Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  “No way,” Everton said, shaking his head. “No way in hell was I sticking around or getting seen. How that man screamed—I ain’t ever heard before. Crying. Begging. He would’ve done anything. ‘Sorry, I won’t tell anyone.’ ‘Please, it was a mistake, I didn’t want to see that.’ Desperate. Like I said, I have me other places to go and hide. That’s right what I did too. That’s right what I’m going to do now. You just lucky. Lucky Pete Fernandez, private detective man.”

  Lucky was the last thing Pete felt as he watched Everton wander into the darkness of the park. He waited for the man to fade out of his vision before turning around and heading back toward his car.

  Pete tensed when he saw the figure leaning on his car. He reached behind his back and felt the familiar shape of his gun. Nights like these tended to snowball and get worse, even in the tropics. He’d learned to be ready.

  But as he got closer, the shape started to become more familiar. Now the question wasn’t who was waiting for him, but why.

  “You’re getting better at this,” Harras said as he pushed off Pete’s car, taking a few steps toward him.

  “Even I am bound to learn something after a while,” Pete said.

  “Though, I can’t imagine you picked up on anything the cops missed,” Harras said.

  “You know better than most that’s my specialty,” Pete said.

  “Touché,” Harras said.

  “Look—I need to talk to you,” Harras said. “About Posada.”

  “Posada?”

  “You interviewed him, right?” Harras said.

  “Yeah, for a bit after my breakfast meeting with Maya,” Pete said. He had an idea where this was going.

  “What part of ‘team’ or ‘partners’ is eluding you?” Harras asked. “Did you at least tell Kathy you were crossing him off the list?”

  “We talked for a few minutes over a hot dog,” Pete said. “Not exactly a five-hour interrogation, so relax. We can all have tea together sometime soon.”

  Harras closed his eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get it.”

  “I get that you’re annoyed, sure,” Pete said. “But the opportunity presented itself and I took it. We have to be flexible.”

  “No, you get to be flexible,” Harras said. “This is your way. You bump and trip and crash into things and eventually it comes together. But that’s not how I operate, and I guarantee you it’s not how Kathy operates. For Christ’s sake, we’re not in the Stone Age. Drop a text or call.”

  Pete shrugged. “Point taken. Can I get to my car now?”

  Harras stepped to his left, motioning toward Pete’s car like a limo driver welcoming a guest. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Pete walked around the car and opened the driver side door.

  “One last thing before you jet off,” Harras said.

  Pete stopped himself from ducking into the car and waited.

  “What did you learn back there? When you wandered off to stare at the trees and dirt by the bay?”

  “It reaffirmed something,” Pete said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I hate coincidences.”

  PETE FOUND Dave right where he’d expected to, sitting on a worn barstool in Churchill’s Pub, a dingy old-school watering hole on the border of the nastiest part of Little Haiti and a wave of gentrification. Churchill’s was a Miami epicenter to the punks and scenesters who were desperate for music with bite, jagged guitars and verve that didn’t involve preprogrammed beats and Auto-Tune. Pete had seen many a band perform on the bar’s stage when he was in college. The beer had been cheap, the music loud, and the energy high.

  More recently, Churchill’s had provided a bit of cloud cover for Pete. Wanted by the police and trying to pinpoint a serial killer’s next move, Pete and Kathy had set up shop in a tiny shed near the bar’s ragged patio, courtesy of Dave Mendoza, Pete’s friend, boss, and pseudo-conscience. Dave was about Pete’s age and had a fancy trust fund to live on. He also had connections on the wrong side of the street, which sometimes came in handy.

  Pete hadn’t known Dave long, but their friendship had cemented fast. They’d both grown up in the Miami suburbs, Pete with his widowed father and Dave with his real estate mogul parents. The Book Bin had been a rare property his parents couldn’t flip for a profit. When their son, who’d collected a bit of a rap sheet over the years, asked to run the business, they were more than happy to write off the used bookstore and hand him the keys.

