AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  She nodded, and from somewhere out of her line of vision appeared her contact man, a middle-aged, mustachioed vice president named Señor Del Valle, who ushered them all straight into his office. The security team had left their rifles in the SUV, but each packed a .45 semi-automatic pistol under their open-necked shirts. Wary bank employees, all of whom knew the score, averted their eyes from the suitcase-carrying group and tended to other business in front of them.

  "Señorita López," Señor Del Valle said with a smile that seemed quite natural, "welcome back to Panamá."

  Alicia introduced him to Amy and they exchanged a smile and a handshake. He beckoned the women and Calderón to sit in the chairs facing his desk. He took his seat in his big swivel chair opposite them. The security men remained standing with the five carry-on bags in front of them.

  He said, "I hope your trip was enjoyable and without incident."

  "It was," Alicia replied. "Always good to be back in Panamá. How is everything with you? Did you pass an enjoyable Semana Santa?"

  Del Valle said he did. Semana Santa, or Easter, was a major holiday in Panamá, with people exiting the city in droves, swarming the country's beautiful beaches and other areas outlying the capital. He went on to say a few words about his son's budding US baseball career and how the boy hoped he would make the major leagues before too long.

  Once these required niceties were out of the way, Señor Del Valle pointed to a door to the rear of his office and said, "Shall we?"

  She nodded and they all got up and headed for the door. Alicia took note of Amy's two thousand dollar gray dress and the way it wrapped around her compact little body. For a second there, blazing thoughts flew through her mind, thoughts of sucking on Amy's big, heavy tits, thoughts of fucking her with a strap-on until she cried out loud. More thoughts were knocking on the door to her dirty mind, but she couldn't answer. The group was opening another door, the one to the bank's count room.

  They passed into a room with a large table and several expensive counting machines spread around it. A young woman waited in attendance and he instructed her to bring in more people to begin the count. The security team placed the bags on the table. Alicia unzipped them. The money held everyone's eyes as it seemed to glitter from within each case like long-buried pirate gold.

  With everyone in place, Señor Del Valle gave the go-ahead to begin the count.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Following the mind-numbing procedure, which came out correct to the last dollar, Señor Del Valle said, "Would you like to open up new accounts for this money, Alicia?"

  "Yes, two new accounts," she said, looking to Felix. He produced three file folders, each containing paperwork on three separate companies. Two of them, Central America Building and Construction Company and Global Investments of Panamá were new, and they were destined to receive about one-third of the total money, divided equally between them. As Alicia had told Amy, the third, Panamá Building Supplies, SA, got the rest. Señor Del Valle prepared the paperwork to open the accounts.

  Alicia turned to Amy and moved her to the other side of the room while Del Valle and Felix conferred on the details. She said, "This company, Panamá Building Supplies, SA, had been previously opened by Colombians, cartel people, on one of their previous visits here. It's mainly a funnel for the newly-smuggled money."

  Amy paid close attention. "Funnel? To where?"

  "To other accounts," Alicia said. "I move this money around from bank to bank until it settles into a permanent home right back here in an account under the name of Panamá Global Development, SA. From there the funds are used for construction projects, mostly in Panama City, mostly high-end condos and office buildings, always through legitimate contractors. PGD also has an account in a Miami bank. They occasionally invest in development up there as well."

  "All nice and legal," Amy said with a knowing grin. "All the money nice and clean."

  "You got it. And tomorrow I'll transfer the money from the other two accounts to accounts in a bank in St Kitts under the names of two new companies. These Panamanian accounts will be closed and the money will all be in St Kitts."

  Amy said, as though she were completing Alicia's sentence, "To create a trail that cannot be followed."

  "Right again."

  "What happens in St Kitts?" Amy asked in a murmur, drawing Alicia closer in order to hear her.

  Alicia brushed her hand against Amy's arm and brushed it again, leaving it there for two seconds, no more. "The money stays there till next week, when I will arrange another wire transfer, this one to England. Then I fly to England, where I have another company set up to receive the funds in a corresponding bank account."

