by Don Donovan
Nobody's gonna miss him, anyway. He was just a two-bit punk.
She took her shower and blow-dried her short brown hair. Brushed it to presentability and checked out her tats, one on each bicep. The Cuban flag on one, a particularly creepy-looking pit viper on the other. A flex or two, and then on with a minimum of face makeup. She hated the damn makeup, but Santos warned her about it in confidence. Said it was always better to come in looking more like a real woman than a butch dyke. Said everybody would treat her with more respect if they saw her as a real woman. Not only that, he said, but the scumbags would think she was a pushover — just a "girl cop", beneath contempt — and lower their guard. They'd start thinking she couldn't handle herself, so that when she did, they were caught off balance, with no time to mount any kind of defense.
Just like with Yolexis and Flaco, she thought. Santos was right. Works every time.
She still hated the fucking makeup, though.
There was a lot of stuff she didn't like besides makeup. High heels, fancy dresses, sappy movies, sweet drinks, Fort Lauderdale, shopping malls … on and on. She'd never liked any of it, preferred instead to chase bad guys and put hurt on them when necessary. Cop work was made for her. Get results — like Santos said — and you're on everybody's good side. Get spectacular results and nobody asks questions.
Her Cuban heritage ran deep inside her and that was one reason she loved Miami. The culture, the cuisine, the language, all of it, and it was a source of great pride. She found beauty in all things Cuban. Except that shitty part of the Cuban culture where men push their women around. That fire of hate was lit when she was twelve.
≈ ≈ ≈
The Special Period had just begun. Worldwide Communism had recently collapsed under its own unbearable weight. By this time in 1991, the Soviet Union had disintegrated in astonishingly quick fashion, ending the Moscow gravy train flowing into Cuba on a daily basis. No more propping up of a decaying tyrannical regime.
Everyone in Cuba, even young Silvana, was aware of this. They made it their business to know in the unique way only Cubans can learn things the government doesn't want them to know. Fidel declared it was time for everyone to tighten their belts since many shortages were coming. Severe shortages, he warned, and they may last for a long, long time.
Juan Machado hated the government, hated Fidel, all of it. He was old enough to remember before the Revolution, back when things were good. Back before all the Fidelismo bullshit, when everyone had enough to eat, when the phones worked, when the lights came on every time you flipped the switch, when you could own property, when you could buy or sell a car.
At the outset of the Special Period, Mariel was among the first Cuban cities to feel the pinch. Without Soviet ships bringing food and other necessities, activity at the port was winding down, and his stevedore job had disappeared, throwing his life with his wife and young daughter into chaos. Silvana later learned his job was in danger anyway, what with his constant criticism of the government in the presence of his block captain and shop stewards. He never could keep his mouth shut, about the government or anything else.
Now, all he did was hang around their dirty apartment and bitch at his wife Ana, and at his daughter.
Silvana couldn't remember a day in her life in Cuba when her father didn't slap her mother for one offense or another. One day he was watching baseball on television and the power went out. He blamed her for burning the living room light too long at night. Said she sucked all the power out with that damn light so there wasn't enough for the next day. That was good for a couple of whacks across the face.
Another time, he complained when he told Ana to get him a beer and she had to tell him they'd run out. As it happened, she had used all of her libreta coupons on food, so, no beer. Whack!
When she was a little girl, Silvana assumed the beatings were justified, that her mother had done something to piss him off. After all, that was the established order of things. Not only that, all the other kids said the same stuff happened in their homes, and of course, it was always the mother's fault. She had it coming. Silvana used to unknowingly prop up that cultural perversion by pleading with her, "Mámi, why do you do those things? You know he doesn't like it when you do that."
"One day you will understand, Silvanita," her mother replied. "Real men don't do those things. Your father is a cruel person." Over the years, Silvana got the message.
