Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

She breathed into the phone. "I do not understand you. You keep everything inside."

  Pierce cleared his throat. He was about to say that her mother told her she should have married a Latin man; but held off. He didn't want to get into a discussion of either their failed marriage or his personality traits. "Did you find the list for me?"

  "Yes, and now I know why you asked. I hope you are not going to get involved with this murder."

  "Don't worry. I want to get uninvolved. I need to return some money."

  "Well, I have the museum's annual report. There are more than two hundred contributors listed, and that is not all of them. Some did not want their names used."

  "Wonderful."

  "You coming to get it?"

  "No. I've got the feeling that whoever put up the money will find me. I'll just wait."

  There was a knock at the door. "Someone's here. I've got to go."

  "Maybe your wait is over."

  "Yeah. Just call me psychic."

  "Be careful, Nicky."

  He hung up, walked over to the door. Neil Bellinger stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. A model for a fashion magazine. Real psychic, Pierce thought.

  "Morning, Nick. Mind if I come in?"

  Pierce stepped back, motioned for him to enter. Bellinger jammed his hands into the pockets of his pleated slacks, strolled around the room looking at the travel pictures. "So what kind of investigative work do you do?"

  "The usual," Pierce said evasively. "By the way, thanks for giving the press my name."

  "I didn't do it," Bellinger said.

  "That was my doing."

  Pierce turned to see Morris Carver's massive frame filling the doorway. "It couldn't be helped."

  "I noticed there was no mention of Redington or the skull in the article," Pierce commented.

  Carver moved into the room, scanned Pierce's desk. His eyes settled for a moment on the envelope Pierce had dropped next to the telephone. "Had a talk with Professor Redington at Florida International University.."

  "He's not the murderer, Nick," Bellinger interjected. "At least not the one you described."

  "Maybe he hired the guy with the scar."

  "Yeah. Maybe he hired you, too." A menacing undercurrent rumbled through Carver's voice.

  "Loften hired me. Or was going to."

  "So you say."

  "You accusing me of something?"

  Carver's large, dark eyes glared at him. Stubble shadowed his jaw. "You feeling guilty?"

  "No. Not at all."

  Carver took a step closer. Suspicion sullied his face. He pointed an index finger. "I don't know what this is all about, but I will find out. You can count it."

  "I hope you do."

  Carver took another glance at the envelope on Pierce's desk, then walked over to the door. "Don't go making any deals for a free trip with your travel agent friends, either. Stick around."

  Bellinger followed Carver as far as the door, where he glanced back. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward Carver and smiled. "He's really a nice guy."

  Chapter 4

  His code name was Thor, and he drove a dark blue Mercedes with tinted windows. It was his second car, and he drove it only while performing special duties, the ones that would ensure him a special place in a very special future. This afternoon he was to meet Frey in the parking lot of a Quick Stop Grocery in Coral Gables, and as usual Frey was late.

  After waiting five minutes, he got out of the car and stretched his arms. He gazed up at a tall pine tree, and squinted because the sun was directly behind it. He knew it was called a monkey puzzle tree, and this one stood nearly a hundred feet high.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man walk from the Quick Stop to his car, and he imagined the guy stopping and asking him what he thought about the tree. He'd surprise him with his knowledge. He'd tell him that the monkey puzzle was native to the western slopes of the Andes in Chile, and that even though the tropics weren't the ideal environment for the tree, it was plentiful in South Florida.

  And if that curious fellow would say he was asking because he was thinking of planting a tree like this one in his yard, he'd tell him to forget it. The evergreen was majestic and symmetrical, but it was trashy and dangerous. Its cones weighed up to ten pounds, and one of them falling from seventy or eighty feet could knock a grown man out cold.

  Not to mention what it could do to the hood of a Mercedes, he thought. No need to take a foolish risk. He backed the car out, moved to the next space.

  He knew about the monkey puzzle, and lots of other exotic trees that grew in the tropics, because his family owned a nursery out at the edge of the Everglades. He'd worked there from the time he was twelve through high school, and then summers while he was going to college. His father wanted him to take over the business, but that wasn't going to happen. Thor had other plans for himself, and it wouldn't be long till he could own all the nurseries he wanted.