  Churchill’s main bar area featured a pool table, a collection of TV sets programmed to different soccer games, and the usual array of promotional posters for beers, bands, and vodka. The back room was what Pete remembered best—a ragged stage surrounded by seats you’d expect to find in a high school storage area. He felt at home here, the same nostalgic, comfortable feeling he’d feel wandering the halls of his old high school.

  “This seat taken?” Pete asked as he slid onto the stool to Dave’s left. They were the only customers. Pete remembered a time when he loved sitting in bars in the middle of the day. Even now, the novelty seemed romantic. But Pete knew the dark reality that came with those days and was in no hurry to revisit them.

  “Hola,” Dave said, lifting his bottle of Newcastle in salute. Pete could see he was a few rounds in. “What brings you here? Bored of the bookstore already?”

  “It was quiet,” Pete said. “Made an executive decision to close early. Book side and detective side. And I needed to talk to you.”

  Dave took a long pull and nodded. He didn’t seem to care that Pete was playing hooky.

  “Well, I’m here, so talk.”

  “I met up with Emily last night.”

  Dave groaned and took another long swig from the bottle. He spun his stool around, his head shaking in an elaborate show of disapproval. Dave never did anything subtly.

  “Holy shit, man,” Dave said. “Are we going down Bitch Avenue again?”

  “Come on.”

  “No, you come on, dude,” Dave said, stopping his chair to face Pete, one hand on the bar, the other pointing a finger at Pete’s face. “We’ve been over this before. She is bad news. Maybe not as a person, but bad news for you. She makes your head weird. She makes you do stupid shit, man.”

  “Rick is dead,” Pete said.

  “Who?”

  “Emily’s husband,” Pete said. “You pulled a gun on him not long ago.”

  “Her ex? That guy?” Dave asked, a bemused look on his face. “That sucks, I guess. But so what?”

  “So, she wants me to find out what happened to him,” Pete said, turning to face the bar to avoid Dave’s glare.

  “Rick—the guy who cheated on her, who threatened to kick your ass too many times to count, and who struck me as a USDA-approved assclown—is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you want to find out who killed him?”

  “Maybe I owe her something,” Pete said, forming the words that had been hiding in the back of his head since last night, like an old photo stashed away, too painful to look at, but too important to destroy. “I mean, I’ve been fine not talking to her all this time. But I do feel guilty about what happened last year. She could have died because I was off somewhere hiding, a few bottles into a bender. Plus, she asked me to help…”

  “Of course she did,” Dave said. He finished his drink and motioned for another.

  “I didn’t say yes,” Pete said. “I passed.”

  “Well, that’s novel,” Dave said, peeling the label off the empty Newcastle bottle. “Good on you. So you tell the woman no, but you’re still sniffing around the dead guy. Am I getting warmer?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Huh,” Dave said, nodding to himself. “That’s a little progress, I think. Maybe you’ll evolve into a beautiful butterfly after all.”

  “Dare to dream.”

  “But you want your dear ol’ pal Dave to give you the skinny on this guy anyway, right?” Dave said, his eyes looking Pete up and dow
n. “Just for funsies, huh? Not for any kind of…investigation?”

  Pete responded with a wry smile.

  Dave was a rarity: a retired criminal who had no desire to step back into that life. He’d run drugs for years—cocaine, weed, pills, meth, the whole spectrum. He’d shot at people and been shot at. He knew the dealers and their distributors. He knew the gangs and what parts of town they staked a claim to. He’d also known when it was time to get out, cash in his chips, and run a used bookstore.

  That life, in Dave’s eyes, was over. He was a regular citizen now. Albeit one with a criminal record and a contacts list that was a who’s who of Miami’s most wanted. These days, he was content to enjoy his life and live off the money he’d saved. But retired or not, Dave still had some institutional knowledge Pete needed.