  "You really do get around," Amy said, briefly rubbing her breast against Alicia.

  "Oh, I do, preciosa, I do."

  Amy's voice modulated sideways into coy level. "Why don't we … have a drink and talk about your getting around when all this is done?" Her hand swept the room.

  Alicia was temporarily stunned by this advance. She thought she herself would certainly be the one to make the first move. But this little Chinese girl beat her to it. She loved it when mousy little things like Amy showed some balls and stepped right up.

  Tonight was going to be good.

  36

  Desi Junior

  North Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, April 11, 2012

  11:25 PM

  THE SUNSPLASH CLUB picked a questionable neighborhood in which to stake a claim. A few little nearby strip centers told the story. A Jamaican minimart, a pawn shop, a store that repaired cell phones and did tax returns, a place to sign up for food stamps, and other odds and ends-type retail places serving the fringes of society. The club stood alone, on the corner of State Road 7 and 132nd Street.

  Its windowless exterior, thought Desi, would make the place look like it was boarded up during the day, its low, concrete facade painted black with green and gold trim. Only the graffiti, posing as art, broke the blackness. It was ugly shit, the graffiti was, with a sloppy spray-paint application, not looking like anything particular except the reflection of the twisted mind that painted it on there. Not that the building was anything to marvel at in the first place, but the tagging turned it into a repulsive blot on an already desperate neighborhood.

  Now, at night, only the faltering neon sign over the entrance gave any tipoff at all of any activity inside. That, and the crowds converging on the entrance. A large doorman in a tight black T-shirt guarded the door, and as Desi drove past, he saw the guy checking IDs of a couple of curvy black girls who showed lots of skin.

  Heavy rain had fallen earlier in the evening without bringing any breezes in from the ocean, so a thick blanket of humidity covered the area. Desi cranked up his Escalade's AC another notch and found a spot in the club's parking lot near the front door. Every time the door opened, which was every twenty seconds or so, high-volume dancehall music blasted out.

  The idea was not to take him in front of the Sunsplash, or inside it. Rather, Desi's plan was to let him have his fun inside, then follow him back home and blast him when he gets out of his car. He would have the element of total surprise, so neither Bebop nor his driver would have time to draw their weapons. Patience was the order of the day. Be patient, Desi thought, and you'll have him right where you want him. Wait. Wait.

  He knew, though, that fucking up this time was not an option. This had to go smoothly. Alicia was counting on it. Hell, she might forget they were friends if Desi didn't pull this off. He'd been casing this dump every night since Alicia tipped him to it. No matter what, he was going to spend every fucking night here if he had to until that nigger showed up. Every night for the next five years, if he had to.

  He took a couple of deep breaths and felt under the seat to make sure the nine millimeter was still there. Extra clips. Check.

  A few minutes before midnight, a dark blue BMW slowed to a stop in the "No Parking" zone directly in front of the club. Out stepped a driver who moved to the p
assenger side of the car and opened the back door. A full-figured blonde emerged from the back seat, her considerable chest barely covered and wearing tighter-than-tight short shorts along with impossibly high heels. Hooker chic.

  She stood by until Bebop got out. Wearing a wide smile, he was decked in his nightclub best. The driver closed the back door and all three of them entered the club, Bebop tipping the doorman on his way in. The big car remained in the forbidden parking spot, glistening with beaded raindrops on its freshly-waxed surface.

  Desi shut off his engine. He pulled his weapon from under the seat and attached a silencer to its business end. After looking at it for a moment as though he'd just created a work of art, he put it on the floor by his feet and whipped out his iPod. He inserted the earbuds and selected one of his playlists to see him through what promised to be a long wait.

  Around one-thirty, he decided to walk across the street to the minimart for a cup of coffee. As he passed the front door of the Sunsplash Club, Bebop came barreling through it, cell phone in hand, squawking into the phone in an urgent voice.