  Frey arrived ten minutes later and pulled up next to the Mercedes. Thor slid into the passenger seat of Frey's Camaro, which was still running. The breeze of the air-conditioning blew against his face; he took in a deep breath of the cool air. "No problem. Just as planned."

  "Pierce got a make on Gore."

  Thor shrugged. "It happens. Orders should've been to kill him, too. He's trouble."

  Frey gazed through the window at the towering tree. "Odin has other plans for him."

  Frey always thought Odin was right, never questioned him. It was a sign of his weakness. A flaw in his personality. "What plans?"

  "I don't know. I'm sure we'll see when the time's right. He wants you to keep an eye on Pierce for the next few days."

  Thor's brow knitted in a frown. "Christ, I'm already on surveillance."

  "That's hardly surveillance," Frey said quietly.

  "It still takes time . . . and I've got other responsibilities, you know.

  "You want me to tell Odin it's too much?"

  Thor looked out the side window. He didn't want Frey taking advantage of the matter, but most of all he didn't want to offend Odin. He knew Odin stood at the crossroads of the future. He could open doors for him in the new world to come, but he could also close them.

  Just then he heard a bang; both men jerked their heads, and Frey reached for his weapon. "What the hell was that?" Frey was looking around for the source of the noise, but Thor was laughing.

  "A pinecone hit your hood."

  Frey got out, touched the dent in the Camaro, then picked up the cone. It was as large as a loaf of bread and spiky-sharp on the edges. "Biggest fucking pinecone I've ever seen."

  "About average for a monkey puzzle."

  Chapter 5

  The Jack of Clubs was a dive, a deuce of a bar. No booths, only a W-shaped bar on one side, and a pool table on the other. Mirrors topped by blue and pink neon stretched around two walls behind the bar. At one end, the neon limned the reclining body of a woman. At the other end, it spelled JACK and formed a club.

  Pierce usually dropped by here when he was feeling down. It was a hangout frequented by South Beach lowlifes: drug dealers and con men; pimps and wise guys; down-and-outers; and old-timers on their final binges. When he left the place, he never failed to feel that he wasn't so bad off, after all.

  As Pierce ambled over to the bar, he passed a life-sized poster of Bogart in a trench coat. No one wore trench coats on South Beach, except for Bogie. He looked around. Fuego wasn't here yet, so he climbed onto a stool to wait.

  He slipped his camera case off his shoulder and lowered it to the floor. He didn't want to stay long. After a beer with Fuego, he was going to walk a few blocks up Collins Avenue, set up his tripod, and work on his collection of night shots of Art Deco hotels. It would relax him, get his mind off the incident at the museum.

  Leni, a generously proportioned blonde who tended bar, was mothering one of the locals, an old guy Pierce had seen here more than once. "Absolutely the last one, Jimmy. Then you g
o home."

  She moved over to Pierce, shaking her head as she wiped the bar with a rag. "I'm taking a chance now. Last time I allowed him more than two brews, he pissed on the stool. . . the bar stool."

  Pierce ordered a beer and watched the other patrons in the mirror—a kind of voyeuristic portal. A skinny black guy and a beefy, long-haired Anglo in a Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap were finishing a pool game. A bleached blonde in tight shorts, black nylons, high heels, and a tank top fed quarters into the jukebox and swung her hips as music came on. A slender, dark-haired woman in a T-shirt and drawstring pants walked into the bar. Pierce's eyes followed her as she moved toward the far side of the bar and settled on a stool.

  She was definitely out of her element. Probably a tourist. Immediately, the two pool players moved in on either side of her and both offered to buy her a drink. As they argued over who was getting the drink, the woman ignored both of them, leaned forward and ordered from Leni.

  He sipped his beer, watching as Hawaiian Shirt told Leni to get the lady whatever she wanted and put it on his tab. Pierce spotted Fuego entering the bar. He raised a hand, and the Cuban walked over and eased onto the next stool.