  “Rick is low stakes,” Dave said, his voice dropping to a whisper as the bartender slid another Newcastle in front of him. “Was low stakes. He was a dabbler. Nothing serious. He ran his real estate business but also did some stuff on the side. Low level. Some dealing. Some, uh, products—you know. He wasn’t totally on the up-and-up. But I hadn’t heard about him doing much lately. I know he cleaned cash for people.”

  “Cleaned cash?”

  “Yeah, took dirty money, cooked the books—from drug dealers or other bad guys,” Dave said. “And invested it in certain things so the numbers come out clean. Then, voila! The gangbangers can spend the money.”

  “The murder seemed gang related,” Pete said. “He was stabbed to death. I found an eyewitness when I visited the scene—”

  “The scene of the crime you’re not really investigating.”

  “Right,” Pete said. “And he said it was two guys with long knives, like machetes.”

  “Sounds like Los Enfermos,” Dave said. “Or someone trying to pin it on them.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that,” Pete said. “But what’s their deal? Who are they?”

  “Los Enfermos were started by Castro sympathizers in Miami,” Dave said. “Militant thugs who were not part of the anti-Castrista majority of Cubans down here. They took down leaders of el exilio on orders from the Cuban government, and between high-profile stunts like that, built up a pretty impressive drug business, serving as the middle men to the cartels and other interested parties. You couldn’t sell crack in Miami in the eighties without the permission of Los Enfermos. That still applies today.”

  “Wasn’t that your scene for a while?” Pete asked.

  “It was,” Dave said. “I got permission.”

  “The knives thing throws me off,” Pete said. “I mean, we live in a time where someone can walk into a club with a semi-automatic and kill a roomful of people. How does a gang of knife throwers survive?”

  “Oh, they use guns and bombs and other stuff like everyone else—maybe better,” Dave said. “But the machete kills are special. They’re done that way for emphasis. To tell people, including other gangs, to back off. To let people know that this kill was important. Whoever got sliced up deserved it.” He paused. “How hard was it to find Rick’s body?”

  “I don’t think it was hard at all,” Pete said. “They found him in Peacock Park. I mean, he wasn’t faceup on the baseball diamond, but he wasn’t chopped up and buried either.”

  “There you go,” Dave said. “Rick must have really screwed up.”

  “Why would Los Enfermos do that to Rick, though, of all people?” Pete was thinking out loud. “What makes him special?”

  “Find out where the money was going, who it was from, and you have your answer,” Dave said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The downside to cleaning cash is that you see two key bits of information. Where the money actually comes from—drug deal, robbery, murder for hire—and where it goes, pretending to be clean,” Dave said. “If Rick was cleaning money for this gang, he must have been privy to a lot of shit. Probably more than the shit he was cleared to know. Knowing Rick, a smug asshole who always thought he was smarter than he really was, he probably slipped up.”

  “And someone caught him?”

  “Rick pissed off the wrong people this time,” Dave said. “And whoever did this to him wanted the world to know it got done.”

  THE AGING jukebox creaked to life, the discs scraping against machinery as the speakers unleashed the opening chords of the Clash’s London Calling album. The bar was filling up with college kids, and high schoolers trying to act like college kids. Dave and Pete had moved to the other side of the bar, an adjoining room that faced a tiny stage. Had there been a band playing, they’d have been surrounded by sweaty, screaming punk kids. Since it was a weeknight, they still had an hour or two before things got too out of control.

  “How’s the other thing going?” Dave asked. He’d switched to bourbon. He still seemed all there, but there was a drag to his speech and his eyes seemed glazed over.

  “What other thing?”

  “Varela, the Varela case.”

  “It’s going nowhere so far,” Pete said. “I’m wondering why Kathy even needs my help. And Varela hired Harras to join us, which was a surprise.”

  “I’m sure Kathy loved that,” Dave said.