Then came the night when the SDE agents came to their door. They bulled their way inside and grabbed her father and took him away with no explanation. Silvana and her mother cowered in fear back in the darkest corner of the tiny living room. They cried all night, with Silvana sobbing the loudest, fearful her father — nominally their means of support — might never return. Her mother did what she could to comfort her little girl, but it wasn't much.
Two nights later, he returned, shirtless and bloody about the face. His torso was covered in ugly red welts and bruises. Two fingers on his left hand were broken, the bones sticking through the skin. Silvana rushed to hug him in the doorway. Ana, grateful for his return, joined in the hug.
Juan Machado pushed them both away.
"Wh-what is it, Juan?" pleaded Ana.
"You informed on me!" he growled through clenched teeth. "They did this to me because of you!"
"No, Juanito! No! I did nothing!"
With his good hand, he punched her in the face, hard, and Silvana saw a tooth fly from her mouth, carried aloft by a hefty squirt of blood. Ana fell back into the lamp, knocking it to the floor, shattering the bulb, a precious item during the Special Period.
Juan grabbed her before she went down and punched her again, getting all of his stevedore muscle into it. A gash opened over her eye. Another punch, her cheek opened up. More and more and more. Silvana cried for it to stop, but he just kept it up. Finally, he grew tired as Ana lay defenseless on the floor, a pulpy mess. Silvana screamed when she saw what was left of her mother's face, a flap of flesh hanging off tissue and bone, blood everywhere. When Juan collapsed on the bed from exhaustion, Silvana sucked up every ounce of strength she could muster and bent over her mother's horrific corpse. With trembling little hands, she gently unclasped the chain holding the crucifix her mother wore around her neck and put it in her pocket.
The funeral was brief and sparsely attended. The priest put out only the minimum effort, giving the very short version of his boilerplate funeral eulogy. The day was sunny, though, and this somehow lifted Silvana's spirits from the grimness of the occasion, if only a little. She turned her thoughts to her mother's sister in Miami, her Tía Teresa, and then to the neighbor boy, Vladimir. She recalled his incessant talk of heroic bolseros and how he would soon join them in their daring escape to freedom across the Florida Straits.
Miami called and Silvana answered. They left on a raft, about eight by eight with makeshift oars, under cover of darkness. There were three of them. Silvana, Vladimir, and his cousin Greta. Vladimir and Greta were both seventeen and at first they balked at the prospect of taking on this young recruit, but Silvana appeared husky and fit for eleven years old, and they needed a third, so they signed her on and shoved off.
The food, difficult to obtain in the first place, ran out quickly. Much of the water spilled when they were passing it back and forth in rough seas. Days passed and still no promised land. When the water was gone, they felt all was lost. They floated, occasionally rowed.
So this is what happens when they don't make it, Silvana thought. All those people who tried this trip and didn't get to the US. They run out of water and just die. Well, I don't want to die. Not like this. Not out here.
The sun burnt their skin, bubbling it up into revolting pink blisters on their faces and arms. The raft bobbed constantly, making them seasick, further dehydrating them. They sang to each other at night in fading voices, trying to bring what little comfort they could to themselves. During the day, they rowed and rowed till they could row no more. One day, under a high and particularly merciless s
un, Silvana passed out. The last thing she heard was Greta urging Vladimir to keep rowing. Their singing faded to shaky humming.
Hours later, Silvana awoke in darkness on the gently rolling raft. Lying on her back, she looked straight up. Clear skies showed an array of stars and a sliver of a crescent moon. She turned her head and saw she was alone. Vladimir and Greta were gone. The raft gave no clues as to their whereabouts. She snapped her body upward. Frantically looking around her in the impenetrable water, she called their names in the night. No answer.
Her first instinct was to surrender, to jump off and let the Florida Straits claim her for its own. She thought perhaps Vladimir and Greta had done just that — capitulated and voluntarily given themselves to the deep. Hovering at the edge of the raft, she gazed into the eternal blackness of the sea. The cruel certainty of a waiting death frightened her. She moved back to the center of the raft where she reached into her pocket for her mother's crucifix and chain. It felt warm in her grip, a kind of warmth that slowly cleared her mind and renewed her spirit. Then she cried for a long time.
