Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  “Prestwich.”

  “That’s him. That old guy, he’s too clean for this stuff. I mean, those cats do everything first-class, you know it. But word is the old man votes on bids according to technical merit. Technical merit, man. Who does that?”

  “You mean he can’t be bought?”

  “That either. But he’s bailing out. Re-tire-ment. You know what I’m sayin’? So Winston is the man. He does the deals. That brother can deal. The honkies doing the bid here want Jamaica’s vote, so Winston says he’ll give it, in return for some of Uncle Sam’s cold hard green. You know what I’m sayin’? In return, he uses some of his payola to fund the brothers back in Jamaica who are going to vote him in. It’s win-win.”

  Cool-aid started his little dance again and I thought about his words. Winston was buying his way to the top job using other people’s money. It was clever, but it presented a problem. I didn’t have any way to stop it. It was above my pay grade. Best I could do was inform Corporal Tellis, and hope she could follow it up from her end. I wasn’t even convinced that would get anywhere, so I turned to my more immediate problem.

  “Okay, guy number two. Desmond Richmond.”

  Cool-aid stopped jiggling about and frowned. It looked like an old man squinting into the sun. “The bobsled brother?”

  “That’s him.”

  He started moving again, slowly at first, like he had to work himself into it all over. “That brother is a different creature altogether.”

  “How so?”

  “He in business. He not afraid to take a brother down.”

  “Tell me. What’s he into?”

  “What’s he not into? He got all kind of merchandise.”

  “Does he have the kind of merchandise you have?” It never ceased to amuse how these guys couldn’t utter the word drugs. Perhaps every bushel held a wire.

  “Yeah, man. But he works on the north side. My business is south, down to Plantation.”

  “So there’s expansion opportunity.”

  Cool-aid turned his head and looked at me through one eye. “Go on.”

  “Richmond has threatened a friend of mine. An athlete. He gave the kid some shoes, now he thinks he owns the boy.”

  “Yeah, I bet he got shoes to give like Santy Claus.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned back and started a move that looked like the Supremes backing up Diana Ross. “Word is, he heisted a shipment of kicks from a warehouse in Georgia, Mississippi, someplace like that.”

  It sounded more likely than a sponsorship deal with Nike. “So he brought the shoes here? Where?”

  “You seen his operation?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of boarded-up storefronts.”

  Cool-aid held his hands out like a magician finishing a trick. Richmond’s print store was in a building with another four or five units, all of which were buttoned up tight. Except for his. Plenty of room to store, well, anything.

  “If you know this, how come the cops don’t know?”

  “Who says they don’t know?”

  “If they know why don’t they go in?”

  Cool-aid tilted his head back to the sky and let out a laugh like a kookaburra.

  “Point made,” I said. “Where does Richmond hang out, apart from the print shop?”

  He dropped his head and shrugged. “I don’t keep tabs on the cat. But I tell you where he’s gonna be tomorrow. Where every good Jamaican will be.”

  “Church?”

  He did the flip-top head laugh again, and came back down holding his chest from all the mirth. “Oh, man. You are a novelty. No, not church. The cricket, man. Richmond gonna be at the cricket.”

  “The Jamaica game?’

  “Not Jamaica, man. West Indies.”

  “West Indies, right. And you think Richmond will be there?”

  “You not listening. Every brother gonna be there.”

  “Then I’ll be there too.”

  “You go, you might just run into old man Winston.”

  “He’ll be at the game?”

  “I tole you. Every brother be there.”

  I nodded and looked at Buzz, who was pretending he wasn’t visible. “On with the show?” I suggested. Buzz nodded.

  “One minute,” said Cool-aid. “I done for you, now what you gonna do for me?”

  I stepped to him so our noses were almost touching, and I could see his bodyguard twitching out of the corner of my eye.

  “If Richmond’s territory became vacant, would that be good for you?”

  Cool-aid danced with his shoulders. “That would be nice.”

