Kill City USA

by Warren Roberts

Sayers and the driver came down the steps from the landing and walked slowly toward The Commodore, his driver glancing constantly over his shoulder, his hand inside the racquet cover crooked under his arm to the right-hand side of his chest. They cautiously approached the motel and walked over to the unit where Mullan and the Cuban were.

  He tapped on the door with his free hand. It was opened by the Cuban. He spoke briefly with the driver and motioned them both inside. The door closed behind them.

  Tony walked back toward the bait kiosk where a white van was now parked with a Technicolor pizza painted on its side. He opened the rear door and got inside as it drove off toward the motel.

  It pulled up outside the reception area, where the driver went inside. He came out a minute later and walked over to the van to hand something to Tony. He went back into the office.

  Two XXL guys got out of the front seat wearing white uniforms with black and white checked caps. They were each carrying pizza boxes. Tony got out and pointed towards the door that Sayers had entered. His hand was inside a brown paper bag and he took a one-eighty degree look behind him before speaking to the pizza carriers.

  The three of them walked briskly to the room door, their pizza boxes prominently in front of them, their right hands thrust inside. Tony inserted the key given to him by the driver into the door, and simultaneously one of the two pizza carriers shouldered the door against its security chain and burst in, followed by the other pizza carrier and Tony. The door was slammed shut. The van driver had now come out of the motel reception area and was back in his vehicle. He pulled toward the motel unit.

  In twenty seconds Tony and his two delivery men emerged carrying Mullan’s four large athletic bags like they were off for a kick-about at the park. They got into the van then drove along the foreshore without undue haste. These guys were professionals. Straight from the SAS operations manual. Surprise, Aggression, Speed.

  Sal’s phone rang. He OK’d into it before dropping it over the side of the boat.

  He said, ‘The eagle has shitted. Let’s get outta here. I want to get back on land.’

  We raised the anchor and started the motor, and steered slowly towards the berthing area outside Joe’s Bait, Tackle, etc. I handed back the boat’s keys and collected my cash deposit, my hat pulled down to the tops of my sunglasses. We walked to the car park.

  ‘You get it all?’ I said to Jonah, away from Sal’s hearing.

  ‘Sure,’ he said as he ejected the small video cassette cartridge from the camera, slipping it into his pocket.

  32

  TERROR ARMS PLOT FOILED, was the headline in the Miami Herald the next morning.

  The article was under a photograph of three of the field directors of the Miami-Dade FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Acting on information received, three trucks laden with arms had been intercepted as they attempted to drive out of a warehouse in the Hialeah area. Armed officers had surrounded the vehicles and no resistance was offered. Arms seized included submachine guns, pistols, rocket launchers and anti-tank missiles. No mention was made of the Stingers, for reasons best known to them. Cza was just visible at the edge of the photograph.

  Seven men had been arrested at the scene including a British passport holder who I hoped was Irish. Further arrests were expected to follow, the director had said at the press conference. When asked if those detained included the ringleaders of the arms plot, the director had replied he was confident that all those concerned with the conspiracy would be found and brought to justice.

  I showered and was finishing dressing, before going to The Delano for breakfast. The phone rang.

  It was Cza. ‘Milo.’ It wasn’t the tone of someone calling to ask where to send the thank you flowers.

  ‘Congratulations, counselor. I’ve just been reading about your splendid efforts yesterday. Front page news no less. Acting on inside information received. I liked that. You’re a star. Picture in the paper as –’

  ‘Where the fuck were you yesterday?’ she said. ‘Anywhere near Boone Dock at Lake Okeechobee.’

  ‘Lake Okeydokey did you say?’

  ‘Cut the bullshit. I need to see you. Now.’

  ‘Um… How ‘bout breakfast at The Delano?’ I said. ‘In an hour.’

  ‘Essex House. Washington and Tenth. Ten minutes.’

  She hung up. I caught a cab and was there in nine.

  About twenty minutes later she arrived as I finished the Herald’s comics section. She sat down without greeting me. She was breathing heavily. She composed herself and gave me the official eyeball.

  ‘We got news this morning that four bodies have been found in a motel unit up near Sweetwater. Some fishing lodge in Boone Dock. We’ve provisionally identified one of them as Charlie Sayers, an Englishman. Another is one Michael Mullan, known Irish Republican sympathiser and gun runner. All were shot in the head and chest with two double-taps. No gunshots were heard so silencers were used. All the hallmarks of professional hits.’

  I remained expressionless. ‘You have milk and sugar with your coffee?’