≈ ≈ ≈
Into her car and off to the station. Moving through the choking morning rush hour traffic, she took stock of herself, where she was.
I've done all right for myself, haven't I? I came up from nothing — from nothing! — to become the first woman to make homicide sergeant in Miami PD history. I'm good at what I do, I don't take any shit, and I'm feared and respected, so I must be doing something right. Granted, other women usually don't do anything like what I do. They're just not like me at all, so I can't really broadcast any of my activities. I mean, I do have to try hard to keep everyone from seeing how different I am from other women, even from other women cops. But as long as I can keep the veil on that, everything will be okay.
She parked in a remote area of the station lot. Minutes later, as she entered the door to the homicide bureau, one of her colleagues said, "Yo, Machado, Santos wants to see you. Pronto."
Lieutenant Santos beckoned her through his open door at the end of the hall and asked her to sit down. She did and he said, "You're aware of this Yolexis Molina situation?"
"No, sir. What situation is that?"
"He's the material witness you uncovered in the Little Havana triple homicide case and he was found dead last night. Shot twice in the head."
"I wasn't aware of that, Lieutenant."
"You said you and Vargas were going to question him yesterday. Did you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you care to tell me about it, Sergeant?"
The sarcasm again. Easy now. Just give it to him the way you're supposed to. Don't fuck it up.
"Sorry, sir. Of course. Detective Vargas and I arrived at his home a little before noon yesterday, not long after we left your office. We questioned him in regard to his being spotted at the murder scene shortly before the crime occurred. He said he and a friend were there to collect money for Maxie Méndez. According to Molina, they got the money from Chicho Segura and left. He claims they had no part in the murder itself."
"Maxie Méndez? What's his connection to this?"
"Segura apparently owed Méndez some money, money from gambling debts. Méndez sent Molina and his friend to collect. They did and they left. It appears to be unrelated to the murder, sir. As I told you the other day, the neighbor across the street positively stated that they left at least forty-five minutes before the shooting started. Detective Vargas and I could not find any further connection. Just a case of coincidence that Molina showed up right before the murder."
"Who was his friend?"
"He wouldn't say, sir. Didn't want to get him in trouble."
"Bullshit! It's a fucking murder investigation! If he's at the scene forty-five minutes before a bloody massacre, he's in it up to his dick. Why didn't you get it out of him?"
"Well, sir … we, uh, wanted to stick to procedure, to proper legal methods. We wanted to … you know, to do the right thing. Besides, we're gonna brace Méndez today, see if he'll tell us anything. We might be able to get him to give us Molina's accomplice."
Santos lowered his voice, waaaay down. "Sergeant, are you … are you certain you have no knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Yolexis Molina's death?"
"Yes, sir. I'm certain."
"Did you, did you have to get … aggressive with Molina yesterday?"
"No, sir. He was cooperative. That is, up to the point of giving up his accomplice in the money pickup."
"Well, I would ordinarily assign his case to you, since it may be related to the Little Havana triple homicide. But that's only a 'maybe' and I don't want you distracted from the Little Havana case. I just got off the phone with Bob Harvey and he's breathing down our necks about this. The Chief is all over me, too."
"We're working on it, sir. We're giving it our full attention."
"Good, Sergeant. That's very good. Keep it up."
THE SQUEEZE
HIALEAH, FLORIDA
JUNE 29, 2011
15
Silvana
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
1:30 PM
"AT LEAST WE GOT A NAME." Vargas sipped his coffee as he and Silvana finished up their lunch. "Logan."
"Yeah, Logan." Silvana munched the last of her Cuban sandwich. "And I'm pretty sure if he didn't waste those three vics, he knows who did." Her cellphone rang. She swiped the call in. "Machado … Yeah … Sergeant Keith, what've you got? … Uh huh … You're sure? … And nothing on those other days, right? … All right, thanks very much … Right. So long."