  "What's new?" Pierce asked.

  "Redington's a psychology professor at FlU. Back in the late sixties he got in trouble for experimenting with hallucinogenic drugs on his students. He apparently was a user himself. He's a little weird, but not the homicidal sort."

  "That so."

  Pierce's eyes strayed to the mirror again and watched the woman as she ignored her two new companions, ensconced on either side of her.

  "You're not interested?" Fuego asked.

  "Suppose I should be. The cops seem to think I'm working with him."

  Fuego caught Leni's eye and ordered a beer by pointing at Pierce's bottle. "I sprayed the entire Psychology Department for roaches, and got a peek at the professor's office. And guess what? He's got a skull on his desk. Could be rock crystal, or plain old glass. I don't know."

  "On his desk?" Pierce said incredulously. "I'll tell the detectives next time they stop by for a chat."

  "What're their names?"

  "Ever heard of Morris Carver?"

  Fuego's cheek twitched. "He's a pendejo. He'll try to intimidate you."

  Pierce laughed; Fuego had just called the detective a pubic hair. "His partner's name is Neil Bellinger."

  Fuego sipped his beer. "Mr. Threads. He plays nice guy to Carver's tough-guy act. It's all a routine."

  "Figures." He looked at the woman's reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she returned the gaze, then Hawaiian Shirt whispered something in her ear.

  "A tourist, you think?" Pierce nodded toward the mirror.

  "Probably."

  "They come down to South Beach, and after a couple of days staring at the big, blue bath wander over here not knowing where the fuck they are."

  The black guy stood up and walked over to the rest room, and Hawaiian Shirt wrapped a thick arm around the woman's shoulders. He whispered in her ear again, then pulled her close, tried to kiss her. The woman grimaced, struggled to get away.

  Leni immediately moved over and said something to the man. He laughed, pursed his lips, and threw the bartender a kiss.

  "Jesus, what a creep," Pierce said.

  "Maybe we ought to help the lady," Fuego suggested. "Then again, she'd probably just get mad at us."

  Hawaiian Shirt was nuzzling the woman again, and it was obvious she was trying to get away. Without another word, Fuego slid off his stool and made his way toward the man. Before he reached him, the black guy- returned from the rest room and stepped in front of Fuego. Pierce thought trouble was about to erupt, but the man slapped Fuego on the back and they shook hands. No doubt another of Fuego's numerous street contacts, Pierce thought.

  Hawaiian Shirt turned toward the pair, and the woman slipped out of his grasp. She slid off the stool, and Pierce expected to see her head for the door. Instead, she grabbed her drink, moved around the bar, and took a seat two stools away from him.

  Pierce sipped his beer and glanced over at her. "Friend of yours?"

  "Hardly."

  "Let me guess. You're from New Jersey or New York—one of those new places—and you're staying at the Carlyle."

  "You're seven hundred miles off on one—and across the street on the other! It's Chicago, and the Cardoza."

  Pierce smiled, moved over to the adjoining stool. "Let me tell you a secret. Stick to Ocean Drive at night. You don't want to be over here, especially by yourself."

  The woman smiled, ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. "What are you, a cop?"

  "Just a neighborhood guy with some friendly advice for a tourist."

  She smiled, held out her hand. "My name's Monica."

  Her hand was cool and soft. "Nick Pierce." He saw her glance past him into the mirror. Hawaiian Shirt was lumbering toward them. "You want to leave?"

  Before she answered, the man moved in beside her. "Come on, babe. Let's have another drink."

  Monica slipped off her stool and hooked her arm around Pierce's elbow. "We were just on our way out the door."

  "Why didn't you say you were with him?" Hawaiian Shirt called after her. "Waste my fucking money."

  Pierce looked back once and caught Fuego's eye. He shrugged, smiled, then pushed the door open. When they were on the sidewalk, Monica dropped Pierce's arm and laughed. "Thanks. I didn't need any more of that guy."

  "Can I walk you to your hotel?"

