Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  Pete ignored the dig.

  “If Los Enfermos are after me and they killed Rick,” Pete said, “it could mean that everything—including your dad’s case—is linked.”

  Pete mentioned the strange encounter with Arturo Pelegrin, while explaining where he and Kathy had been living for the past few months. Maya frowned for a second.

  “He was in Titusville? For what?”

  “They sent him to get us,” Pete said. “I caught him tailing me, so we got lucky. He made a rookie mistake.”

  “That’s a lot to process.”

  “How so?”

  “Everything, really,” she said. She pushed some of the fries on her plate around. “My dad, this gang, the knives, this Rick person. It’s hard to take it all in. Do you think my dad was working with these people, Los Enfermos, to get out of jail? Like, he’s some kind of gang lord?”

  Pete’s silence said more than he could ever hope to with words.

  DUFFY’S TAVERN looked like any Irish Pub—in Miami, New York, or Kentucky. Clover leaves decorated the establishment’s dirty green awnings, which hunched over the dark brown double door entranceway, like a warped architectural gargoyle. Inside was a cramped and smoky bar that provided patrons with a special kind of sensory overload: photos covered the walls, touching on every shadowy corner of the city—from Miami Dolphins quarterbacks, to mayors on parole, to actresses from The Golden Girls, to city commissioners who blew their own brains out, all smiling with Duffy’s owner. The place also boasted piss beer on tap and watery well drinks to boot—the total package.

  Pete gave his eyes a second to get comfortable with the lighting—dim and gray in stark contrast to the blinding sun outside, which boasted the kind of heat that made it hard to even breathe. No wonder people crowded into dives like Duffy’s. The AC alone was reason to stop by. Pete knew he was pushing it. Stepping out with a bounty on his head wasn’t the safest bet he could make. He was pretty sure that dark shades, a Pere Ubu shirt, and a Miami Heat cap would do little to hide his identity from Los Enfermos. But there was work to be done.

  Duffy’s was empty aside from the bartender—a thin older man with a salt-and-pepper moustache and faded Dolphins cap—and a stocky woman in a too-tight tank top and sweat pants sitting at the bar, nursing what looked like a Midori Sour. The bartender nodded as Pete came in, and the woman grunted, stirring her drink with a red straw.

  The bar was located to the left of the entrance, with the rest of the space taken up by high-top tables, booths, and a jukebox that probably still had tracks by Gloria Estefan, Willy Chirino, and Jon Secada. Near the back, Pete saw a pool table that had more stains on it than pockets and balls combined. He sat at the bar. The bartender dropped a coaster in front of him.

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Seltzer.”

  “Guess it is kind of early,” he said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  The bartender brought him a yellow glass with bubbly water in it. No lime.

  “Three bucks.”

  Pete dropped a twenty on the table and kept his hand on it while looking at the bartender.

  “I have a few questions,” Pete said.

  “I hope I have a few answers for you, pally.” He nodded and took the cash.

  Pete extended his hand but the bartender shook his head and went back to the register, which was down at the far end of the bar. He grabbed a towel and returned to where Pete was sitting. He started to wipe down the counter in front of Pete, not making eye contact.

  “This place is loaded with cameras, but they just record visuals, not audio,” he said, his voice low. “So, thanks for the Jackson, I do appreciate it. But I’m not going to answer any questions from my boss about our conversation if I can help it. And you look like the type of guy people are going to ask me about later.”

  “Is that right?” Pete said.

  The bartender slung the towel over his shoulder with a flourish and gave Pete a once-over.

  “Name’s Winslow,” the bartender said. “Keep the questions simple and quick and I’ll give you what you paid for. If that’s not enough, I imagine you took out more cash before you came here. Probably wasn’t all for seltzer either.”

  Pete ran a finger over the condensation that had already begun to form on the tiny glass. The lady across the bar finished her drink with one long, gurgly slurp. She slammed the glass on the counter and looked around before putting her head down on the bar, her arms serving as the pillow. Down for the count before noon.