"Keith?" Vargas asked. "The guy in Robbery?"
"Right. He says that Miramar bank job on Friday was the only one in Miami-Dade, Broward, or Palm Beach counties to go down in the last two weeks. They got away with just under three hundred grand."
"Any details?"
"He says there were three perps, all in ski masks, of course. All three with automatic weapons. Probably a wheelman waiting outside. They were in and out in under three minutes. Knew exactly what they wanted and exactly where it was. No rough stuff. Very polished operation."
"Let's go to Key —" The waitress then brought the check before Vargas could complete his sentence. They paid it and made for the door.
They got into their car. Vargas drove. Venuti had tried to foist off the black Malibu on them again, but Silvana mentioned the possibility of his wife meeting with an unexpected accident. They got a brand new Ford Fusion, white, reflecting lots of sun and heat, and with less than a thousand miles on it.
"Let's go to Key West and find this Logan motherfucker," Vargas said.
Silvana shook her head. "He'll keep. Right now, let's take a spin up to Hialeah. We need to talk with Maxie Méndez. He should be at work by now."
"Why do you want to see him? Flaco already told us he wasn't involved."
"I've got an idea."
"Idea? What idea?"
"I'm still fleshing it out in my mind. Just play along when we get there."
They pulled away from the fireplug.
≈ ≈ ≈
Lolita's Liquors occupied two adjacent storefronts in a good-sized strip mall on East 49th Street in central Hialeah. Silvana parked in the passenger drop-off zone directly in front of the store and she and Vargas got out of the Ford. The heat hit them right away, thick and stifling, like the inside of a baker's oven. Silvana looked around. People walked here and there, from store to store, chatting, smiling, laughing, like everything was normal, like this was how God intended it to be. She was only a few miles from the station, but from the way the sun tried to singe her skin, she thought she'd been transported to the Arabian fucking desert. It always felt hotter here in Hialeah.
Inside was another story. The AC worked beyond perfection. Everything was coooool, baby. Silvana could've stayed there all day breathing deep and looking at brightly-lit arrangements of whiskey bottles. She and Vargas stood about six feet inside the double doors, briefly letting the refreshing air wash over their bodies for a few moments,
drying their sweat, cleansing them for their task that lay ahead.
There were a dozen or so active customers moving among the aisles. Not bad for the middle of the afternoon, Silvana thought. She tossed a light head-jerk to Vargas and they moved to the back of the store. Through the swinging doors marked "Employees Only" and into the storage area. Crates and cardboard boxes bearing logos of wineries and distilleries were stacked in a clearly organized fashion and took up a lot of space. The cops moved among them and down a short hallway, up to a door marked "Private". The no-necked guard in a white guayabera seated to one side of the door stood to block their way.
"Whatchu want?" he asked through a pinched face and squinty eyes.
They showed tin. "Police officers," Silvana said. "We're here to see Maxie."
"He's busy right now. He can't —"
Elbowing past him, they entered the room, the inner sanctum of Maxie Méndez. The Man Himself sat behind a big desk consumed by whatever was on his laptop screen. The office was too small for the desk, and Maxie was too big for his chair. A leather couch took up one wall. Photos lined the other walls, Maxie with movie stars, Maxie with politicos, Maxie with hot babes, all of it speaking to Maxie's fabulous life. No photos, though, of the crack houses he owns in the worst parts of Liberty City, or the processing rooms where the coke is cut, or the whores who find the end of the road in his filthy brothels. No images of the OD'd John Does lying lifeless in back alleys and dark stairwells, and no pictures of their unmarked graves. Those photos never made Maxie's Wall of Fame.
Apart from the door they came in, Silvana noticed two other doors, both unmarked, both closed. She assumed one was Maxie's private bathroom. The other one eluded her. Maxie looked up from his laptop. He swiveled in the chair, his great bulk shifting slightly, the chair groaning beneath him. The no-necked guard had followed them in, stood to one side on high alert.