Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  “That kid just mentioned that Richmond might look to cause Markus some trouble, back in Jamaica.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The bad kind.”

  “We can call Lucia. She’ll keep an eye on him.”

  I nodded. I would do that. I’d call Lucia.

  Danielle leaned her head back against the headrest. “You have another idea, don’t you?”

  “You know, even if Markus makes it back here to Miami, Richmond is always going to be just there in Lauderhill.”

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking he’s a bad dude.”

  “And?”

  “And if he’s up to no good in Jamaica, the chances are he’s up to no good here too.”

  “And you want to know what kind of no good he’s up to,” she said.

  I nodded.

  Danielle nodded. “Me too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  WE DROVE BACK up I-95, enjoying the sunshine, but with the top down talking was out. We headed straight back to West Palm and parked on Clematis Street. We wandered down to E.R. Bradley’s Saloon on South Flagler, where Ron sat with an icy beer mug, a plate of conch fritters and a smile that could power a small town. He had been sitting at Lady Cassandra’s apartment, reading the paper and bored out of his mind, while Cassandra lunched with some pals at The Breakers. Ron was more than happy to cross the bridge and meet us when I called him from Miami, and it appeared he had wasted no time in getting there.

  Bradley’s is an all-outdoor establishment, sitting under canopies that look like they were erected by the Army Corps of Engineers. In the summer Bradley’s bakes, and the servers can’t bring ice water fast enough. But in season, it is a pleasure to watch the traffic along South Flagler Drive, and the Intracoastal waterway beyond. Ron sat under a fan that gently moved the air around, watching clouds the color of aluminum mingle on the horizon over the barrier island of Palm Beach.

  The lunch burrito weighed heavily on me so I eschewed more food in favor of an iced tea, and Danielle got a daiquiri. We sipped our drinks watching the scene for a while. I was lost in thought about Markus. I feared Desmond Richmond was the kind of guy who was like a starfish. You cut him in half and he grows into two new starfish. I wasn’t sure if pushing him on Markus would end up coming back on the kid, but I was growing more confident that it would live to haunt young Jamaican kids in the future, as Richmond made to ensure his position was more ironclad. There was also the possibility, or if Markus’s new college buddy was on the money, the likelihood that Richmond might make an example of him.

  “You’re worried about Markus,” said Danielle.

  I nodded. “I don’t like the thought of Richmond, here or there.”

  “What is his business here?” asked Ron.

  “I don’t really know, and that’s the problem. He’s got the storefront in Lauderhill. Custom printing. T-shirts, mugs, that sort of thing. But that place is a dump. There’s no way that place is funding any kind of lifestyle.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “He was a backup in the bobsled, parlayed that minor fame into a green card and some kind of mini-empire. Everyone back in MoBay treated him like he was a big deal. But all I’ve seen is a low-rent printing shop.”

  “And running shoes,” said Danielle.

  “Yeah. Running shoes.”

  “So how do we find out what he’s into?” asked Ron.

  I let out a long breath. When I had been lunching with Lucas in Miami Beach it had occurred to me that if I wanted to know who Cornelius Winston’s links were in the US, I knew someone who would know that. Someone with connections in all the dark corners in Lauderhill. And if that someone knew about Winston, then a buck got you ten that he knew about Desmond Richmond.

  Danielle was watching me, reading my mind, or something close to it. “You haven’t practiced your saxophone lately.”

  I shook my head.

  “You need to call Buzz Weeks,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Buzz will know,” she said.

  I shook my head again. “No, he won’t. But he knows someone who will.” I pulled out my phone and called Buzz.

  Buzz Weeks was a saxophone player who played world-class halls around the world, but called South Florida home. I had met him through a mutual friend, and he had not only helped me with a previous case, but had also taken on the task of giving me lessons on the saxophone that I had been gifted by the same mutual friend.

  “Buzz, it’s Miami Jones.”

  “Miami, long time no hear.”