  "You tellin' me it ain' dere, mahn?" He was not pleased. "Awright, awright, I'm outside de club now. No yellin' … "

  Desi sidled up to the building and casually leaned against it. Just another street guy propping up a building. Bebop went on: "You tell dat muddahfuckah he bettah have it tonight, you hear me, mahn? … Tonight! … You tell him I be right dere."

  The blonde and the driver trailed out of the club after Bebop. This close, Desi could see the girl's blonde hair came from a bottle, and her dark complexion revealed Hispanic heritage, probably Cuban. As they piled into the BMW, Desi hustled back to his car and fired it up. He followed them to I-95 and down the freeway several miles to Northwest 62nd Street. They headed east into the dark interior of Little Haiti. Northwest First Place off 59th Street.

  Decrepit four-unit apartment structures lined this section of First Place. Serious water remained from the evening's rain, forming great pools along the street. Desi could see drainage was very poor in this part of town, and, he figured, so were the people who lived here. It reminded him of the drainage on the street outside the mattress store in East Hialeah during his younger years.

  The Beemer pulled up in front of one of the apartment buildings. With few other cars on the street, Desi stayed back, lights off, parking his red Escalade near the corner almost a block away. He clicked a button and his window glided downward.

  Patience, Desi. Patience.

  Bebop and the driver got out and there was a black Chrysler 300 parked across the street. That driver exited his car and walked to meet Bebop halfway. The two men stood in the center of the otherwise deserted back street. Heated words flew back and forth, but Desi couldn't make them out. Chrysler Man flailed his hands around and stood very close to Bebop, who appeared to take it all in stride. When Bebop spoke, his voice was loud, but clear and firm. It was all in patois, the Jamaican hybrid tongue spoken by many of the island's natives. To Desi, however, it might as well have been ancient Chinese. Even though they were down the block, and they spoke loudly enough to be heard, everything they were saying was indecipherable. He couldn't even distinguish actual words. It sounded like one long moan, rising and falling in pitch along the way.

  Chrysler Man now stomped around the middle of the street, clearly frustrated, and yelled even louder. Bebop yelled back, and anger flowed fast between the two. Chrysler Man reached under his shirt. Bebop and his driver did the same, producing guns. They fired first, striking Chrysler Man in the chest and in the head, tearing it open. He fell to the street nearly headless, great chunks of his skull and brains landing on the pavement around him.

  Bebop and the driver quickly jumped back into the car and sped away. Desi jammed his car into gear and followed, not turning on his lights until they approached the entrance to I-95 north. They ramped up to the freeway and sped to the Northwest 79th Street exit, where they headed west toward the John F Kennedy Causeway. Miami Beach? Desi thought, as they got closer to the causeway, the great bridge between the mainland and the Art Deco playground of Miami Beach. At the last possible moment before getting on the bridge, the BMW turned off onto a nearly invisible little street, Northeast Bayshore Court, which ran along Biscayne Bay for a few blocks.

  Bebop's car turned into a modest four-story apartment building a couple of blocks down, on the water side of Bayshore Court. Nothing spectacular, but not bad. Desi closed the gap between the two cars and entered the property, checking it all out.

  This is it. This is where this hijo de puta dies! A few more deep breaths. Stay cool, Desi.

  As he pulled up to the small porte-cochère, Bebop and the blonde stepped out of the BMW amid great door-opening ceremony from the driver and the building's doorman, who awaited by the big glass front double doors, ready to open one of them for his honored resident. The driver re-entered the car and turned on to a ramp of the adjacent garage, where it vanished, tires squealing as it ascended the ramp. Desi sped up to the front door area. He leaped from his SUV, getting the attention of Bebop and the blonde, who were in the process of being waved through by the fawning doorman. Silenced semiauto in hand, Desi let loose two soft pops and the doorman went down, bleeding from two holes in his chest.

  The girl stayed close to Bebop. He held her to his side, arm tightly around her shoulders. Desi waved his gun at her. "You! Over there!" he said, pointing to one side. Cringing, she looked up at Bebop for guidance. A slow nod advised her to move as she was told. She stepped to her left about three feet away. Fear brought tears to her eyes.

