.

  “Okay,” he said, “Eddie’s been skimming off me for a while. I found out about two weeks ago and wanted to know if he was working for one of my, ah, competitors—so I let it slide for a few days. Big mistake. Eddie got his hands on a large amount and vanished.”

  “How much?” I said.

  “Why do you want to know how much?”

  “So I know what I’m looking for. If I find it, I’ll return it to you.”

  Tommy laughed. “You’ll return it to me. Right. Mr. Bleeding-Heart who saves innocent girls is going to bring my money back. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table.

  “If I find your money, Tommy,” I said, “I’ll bring it back to you. I don’t respect you. I don’t respect what you do. Phil is annoying, too. And you’ve got a glob of crab stuck on your cheek that’s driving me insane. But I do respect my own word. If I say I’ll bring your money back—if and only if I find it, that is—then you can bet you’re going to get your money back.”

  Tommy wiped his cheek. It was finally clean.

  “What do you want from me?” he said.

  “I was ambushed the other day,” I said. “Two guys in a brown Buick with a shotgun over on Meridian. Had to be local. They weren’t very good.”

  “I saw that on the Channel 7 news. Looks like they missed. Shame.”

  “I’d love to know who hired them. Maybe you could ask around, maybe find out.”

  “In exchange for my money returned?”

  “I can’t guarantee that, Tommy. Your money might already be in Belize for all I know. But whoever hired two guys in a brown Buick with a shotgun to ventilate me is somehow involved. Maybe that person has your money.”

  There was a long silence as we all stared at each other.

  “I don’t know,” Tommy said, “‘cause after that incident at my office last time, I was ready to ventilate you myself.”

  “Bad business decision,” I said. “No money in it. There’s money in this. Two million.”

  Tommy stared off at the ocean again and back.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll ask around. But I need something from you.”