  “It’s been a while. Where’ve you been?”

  “New York. Fun town, but cold, brother. You still playing your horn?”

  “Now and then. I think I’ve got Take the A-train nailed.”

  “Good to hear. That’s a great tune. One of the Duke’s best. So, what can I do you for?”

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need to speak to Cool-aid.”

  There was silence on the phone, not even breathing.

  “Buzz, you there?”

  “Yeah, brother. You sure about that? I nearly lost my lunch last time you met with him.”

  “Me too. But yes, I do need to meet him. Can you arrange it?”

  “If you’re sure. Come to Ted’s tonight. He’ll be there.”

  “You playing?”

  “Course.”

  “I’ll be there. Thanks.”

  I hung up and looked at Danielle. She was smiling.

  “Fancy an evening of jazz?” I asked.

  “I’m there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  TED’S JAZZ AND Social Club sat behind a low-rent strip mall off West Sunrise Boulevard in Lauderhill. It seemed that Lauderhill was becoming my second home, and having developed a liking for jerk chicken in Jamaica, I had good reason to believe I’d be here more. Danielle and I left Ron at Bradley’s, and headed up A1A to Singer Island. We got in our gear and walked down to City Beach, across the paths through the sand hills, and onto the beach. Once we hit the hard stuff she took the lead and picked up to a steady jog. I dropped in behind and enjoyed the view. We kept a good pace until we got to where the island thins out to a finger, and she stopped and stretched a little, and then we headed back across our footprints.

  The sun was low in the sky when we got back to City Beach, and we stretched as we watched the guys packing up the sun lounges and umbrellas that rented to hotel guests during the day. We walked at a good clip back across the island, to my little rancher. We both took showers and got dressed, she in a little black dress, and me in a plain shirt and linen sports jacket. Then we killed time watching the sun disappear behind Riviera Beach until it was time to leave.

  I parked in front of a nail salon that was doing a roaring trade despite the late hour, and we cut between the salon and a convenience store painted in the yellow, green and black of Jamaica, down an alley that in other circumstances would have looked a very stupid place to go. We found the sofa on the street outside the building, two old guys with generous smiles sitting in the cool evening, shooting the breeze. They both gave a nod and a ma’am to Danielle and a look of approval to me, and we stepped by an old, rusted sign that had been tacked into the wall with a nail. It read Ted’s Jazz and Social Club. Other than the sign you might have thought you were walking into some stranger’s home.

  Inside it was already busy. These were not people who were fashionably late. They were fashionably on time, which suited me just fine. A throng of pine tables sat at the middle of the room, fronted by rows of stackable chairs. They were facing a small stage painted in a matt black, such that it look like it was swallowing the light around it. We headed toward the rear of the room, where a congregation of folks were gathered around a small bar. They were all very well dressed, better than most people wore at weddings these days. As was par for the course in Lauderhill we were the only white faces in the room. It did
n’t bother me one bit, and never seemed to bother them. A woman with a wartime hairdo saw us and gave Danielle a broad smile.

  “I thought you’d forgotten about us,” said the woman, looping her arm around Danielle’s and dragging her toward the bar.

  “It has been too long,” said Danielle. “We just got back from Jamaica, actually.”

  “Do tell.” The women left me for dead and headed for a thin guy with a pencil mustache who was mixing something amber in a glass shaker. I turned tail and headed for the side of the stage, where a door led to a hallway, where another door opened into a dressing room. It was filled with a mismatched assortment of furniture, and a mismatched assortment of men. There was no uniform, no common theme to their look, except that each man held an instrument, save two, and I assumed them to be the piano player and the drummer. A guy in a deep sofa saw me and smiled.