  ‘Cut to the chase, Milo.’

  God. I hated that expression. Corporate slang which forgoes any respect at all for erudition, but I didn’t tell her so realising the thinness of the ice on which I was presently fishing. But boy she looked sexy when she was angry.

  ‘So what have you got to say for yourself? I called your office yesterday and they said you weren’t around. You told me the day before you were going fishing. People go fishing at Lake Okeechobee. That’s what they do there.’

  ‘Sounds like a good day for justice. You bag an arms haul and get pats on the back. Plus you stop a small war somewhere. Also from what you’ve just told me it seems that there are now four less bad guys in the world. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Just that you said all along you were being straight with me. I never believed you told me everything. Only what you wanted me to know.’

  ‘I think I told you all you needed to know.’

  Cza was breathing heavily. It was very sexy. ‘This Da Silva guy. We nailed him at the warehouse and now he and his crew are singing louder than Tiny Tim. He faces a mighty long stretch. Told us a lot about Irish and Sayers. And that the payment was going down at the lake. But funny we found no money with the bodies there.’

  ‘So someone hit them and took it. These are Cuban gun runners and terrorists, for shit’s sake. Not a bunch of Boy Scouts. Someone in the know got greedy and violent.’

  ‘You swear you don’t know where the money is?’

  ‘I swear it could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘OK. I don’t know where the money is. I swear.’

  Cza thought awhile and laughed.

  ‘I haven’t asked you yet if you know who took the money,’ she said.

  ‘No, you haven’t. How do you have your coffee again?’

  She eventually gave me a reluctant smile. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t.’ Her cell rang and she walked away to take the call. She returned shortly.

  ‘We’ve just broken the news to that guy Irish about his boss Sayers’ death. Claims he wasn’t his boss. Just an acquaintance. Said he’s never heard of Michael Mullan. He’s scared of the stretch that’s facing him. So he’s trying to get some hotshot Irish-American attorney.’

  ‘The lawyers get rich again. What’s new?’

  I felt confident there was no way that Irish could link us to his current woes. I also doubted he presented a threat to Jay without his boss around. He had far more on his mind than that particular matter. Like where he would be spending the next twenty-five years or so.

  She wanted to take the conversation further. ‘You never did tell me what happened to you the other night.’

  My face was still bruised and sore. My ribs still hurt. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  She shook her head and gave up. ‘How much longer you planning to stay?’ she said.

  ‘Oh. I’m pretty much done. Just a
couple of loose ends to tie up. Couple more days maybe.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Depends what charges you’ll be up on. I haven’t quite decided that one yet,’ she said. ‘Incidentally, am I a loose end? Going to tie me up? Or that’s just another one of those promises of yours.’

  I laughed. ‘Why don’t you say what you mean. I can’t stand this beating round the bush.’

  She said, ‘I think that I owe you a night out before I’ve got to arrest you. Tonight OK? No time like the present. Before you’re put away.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said.

  ‘And Milo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay healthy and out of trouble in the meantime. I can’t have you put inside without you knowing what you’re gonna miss.’

  33

  I requested a lunchtime date with Paul Quaranto who agreed to meet in a luggage shop on Washington Avenue in South Beach. He said we could talk in there.

  I arrived shortly before noon and he entered a few minutes later, his hands in his pockets, gazing all around him. We went to the rear of the shop as he studied the ceiling. The cautious manager left us alone.

  Quaranto’s eyes were now on the door. ‘Let’s be quick. Time’s money. The deal’s done. Your information was straight. What you want from me now?’

  ‘OK. Let’s do a little recap here. Just for the record.’

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Three things. One: Tomas is clear. He, me, Jonah, Dooley, significant others etcetera – we never hear from you or your friends again. You even made on the deal. We ain’t asking for a refund.’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘Two: Les Cargill in Michigan. He set up MCP. He’s off the hook – so get that greaseball from J P Malcolm to tell him so.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear that. It’s non-negotiable.’

  Paul Quaranto looked at me impatiently. He wanted out of here and done with me.

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘Three: you remind those Yardie friends of yours again to get word to London. There’s no more moves against me or my friend Jonah.’

  He thought for a while. He didn’t like to be seen to be giving the store away. ‘You goin’ to the PD line-up? Identify the shooter?’

  ‘He’s still in hospital. I’m going back to London. The cops want me back here. I’ll see how you and these boys behave in the meantime.’

  ‘OK. You want three for the price of one. You got it. Just get your ass out of my life,’ he said, his eyes constantly moving from me to the door, his hands stuck in his pockets.