  “I’m Pete Fernandez,” Pete said. “I’m an investigator. I wanted to ask you a few questions about something that went down here a few months ago.”

  Winslow stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned into the bar.

  “I have an idea what you’re going to ask about, kid,” he said. “So let me save you some time. Number one, there’s no video from that night. Camera tapes over the previous night’s, and by the time the cops came by the footage was gone. Number two, I already spoke to the cops about the guy they found in Peacock Park and what he was up to before.”

  “Could you tell me the same story?” Pete asked.

  Winslow grabbed Pete’s glass without asking and sprayed another seltzer into it with the soda gun that rested under the bar. He placed the refilled drink in front of Pete and turned to look at the lady across the bar. Realizing she was already spending some quality time with the Sandman, he swiveled back and straightened his apron, splotched with grease and food stains.

  “Easy enough,” Winslow said. “I was working that night. I usually don’t. I’m more a day shift kind of bartender. Work is slower, easier, and the regulars know how to tip. Night crowd is full of young assholes. The pace is faster too. Plus, these kids order drinks I’d need a handbook for. Don’t even get me started on the kind of shit they put in their mouths. Me? I’ll stick to Early Times or a cold beer. Rum if I want to get crazy. That’s it.”

  “Good to know,” Pete said.

  Winslow smirked.

  “Listen, buddy, you need me more than I need you,” he said. “So bear with me, okay?”

  “You got it,” Pete said. “You were working the night in question, then.”

  “Right, I was,” Winslow said. “It was late. Near closing time. Still pretty busy, but I could see the sea parting, if you get what I mean. Three guys—one of them I knew, the other two I didn’t—were playing pool in the back. Pretty standard. But based on the mood of the two guys I didn’t know, it looked like the wrong side was winning.”

  “They were upset?”

  Winslow rubbed his chin.

  “They seemed upset, yeah,” he said, letting the words hang out there.

  “Seemed upset?”

  “It seemed like they wanted the regular—Rick, nice guy—to think they were pissed,” Winslow said. “Then they went outside. That was that.”

  “So you knew Rick?” Pete asked. “He came here a lot?”

  “Yeah, I knew him,” Winslow said. “But like I said, I worked days mostly. He’d come by to get lunch or have a few if he had a meeting in the area. Guess his offices were way south, in Homestead. But yeah, I knew him. Good guy. I talked to him that night for a bit too. Said he had to entertain these guys. They were like clients. Worked for his big boss. Never seen business clients like that myself, but what do I know?”

  Pete let the information simmer for a bit. Rick had been trying to entertain two gang members for business. Emily had mentioned that Rick’s dealings were not fully on the up-and-up, that’d he’d been cooking the books for Los Enfermos. One of the two street thugs had tried to kill Pete. He was now dead. The other guy was in jail for his part in Rick’s murder. The puzzle pieces were floating in front of Pete but not yet connecting to form a picture.

  “Was there anything else that you remembered after you talked to the police?” Pete asked.

  Winslow sighed. He was put out, having to think this hard so early in his shift.

  “Y’know, not really,” he said.
“Maybe one thing. But it wasn’t even that night. It was a few weeks earlier. Rick had come in to grab a bite and we got to talking. Place was pretty empty, like this—so why not? Gotta work the regulars, I say. Become their guy. Anyway, we’re talking and he seems stressed and overworked so I ask him, ‘What’s wrong, amigo?’ He was complaining about work. How this one guy he was in business with was pissed at him. How he—Rick—had paid a little too much attention to something he shouldn’t have, and now he was worried it was gonna come back to bite him. What he was doing, according to him, was stuff that wasn’t—how’d he phrase it?—‘in the lines.’ He said something else that stuck with me. I didn’t think to press him on it. Not sure why it’s the part I remembered most. I sure as hell forgot it until you asked me that.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “‘Sometimes, Winslow, I just feel like bait,’” Winslow said. “‘A smaller fish being used to trap the big one.’”