  “If it ain’t screamin’ cats. What is this I see? You wearin’ grown-up clothes?” My previous visit had seen me blow my saxophone for the first time for Buzz, producing a sound that was less than human. I’d gotten some ribbing for it, and then I’d managed a decent note, and I’d gotten a lot of nods. These guys loved their music. Even the guy in the sofa. He had a black face and black shoes. The rest of his suit was yellow. The trousers, the shirt, the jacket, the tie. Last time I saw the guy he was dressed like a zebra, so he certainly had some style about him.

  “Me, I wear a suit like that if I want to go to a Halloween party as a banana,” I said.

  The banana gave me a broad grin. These guys liked to think they talked smack. I’d played football in college. This was a church picnic in comparison.

  “Where’s yo horn, brother?”

  “I’m leaving the music to the pros, tonight. Just dropped into say hi and break a leg.”

  “Break a leg? What the hell kind of thing is that to say?” said a trumpet player who was on a stool behind the sofa.

  Banana looked up at him. “It’s white man talk. Shakespeare or some crazy stuff. He means have a good show.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Is Buzz in?”

  “He’s havin’ a smoke out back. Can you believe it? We can’t even smoke in here no more.”

  “Welcome to the new Florida,” I said. “Check your fun at the door.”

  “Amen to that, brother.”

  I wandered through the room, each man offering a smile as he worked on tuning his instrument, and I pushed my way out into the back. It was a small courtyard, a single bulb enough to fill the space. Buzz Weeks was leaning on the wall, a lit cigarette between his fingers. He was stylish, in pleated trousers and a brown jacket and tie, and matching wing tips. He looked like something from The Sting.

  “Hey, Buzz.”

  “Miami Jones.” He leaned over and slapped me five, and then put the cigarette to his lips. He wasn’t a kid but he was younger than me, at least that was my guess. But he had old eyes, like he’d seen a lot more than he was telling. An old soul, my mother would have said.

  “How things?”

  “All good, brother. You?”

  “Not bad. So, you speak to Cool-aid?”

  “Nah, man. I don’t speak to Cool-aid. I know one of his guys. He says Cool-aid will be here. He’s like a politician, though. He comes when he pleases, stays long enough to be seen, then leaves.”

  “Why does he come at all?”

  “I told you before, he’s looking for the cred. This ain’t his crowd. We don’t do that stuff, and he knows it. He wants to be seen as a big man around town. But he don’t try to sell here, and he don’t bother no one, so no one bothers him.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll let me know before he leaves.”

  Buzz looked me up and down. “He’ll know you’re here, brother. I’m sure he won’t leave without sayin’ hello.”

  I nodded and made to leave Buzz to his cigarette. “Have a good show,” I said.

  “Thanks, brother. And hey, I like your look. Grown up.”

  I smiled. “So I’m told.”

  I wandered back through the green room and wished the boys the best, and then I went out to find Danielle. She was at a four-cover table with the woman from the bar, who we had met before but whose name I couldn’t recall. She was gracious enough to remind me it was Iris, and her man was LeBron.

  “Miami,” I said, shaking their hands.

  “We know, honey. You’re hard to forget.”

  She offered that thought with a handsome smile, so I took it as a compliment. LeBron skipped to the bar and brought back a couple beers, and we clinked bottles.

  “So, LeBron. Like the basketballer.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, The King, that’s right.”

  “Can’t be too many of those.”

  “Nah, I never heard of another. But at least now I don’t gotta spell it out all the time.”

  “Good point.”

  We took a drink and he pointed his bottle at me.

  “So, Miami. Not too many of them.”

  “Ohio, Florida and me. As far as I know.”

  He smiled and sipped his beer, and we chatted for a while until the band started drifting out. He was a mortgage broker, and Iris worked in customer service at Fort Lauderdale airport. They were smart and happy people, and I enjoyed their company. I grabbed another round before the lights dropped, and then we sat back and enjoyed the kind of show that comes with a fifty-buck cover and twenty-buck drinks in New York City. It was a joy to watch professionals at their trade, each a master of his instrument. But what struck me most was how much fun they had doing it. It was like watching a major league pitcher play catch with his kids on the front lawn. Just for the fun of it. We should all enjoy what we do so much, and do it so well.