  “Well, I’m going to pull the rug from under Mr. Richmond. You make of that what you will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I LEFT DANIELLE in good company at Ted’s, and took off in the Boxster. Danielle was as game as most for an adventure, but she was also a sheriff’s deputy, and had a firm belief in the law, and the process that went along with it. I saw those leather legal tomes more as guidelines, and my next activity wasn’t going to blur them so much as cross them like Washington over the Delaware. I had no doubt that Danielle knew that I crossed that line more than most, but like the US Army of old she operated on a don’t ask, don’t tell philosophy.

  I parked the car a few blocks from Richmond’s shop. The area was dark and silent. No street lamps were operable, and the cloud had pushed in off the water to cover any moonlight. I still felt like a beacon, with my linen jacket and blond hair. I couldn’t do much about the hair, but I pulled off the shirt and jacket and found a dark gray workout t-shirt in the trunk, along with a small backpack.

  I walked up the opposite side of the street to survey the store, and saw nothing. No light, no movement. One thing about breaking into a place that probably held illicit goods was the lack of security cameras and alarms. These guys didn’t want the cops showing up for a stray raccoon. I crossed the road and did a lap of the strip. The only windows were in the print shop: the storefront, and the two small ones at the rear by a rear door. All the other units were boarded up with ply and screws. All the units were the same size and configuration, except the end unit, which had a roller door, like on a large garage. It was designed for deliveries from vans or small trucks. If these guys had any brains at all, that door was padlocked on the inside, and even if I could open it, it would make enough noise to wake up folks in San Francisco. There was an access door built into the garage roller door so a man could pass through without opening the whole thing. It was only about four feet high.

  I dropped my backpack and pulled out a small leather wallet. My good friend Sally Mondavi had given it to me as a birthday present, about an even six months from my actual birthday. He thought it might come in handy, and had shown me how to use the tools held in it. I dropped to my knees and took out a pick and a tension wrench. The lock was an older model tumbler lock. I inserted the pick and felt for the tumblers, getting two or three each time before they all fell back into place and I had to start again. It took a lot longer than in the movies, and I felt exposed. There was no cover, just parched asphalt parking lot behind me. But no one came, and eventually I got the pick in position and used the tension wrench to turn the barrel. The door snapped open with a sudden bang that sent a tinny echo across the lot. I pushed it open just enough to get inside, then grabbed my backpack and stepped through.

  Pushing the door closed but not locking it, I grabbed a small flashlight from my pack. I panned the light across the dark room. The space was filled with wooden pallets of freight that stood five feet high and were shrink-wrapped. I moved through the pallets, counting at least a dozen before I found one that had its plastic wrap torn away. I shone the light on the boxes behind the wrapping and an orange Nike swoosh glowed back at me. It was definitely Richmond’s stash of running shoes.

  I moved through the maze of wrapped shoe boxes toward the wall of the unit, where I found a connecting door to the next unit. It wasn’t locked, so I moved through. I realized I was holding my
breath, so I stopped and slowly took air in through my nose, and let it out through my mouth. The next unit had shelving erected around its perimeter. I shone the light across the shelves and saw thin boxes with Sony logos on them. Boosted Blu-ray players. I thought about going further but I had confirmed what I wanted to confirm, and I wanted to get back to Ted’s before the show ended and people started asking questions. I edged back to the door between the two units, and stopped when I heard the roller door rattle loudly. I killed my flashlight and blinked hard to adjust my eyes. The access door squealed open, and I saw the glow of a flashlight over the top of the pallets of shoes.

  “See, it’s open. I tole you,” said a voice. It was young, a kid, and African American.

  “Dis is a bad idea, holmes,” said a second voice, same approximate age.

  “Hey, anyone here? Your door is open, man,” called the first voice.

  There was no one inside but me, and I wasn’t answering, so the question bounced around in the silence for a while, and then the first voice spoke again.