  "Pl-please," she sobbed.

  Desi moved closer to Bebop. "Hands in the air!" Bebop's hands shot up.

  The girl's sobs grew louder. "Please! Don't! I haven't done anything. I don't know wha —" Desi swung his nine around and put one into the center of her heavily-painted face at short range, blowing out the back of her head.

  With that motion, Bebop instinctively ducked inside the building, looking for a clear moment of respite where he could draw his weapon. Before he had gotten ten feet away, Desi fired, striking him in the back of the thigh, bringing him down. Bebop clutched at his thigh and howled in pain. Desi walked up to his fallen figure, looked down at him and said, "Look at me. I'm Desi fucking Ramos Junior, you fucking nigger faggot. ¡Me cago en el coño de tu madre!" He gave Bebop one pop in the groin, just to piss him off. He watched him writhe in unimaginable pain for a few seconds before putting four quiet ones in his head.

  37

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Friday, April 13, 2012

  9:10 AM

  ALICIA TEXTED HER MIAMI CONTACT with the details on her upcoming trip to England, where she would move the money. This information, she knew, was shuttled to certain people in Colombia who would keep close tabs on her before, during, and after her trip, as they always did.

  She then settled back to have breakfast. Nick sat in his study, writing, as he usually did at this hour. Alicia unfolded the Miami Herald that sat before her, next to his plate.

  The headline leaped out at her, over her glass of orange juice, over her Cuban omelette, slapping her across the face:

  DRUG DEALER, 2 OTHERS,

  GUNNED DOWN NEAR JFK CAUSEWAY

  She set her fork down and gazed slack-jawed at the front page. A large photo of the crime scene, complete with milling cops and covered bodies, accompanied the story, as did smaller photos, headshots all, of the victims. Alicia read of

  The early morning calm of northeast Miami overlooking Biscayne Bay was shattered on Thursday when two men and a woman were shot to death at the front door of the Waterfront Towers, a small apartment building on Northeast Bayshore Court. Killed were Glenroy "Bebop" Charles, 41, a resident of the Waterfront Towers and a known drug dealer, Ana Maxina Méndez, 21, of Hialeah, and building doorman Armando Pérez, 48, of Miami Beach.

  Charles' driver, Ansel Taylor, 26, a native Jamaican living in North Miami, had just dropped the couple a
t the front door and had taken the car into the garage when the killings occurred, shortly before 2:00 AM. He returned moments later to find the bodies and called police immediately.

  Robbery has been ruled out since all the victims had money on them when they were found. Miami police suspect the killing was over drugs, since Charles had been involved in the importation and sale of drugs in the area for years. Born in Jamaica, he arrived in the US in 1987 and since then had amassed a lengthy criminal record. He recently concluded a ten-year prison sentence following a murder conviction.

  His older brother, Conroy, also a drug dealer, was killed in a notorious triple murder in Hialeah in 1989 where all the victims were beheaded.

  Méndez was employed at the gift shop at Hialeah Park. She had been arrested in 2007 for marijuana possession, but the charge was later dropped.

  Pérez, a Cuban exile, had worked at the Waterfront Towers since it was built in 1992. He had no criminal record. Miami detectives investigating the case believe he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Police are asking anyone with knowledge of the incident to call crimestoppers.

  Alicia read the article again. Looked at the photos again. Sipped her coffee and reached for her cell phone.

  Within moments, Desi's voice came through on the other end.

  "Desi," she said. "We need to talk. Miami Beach. Same place we met before. That hotel, you remember?"

  "I remember."

  Alicia said, "Right away." After ending the call, she turned and hollered into the next room, "¡Berto! ¡El carro!"

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Black clouds gathered at the north end of Collins Avenue, promising rain, and Alicia felt a slight drop in temperature when she stepped out of her Bentley across the street from the Hotel Croydon. Reflexively, she looked around for anything troublesome, then took her usual table. The waitress had brought her Fiji water by the time Desi showed up a couple of minutes later.