  As the band played, I noted a latecomer wander through the door. He wasn’t like anyone else. He was the same color, but that was where the similarities ended. This guy looked like he had tripped over and fallen out of a time machine from the seventies. His afro was tight and his suit was pure burgundy velour. I was also of a mind to believe a pirate had died to give up the shirt he was wearing. He looked around the room like he owned it, until he saw me. Then his face dropped. I winked, and then returned to the show. It occurred that he might be the funniest-looking thing in the zoo, but he was also one mean hombre, who it wouldn’t pay to upset.

  Unless I really had to.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  BUZZ LED US out into the rear courtyard. The breeze felt cool and I knew the stars overhead were soon to be covered by a blanket of cloud. I let Cool-aid go second, and his bodyguard go third. It was a respect thing. At least that’s what I learned watching De Niro movies. I had about as much respect for Cool-aid as I did for Lance Armstrong, but I knew respect was important to people who never bothered to earn it, so I took the rear. Cool-aid walked like a snake might if it had legs, with a side-to-side motion that wasted a lot of forward momentum, and looked like the Bee Gees were playing inside his head. Buzz dropped into the shadows and Cool-aid spun on one toe to face me.

  “Where’s your little surfboard shirt?” He smiled at his own wit. I did not. “You know, ‘cause last time you was wearin’ a shirt with little surfboards on it, and now you is dressed like a man.”

  I nodded at his suit. “My neighbors had a sofa made of that material when I was a kid.” I didn’t want to poke the bear, but there was a limit.

  “You what?”

  I decided to get to the point. “I need your help.”

  This brought a big smile. The man had teeth that would be the envy of a Triple Crown winner, and he flashed them at all of us.

  “Lemme git this straight. Last time you come here, you want a favor from Cool-aid.” He wobbled his shoulders as he spoke, as if he were singing the words at Woodstock. But there was nothing melodious about his voice. “And then you come here again, and you want my help again?”

  “Are you all caught up now?” I wondered for a moment how such stupid people end up so successful. It wasn’t just in crime
. I knew sportsmen, politicians, actors, even businesspeople who combined had the collective intelligence of a bonfire. Then reality sunk in. There was smart, and there was street-smart. And Cool-aid was the latter. He might have a penchant for stating the blindingly obvious, but he knew when someone was about to stick him, and so far he’d always gotten his shank in first.

  Cool-aid lost the smile. “Gimme one single reason why I should help you, surfboards?”

  “Let me ask you a question in return. Last time you helped me, was it good for your business?”

  Cool-aid bobbed his head about to the rhythm in his mind. “It didn’t hurt. What’s yo point, white man?”

  “My point is I can help you out again. This time, much closer to home.”

  He bobbled again, considering his options. Then he decided with a theatrical jutting of the jaw. “What you wanna know?”

  “I need to know about two men.”

  “Two men?” His eyes went wide like this was going to tax him beyond his brain’s capability.

  I ignored it. “First guy is called Cornelius Winston.”

  “Refresh my memory?”

  “Jamaica All-Schools Athletics.”

  “Yeah, okay. I know that cat. What about him?”

  “He’s all kinds of big news in Jamaica. I want to know what he’s got going here.”

  “Winston’s chump change, man. He don’t do no business.”

  “He’s trying to get a very important role in Jamaican athletics. And he’s doing something in the US to make that happen.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I heard about that. You talkin’ about the Olympic thing.” Cool-aid wasn’t quick, but he listened well.

  “That’s right. So what’s he doing here?”

  “Brother’s sellin’ votes.”

  “For what?”

  “You din’t hear about the Olympic bid?”

  “Yeah, I did. But how is Winston buying votes? He doesn’t have the position yet. He doesn’t have a vote to sell.”

  “Call it futures, man. See the old man who’s in the seat now . . . What’s his name?”