  She looked away, gazed down the street as if she hadn't heard him. "I suppose."

  She glanced back, blue eyes smiling, light from the street-lamp chiseling her features. Her skin seemed soft, tanned, touchable. There was also something else he saw in her eyes, something deeper than he expected. Intelligence, he thought, but something more, something he couldn't pinpoint.

  "Would you mind joining me for dinner?" she asked.

  Suddenly he remembered his camera. "Not at all. But hold on a minute." He reached for the door just as it swung open and Fuego held out his camera bag.

  "Forget something, amigo?"

  "Thanks, Fuego. This is Monica."

  He nodded to her, then glanced at Pierce. "Talk to you later," he said, and ducked back into the bar.

  Pierce self-consciously adjusted the strap of his camera bag and smiled sheepishly at Monica.

  Monica looked puzzled. "I thought only tourists carried cameras into bars."

  "I'm full of surprises."

  She laughed, a light, carefree trill. "Where are we going to eat?"

  "If you like Italian, there's a good place up Washington a couple of blocks. Make their own pasta."

  "Let's go."

  They crossed the street and walked in silence until Monica asked where he lived; he told her it was just a few blocks away.

  "It must be interesting. I mean, living here."

  Pierce glanced over at her. "That's one way of putting it. It's sort of a love-hate relationship."

  They veered around a man who staggered along the sidewalk. He babbled something incoherent and lunged for Pierce's arm, but missed it.

  "I can see what you mean. You've got this gutsy, urban scene. Danger, violence, drugs. All that stuff. Then there's that beautiful beach and all those lovely Art Deco hotels and the art galleries and nightclubs."

  "Character and characters," Pierce summarized.

  He explained that after he'd lived here a few months, he realized that it was mostly outsiders who were concerned about Art Deco and preservation. The problem with "hysterical" preservation, as one of his neighbors called it, was that it dealt only with the facade. When you lived here, you saw behind the pastel exteriors. You thought about finding a parking spot, about the leaky pipes in your building that the landlord hadn't fixed, about last month's break-in down the hall. And when you saw the crack dealers and the winos, the hookers and the homeless, you wondered how many more castoffs from the mainstream would float onto the beach before the place simply cav
ed in under the weight of hopelessness.

  "But you like it enough to live here."

  He shrugged. "I'm just saying it'll take more than a few coats of paint and more trendy nightclubs to make this place really livable again."

  "Guess I hadn't looked at it from that perspective," she said thoughtfully.

  "So why did you decide to take a trip here in mid-May?"

  "I wanted to come during Christmas break, but it didn't work out. So I promised myself I'd leave as soon as classes were finished."

  "Classes?"

  "I teach Spanish at a small college. That's why I chose Miami. It's sort of like a Latin American country."

  He looked over at her. "This is Latin America. It just happens to be part of the United States."

  A couple of minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant and were led to a table. The floors were ceramic tile; the table was covered with shiny red-and-white-checked tablecloths. A few framed paintings of Venetian scenes with gondolas and gondoliers completed the typical decor.

  "God, what happened to your head?" Monica asked after they were seated. "I didn't notice it before."

  "Just bumped it. Wasn't looking where I was going. Looks worse than it is."

  "You walk into walls very often?"

  He laughed. "Not on a regular basis."

  Their waiter arrived, and when it was obvious that his English skills were minimal, Monica addressed him in Spanish. Pierce was impressed with her fluency and guessed she'd lived in a Latin country.

  "You're right, this is Latin America," she said when the waiter walked off. "I've never ordered spaghetti in Spanish anywhere else in the United States."

  "I even know a Chinese restaurant where you can practice your Spanish."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, the Chinese owner and his family are from Peru."

  "Oh, that's over in the Grove, right?"

  Pierce's smile vanished. "You know the place?"

  Monica looked confused, disoriented, something, but only for a moment. "Yeah, I spent a few days in Coconut Grove a couple of years ago. I remember eating there. The waiter told me he was from Peru."

  Pierce sipped his water. "You come down here often?"