  “Ain’t no one here, holmes.”

  “Is still a bad idea, Dis Mista Winston’s stuff.”

  “He ain’t gonna notice two pairs. Listen you wan’ a pair a LeBron’s or not?”

  The response must have been physical because I heard no answer. The kids were light on their feet, and I couldn’t hear them move about. I assumed they were scanning the pallets for their preferred design and size, like a late-night Foot Locker. After a couple of minutes I heard a whispered here, and then the sound of plastic ripping. It wasn’t going to be quite as clean a break-in as they assumed, if they were ripping the shrink-wrap off unopened pallets, but maybe Winston’s inventory control wasn’t that good.

  “There, that’s a nine,” said one of the voices. I couldn’t tell them apart anymore, but I knew they had big feet for kids.

  “Find an eight. I’m an eight.”

  “Here, here’s one.”

  I saw the flashlight drop then point at the ceiling, and the muffled wump of butts hitting the ground. The lids were removed from the cartons, and I realized the little monsters were trying the shoes on for size. It was ballsy, but I guess if you’re going to bother breaking in and stealing basketball boots, you don’t want the discomfort of stealing the wrong size. Apparently it was all good, because I heard them stand and jump up and down on the spot, perhaps simulating a jump shot at the hoop.

  “Sick,” said one voice.

  “Kick,” said the other.

  The flashlight dropped again, and I heard them making their way to the door. They opened it, stepped through and pulled it closed. I stood in the darkness for a couple of minutes, then turned on my light and wove my way through the pallets. I found the spot where the midnight shoppers had taken their bounty. They had left the open boxes lying on the concrete floor. At least they had taken their old shoes with them. I wondered what was going to happen when they appeared on the street with new boots and no credible explanation for how they acquired them. It wasn’t going to take much to connect them to the two empty boxes. I shook my head at the stupidity of youth. I hadn’t broken into any warehouses as a kid, but I’d done my share of dumb things. I knew if they lived long enough, the kids would probably wise up some. It was the living long enough that was going to be the trick.

  I left the boxes where they lay. Taking them would do nothing, and leaving them covered my tracks completely. I made my way back to the access door and gently pressed the handle down and opened the lock. As quietly as I could I opened the door, and then slipped out. I wasn’t confident that the kids wouldn’t be sitting right outside admiring their new footwear, but I couldn’t see them. I pulled the door closed but didn’t lock it, and then I skirted the side of the building until I hit the front. I crossed the street and casual as could be, just a guy with a backpack out for a walk in a dark neighborhood in the wee small hours. I made it back to the car, dropped my pack on the passenger seat and headed back to see Buzz and the boys finish their set.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I TOLD DANIELLE everything that Cool-aid had said. There was no doubt in my mind she had noticed that Buzz and Cool-aid had come back inside Ted’s without me, but she didn’t ask where I’d been. I made it back for the end of the set and had a beer, and we thanked everyone and headed out. On the drive home I told her that Richmond had stolen Nikes in his warehouse. She said we needed to go to the police, and I told her that Cool-aid knew someone in the local precinct was on the take, and alerting them would only serve to alert Richmond. She sat in silence for a while, biting her lip. We were zooming through Delray Beach when she finally spoke.

  “You said the shoes came from Georgia?”

  “Georgia or Mississippi, he said. He wasn’t sure.”

  “But not Florida.”

  “No, not Florida,” I said.

  “So they crossed state lines.”

  “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “FBI.”

  “Okay. Do we just call the Hoover Building? Hey, we’ve got some missing Nikes.”

  “Well, actually you could. They have a tip line, but I’ve got a better idea. You remember that leadership conference I went to in Atlanta.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I met the agent-in-charge of the field office down here. He’s a good guy. I’ve got his card at the office.”