  PETE WINCED as he walked out of Duffy’s, the bright sun making it hard to see much beyond what was right in front of him. One thing did jump out in Pete’s line of sight: someone was standing by his car, which had been one of three in the parking lot. It was now one of four, and the driver of car number four was watching him approach.

  Pete was armed, as was the norm for him now. But even that knowledge didn’t really calm him. He started to walk toward his car. Whoever was waiting for him was leaning on his vehicle with little concern, his eyes locked on his phone and his back to Pete.

  “Can I help you?” Pete said. He let out a long breath of relief when he realized who it was.

  Martin from AA turned around, stuffing his phone in his pocket, startled for a moment.

  “Shit, hey, man,” he said. “Didn’t hear you creep up like that.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” Pete said. Martin seemed jittery. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, scratching his neck in an effort to seem casual.

  “Man, it’s good to see you,” Martin said. “Been a while. Beard’s new, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry for falling off the map,” Pete said. He kept his distance. He wasn’t sure of what Martin was after—or if he was sober—and he didn’t want to get too close. Not until he figured out how Martin knew where to find him.

  “It’s cool, man. Shit, you got shot,” Martin said. “Tried to see you in the hospital, but that place was on lock, you know? Glad you made it, though. Lucky man.”

  “Very lucky,” Pete said, scanning the parking lot, trying to seem casual. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “You’re gonna be mad at me,” Martin said, his face trying to smile, but twisting into a frightened scowl. “I was thinking of going in. Going into this place.”

  “Thinking and doing are different things,” Pete said. “Are you okay, Martin?”

  “Nah, man,” Martin said, looking at his feet. “I’m not okay. Haven’t been going to meetings, haven’t been reading the literature. I haven’t been doing shit. Seeing the wrong people. Snapped at my boss last week, next thing I know, he calls me to say, ‘Don’t bother coming in anymore.’ Can you believe that?”

  “Bosses can be dicks sometimes,” Pete said. He didn’t fully buy Martin’s story. “But you need to train yourself to handle the bad times—like these—better. Minus the drinking, you know?”

  Pete felt like a hypocrite, having not hit a meeting in weeks, but he’d also learned to gauge himself. Sitting in a bar just now didn’t help, but he had built tools over time that would allow him to understand his body and his own problem. Martin was still too new to the program to know that.

  “Yeah, I feel that,” Martin said. “But it sounds easy when you say it. Ain’t easy when I do it. Plus, what were you doing in there, Mr. Pete?”

  “I’m working on something,” Pete said, keeping it brief.

  Martin was moving faster now, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets—why was he was wearing a jacket?—and stepping from side to side. He looked tired, haggard.

  “Martin, are you okay?” Pete asked again.

  “Pete, man, I am sorry—” Martin said.

  He raised a hand, as if to brush Pete off—but never completed the motion. The bullet tore into his chest. Another shot came soon after, hitting him in the forehead and sending brain matter and skull fragments in every direction. Bits and pieces hit Pete across the face as the bullets continued to come—pouring onto Pete’s car, shattering the driver side window—loud pops echoing in the empty parking lot.

  Pete fell back, landing on the warm asphalt a few seconds after Martin did, who now didn’t look much like Martin anymore—his face a red, clumpy pile of skin and bone. Pete couldn’t hear anything, the gunshot blast negating all other sounds. He inched away from the body—using his elbows to drag himself toward his car for cover. Was he still in the shooter’s sights? He tried to get up, but his legs gave way at the sight of Martin, his friend—someone he’d worked with and tried to help—lying on the dark street, a pool of blood forming around what used to be his head and chest. He rolled to his side and threw up. He tasted the burn in the back of his throat and felt his nostrils fill with the copper smell of death.

  PETE FELT a shiver run through his body, his clothes drenched from a brief rainstorm. Miami was known for sun and heat, but the city was no stranger to the skies opening up. The rains would usually fade out as soon as they started. Pete sat on the parking lot pavement, a lukewarm paper cup of coffee in his hand, his back leaning on the rear bumper of his car.