  “We were both caught off guard,” Pete said. “But I think it’ll be fine. We’ve talked to a few people, done some research, but nothing. Something doesn’t fit right.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Dave grunted and took another sip of his drink before looking at Pete. “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, I’m still getting used to myself again,” Pete said. “Not drinking…it clears your mind, for better or worse. I feel like I can see myself finally. But that’s part of the problem. I can see myself and feel everything I was drowning out for years. It’s really raw and weird, and I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is right or in tune with my brain. My instincts are off.”

  “Your instincts have always been good,” Dave said. “Except now you’re sober and not such a fuckup about it—your senses are clearer. So, again, what does your gut tell you?”

  “I’m not sure Varela is innocent,” Pete said. “But there’s more going on. Either he had help, or someone was setting him up.”

  “Retrace your steps,” Dave said. He poured the rest of his drink on the floor and set the glass on the table. Churchill’s was that kind of bar. “Find that feeling again and follow it.”

  “That’s very Zen of you.”

  Dave shrugged and stood up. He tossed two twenties on the bar and walked up to Pete, putting a hand on his shoulder. Pete could smell the beer and liquor on his breath. He tried not to enjoy it, but part of him did. This was as close as he could get—and it was probably too close for his own good.

  “I gotta get home.”

  “You okay to drive?” Pete said. “I can drop you at the store.”

  Dave started to wave him off but Pete ignored him and stood up. He put his arm around his friend and led him to the exit.

  A FEW years back, Miami International Airport could have been an honorary circle of hell: overcrowded, confusing, more flights delayed than on time, and a sense of gloom and defeat that felt thicker than the humidity outside. But after some much-needed remodeling, it almost felt like a modern airport.

  Pete wasn’t an expert. He hadn’t flown much since moving back home to Miami from New Jersey. He didn’t remember much about that flight, clouded by the news of his father’s death and brined in a half dozen airplane bottles of vodka.

  He felt awkward—standing by the JetBlue check-in area, looking around for a person he’d never met. His initial plan had involved conversation over cafecitos at one of the many Café Versailles mini-restaurants that were housed under the roof of MIA. But Pete wasn’t about to buy an airline ticket just to get past security for a jolt of caffeine and an interview.

  Pete felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned around, finding himself in front of a slim, thirtysomething JetBlue flight attendant with s
harp features and long black hair. She looked at him expectantly and with a bit of hesitation.

  “Are you Pete?”

  “Yes,” Pete said, extending his hand. “Pete Fernandez. Stephanie Solares?”

  “That’s me,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m surprised you came.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I find that once you tell someone to meet you at MIA, you’re probably going to get stood up,” she said, a short laugh escaping her lips.

  Pete smiled. People whirred past them, shooting dirty looks or exasperated eye rolls as they dragged their luggage around the only two people in the airport not scrambling to get to their departure gate.

  “Coffee?” Stephanie asked.

  “Totally.”

  They found a two-seater at Au Bon Pain, one of the few restaurants available to people before they had to take off their shoes and remove their laptops from their carry-on bags. Pete tried his best not to stare at Stephanie Solares. But he failed, mostly because she was stunning in a natural, almost effortless way. She didn’t even seem to notice the smiles and glances from people as she walked by. Pete felt schlubby next to her, in his worn-out jeans and a polo shirt that might have been stylish in the late ’90s.

  But he wasn’t here to swoon over an attractive woman, Pete reminded himself. He was here to talk to the friend Maya Varela had been staying with the night her mother was stabbed to death.

  “Thanks again for meeting me,” Pete said as he set down two medium black coffees on the small table. “I know you’re probably busy.”

  “Busy is good. I like being a flight attendant, it keeps me entertained,” she said, shaking a packet of sweetener and expertly pouring its contents into the beverage. “I fly a lot, obviously, but it isn’t, uh, super-exhausting stuff like Europe or Asia. It’s mostly the Caribbean and Mexico. Which is nice, because if I have time I can just stick around and hit the beach or see friends.”

  “That must be cool,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, totally,” she said. “I can’t wait to go to Cuba. That’s my dream. I wanna see all the old cars and visit the house where my mom grew up.”