  So we got off the freeway at the airport and stopped off at the Criminal Justice Complex on Gun Club Road. The good thing about police stations is they’re open twenty-four/seven. This was a huge office building that housed law enforcement of all varieties, and it looked closed for business when we pulled into the large lot. But the lobby desk was open, and Danielle dashed in and went up to her desk and came back with a business card that bore the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I pulled back onto the freeway and headed home.

  “You gonna call him now? It’s late.”

  “No. There’s nothing going down tonight. I’ll call him first thing.”

  And she did. I was still in bed, but I don’t think Danielle had slept much. Apparently neither did her guy at the FBI. They chatted, and then she brought the phone into the bedroom and put it on speaker.

  “Miami, on the line is Agent-in-Charge Marcard. Agent Marcard, I have Miami Jones.”

  “Mr. Jones.”

  I always found those FBI titles so grandiose. Special Agent this and that. But I figured it was not the time to discuss it. “Agent,” I said. He asked me to give him the lowdown and I did. I didn’t tell him my source and he didn’t ask.

  “Is your source good?”

  “One hundred percent,” I said. “I’m sure the merchandise is there.” I didn’t add how I was so sure.

  “Okay. Well, the hearsay of a crime figure, and I am assuming that your source is such, correct me if I’m wrong, won’t stand up in front of a judge. We’ll need more to get a warrant.”

  “Tomorrow, no, actually, later today, there is a cricket game being played at Broward Stadium. My source says Richmond will be there. The kid we brought out from Jamaica will also be there. I have reason to believe he might try to harm the kid.”

  “That’s not an FBI matter.”

  “Unless Richmond kidnaps him.”

  “Is there a credible threat?”

  I looked at Danielle. She shook her head. This was no time to make up stories.

  “No, not really.”

  “Look, I’d like to help Danielle, you know I would. But we have hearsay of a federal crime and speculation on a local one. We need more, and it needs to be within the FBI’s remit for me to act.”

  “I understand,” said Danielle.

  “Look, I’ll have someone check out the strip mall, look into this Richmond guy. If we can confirm a heist of this nature in either Georgia or Mississippi, then we can at least open a file.”

  I’m not the most comfortable person when it comes to bureaucracy. I understand that we are a group of states united und
er a common flag, rather than one federal entity, but I didn’t suffer the demarcation malarkey well at all. I liked to just get the job done, and I wanted to tell this stuffed shirt exactly that. But I didn’t. I bit my tongue, because this was Danielle’s deal. It was her contact, and he might be important to her one day. And him doing nothing was where we were before she made the call anyway.

  “If there’s something federal in nature that is credible, just call,” said Marcard.

  “Sure. Thanks,” said Danielle.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “What is it, Mr. Jones?”

  “It’s Miami. Mr. Jones was my dad. Listen, do you guys handle corruption?”

  “Every law enforcement body handles corruption. But again, we are federal in nature.”

  “So like, if an Olympic bid were making illicit payoffs to foreign bodies in return for votes?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, that would be us. What do you have?”

  I told him about Winston, and about Lucia investigating his network, and how we had reason to believe he was getting payoffs in the US. And that he was here, right now. I didn’t mention that the vital information had come from a hood named Cool-aid, rather than a corporal in the Jamaican Constabulary Force, and Danielle didn’t push me on it.

  “Alright. Let me check NCIC on that. I’ll get back to you.”

  NCIC was the national law enforcement database, where cops could check on each other’s investigations, to see if someone was already involved in something they were about to walk in on. It worked in a broad, anonymous fashion, with minimal detail, so crooked cops couldn’t source intel for the bad guys. If Agent Marcard found something, he would have to call the contact agent to explain his interest. He was good to his word, because twenty minutes later, he called back.

  “Okay, Mr. Jones, you got a bite. We have a task force looking into corruption of national and international sporting bids. They’re looking into everyone. Good, bad or otherwise. FIFA, the NFL, the IOC. Anyone. They know your guy. They want to talk. Can you be in my office in Miramar in three hours?”