  Rain didn’t help crime scenes. Under normal circumstances, Pete would take some pleasure in seeing the Miami PD scramble around like crumb-starved pigeons. A number of officers were milling around Duffy’s parking lot—a few clustered by Martin’s torn-up body, the rest cordoning off the area and splintering into smaller groups. A handful of them had wandered in the general direction of the gunfire.

  Pete closed his eyes and tried to center himself. For the second time in a few months, someone had come after him with a gun. Both times he’d been lucky. But how long would that last? And if they could find him on a random detour to Duffy’s, what was to stop them from finding out where he and Kathy were holed up? Was he safe anywhere? Before he’d gotten sober, it was during times like this that Pete craved a drink. He made a note to hit a meeting after the cops let him go. For himself and for Martin.

  “Pete, you with us?” Harras’s voice sounded far away, like a radio playing across the street.

  Pete opened his eyes, taking a moment before looking up at Harras, squinting in the early afternoon sun as it peeked through the remaining rain clouds.

  “Pete?”

  “What’re you doing here?” Pete said. The question came out with more bite than he’d intended.

  “Buddy of mine got the call,” Harras said. “Once he found out you were on the scene he gave me a ring. I was around.”

  Pete took a sip of his coffee. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt numb.

  “I think the PD got everything they need from you,” Harras said. His expression was soft, his usual sharp tone muted. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be out in the open like this any longer than you need to be.”

  “What’s your take on this?” Pete asked, waving the cup of coffee toward the police tape and Martin’s body.

  “How well did you know this Martin guy?”

  “Not very.”

  “I mean, how does an ex-journalist turned PI like you run in the same circles as a street thug like this Martin kid?” Harras asked.

  “He was a friend.”

  “Well, your pal had a rap sheet that lines him up with people who run with Los Enfermos,” Harras said. “So maybe he thought he was relaying a message, but in reality, he was the message.”

  “What do you mean a message?”

  Harras scoffed.

  “Boo,” Harras said with a straight face. “That’s what this was.”

  “Boo?”

  Harras scanned the crime scene
and scratched his balding head. His suit was rumpled and his body sagged. He’d been at this a long time. His life was crime scenes and murder talk.

  “Whoever was after you before—those people who made you scurry away to Nowheresville, Florida, for a few months?” Harras said, not turning to face Pete. “They still want you dead, and they know where you are.”

  THE SUNNY Palm Room was a mid-size lounge space tucked behind a dentist’s office on 107th Avenue, a few blocks south of 101st Street in South Miami, a long stretch of half-empty strip malls, shiny Aldi supermarkets, empty storefronts, and chain Cuban restaurants. The lounge was not tropical. It was not well lit. It featured a small table near the back wall with a microphone. A few couches lined the other walls. There were slogans and posters hung around the room—Put Some Gratitude in that Attitude, One Day At A Time, and Easy Does It caught Pete’s eye as he walked in.

  He nodded at the older woman standing by the fridge, which was surrounded by a counter that resembled a bar—a discovery that would have made Pete chuckle under better circumstances. She smiled and welcomed him. He self-consciously wiped at his face, worried that there were still streaks of blood on him. He’d had an extra shirt in his bag, but that didn’t fix everything. He still looked like he’d been in a scrap.

  The meeting was set to start in ten minutes. There were only a handful of people floating around, some in their chairs, already watching the clock, others socializing with friends, in no hurry. Pete took a seat on the end of one of the couches to the right of the front table.

  He was used to this routine. It’d been well over a year for him this go-round—longer if he counted the time before his relapse. He liked the program’s simple approach and listening to fellow alcoholics share battles with booze. You could have a meeting in a shack in the Everglades as long as you had two drunks talking to each other. He wasn’t perfect—his problems weren’t limited to having been a blackout drinker. Pete knew there was room to improve himself. But like the yellowed sign said, he took it a day at a time. He was optimistic that with practice, he’d get better at being better.