  I said, as he moved to leave, ‘One other thing.’

  He was irritated and impatient. ‘What the fuck now? You’ve already had three strikes. You don’t get no four balls and walk.’

  ‘Just to remind you what we agreed about the business with the bank. We were hired cold on that one and are in no way responsible. That’s your fuck-up. We hear no more on that. You haven’t lost anything, you’ve just made nothing.’

  ‘That’s closed. We agreed that already, like you said. Forget about it.’

  ‘Oh. One other thing,’ I said, as I handed him a copy of a cassette tape. ‘Our insurance.’ He put it in his pocket without looking at it. I thought of reminding him we could always tip off the Feds about Maria Viscione/Johnny Steaknife but he knew that.

  He walked past me towards the door and stopped. He took his right hand out of his pocket and offered it to me. We shook hands.

  ‘You know something? You’re good, Milo. Pity you’re not from the old country. I could use someone like you.’ I was being blessed by the Pope.

  As he walked towards the door he picked up a cheap shoulder bag and threw some cash on the counter.

  ‘See that guy there,’ he said to the shop assistant, pointing to me. ‘Give it to him. It’s to remind him to pack and get outta town.’

  He left the store without looking back.

  34

  So you’re outta the shit,’ I said to Tomas.

  We were sitting in his office.

  He studiously stubbed his cigarette into his ashtray while he absorbed the news.

  ‘You sure of that?’

  ‘As sure as I think I can be.’ I guess that summed it up.

  ‘No more Moresco and Bezzant chasing me for money?’

  ‘Of that I can be sure.’

  He didn’t ask why. ‘What about Quaranto?’

  ‘You hear from him again, you let me know. Pronto. But I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He gave me his word.’

  ‘Is that any good?’

  ‘Tomas, I’m saying you’re out of the quagmire. And in profit. Free of debt. Just leave it at that.’

  ‘Yeah. Dooley’s been on my case already. Said there’s some accounting to do between us for your costs.’

  ‘Well. That’s between you and Dooley. You two sort it out.’

  I said, ‘You talk to Cargill yet like I asked you? Tell him he’s off the hook as well?’

  ‘I spoke to him just before you came here. I didn’t tell him much. Just that the deal’s off. After he started to believe me he sounded one very relieved man. He’s taking his family away for a while.’

  He walked over to his built-in refrigerator and took out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two chilled wine glasses. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since I had arrived in Miami.

  ‘This is left over from the good days. I’m not sure if I’d been saving this to celebrate or to drown my sorrows.’

  He popped the cork. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  I took a longneck instead. ‘Here’s to the proceeds of crime,’ I said, tapping the beer bottle against his glass.

  ‘You going to tell me what happened? How you negotiated this?’ he said.

  ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know.’

  He smiled at me cheesily. He didn’t.

  He offered me a Romeo Y Julieta. We smoked and drank in silence for a minute or so. He put his shoes on his desk so I did likewise with mine on the coffee table. Like the big-noters do. Executive style with cigars.

  He said, ‘I don’t know how I could ever repay you. Believe me. I’m eternally grateful to you and D and Jonah. I sometimes might not’ve shown it.’

  ‘Just don’t get into this kind of shit again. That’s my repayment.’ I meant it.

  I arrived at Cza’s at eight with a bunch of sunflowers and a bottle of bubbly. This was not a longneck beer occasion. I pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me. Milo.’

  ‘Before I let you in, you promise no more house calls this evening. All phones are to be switched off.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  She buzzed me in. She wore a long white shirt stopping just above her knees. And apparently nothing else.

  She said, as I gave her the champagne, ‘Great. It can go with the one I bought.’

  She put the bottles in her ice-filled sink.

  ‘You do the honours and I’ll put on the music,’ she said.

  I filled two glasses to the sultry strains of Julie London. We toasted.

  ‘Funny,’ she said.

  ‘Funny what?’ I said.

  ‘You don’t look a bit like the description we got from a confused old-timer who runs a motel in Boone Dock. Where Messrs Jerome, George and Harris were registered. Near to The Commodore. Left before the incident. Paid cash in advance. He said you were shorter and fatter.’

  ‘They sound to me like the names of three guys who would have spent the day boating and fishing,’ I said.

  She hipped her hands, legs apart. ‘And I’m Lulamae Barnes. I’ve read Jerome K Fucking Jerome too, Milo. An English lit major, remember. Three Men In A Boat – Jerome, George and Harris. The subtle sardonicism. The malevolent malarkey. I’ve just got to hand it to you, Joe.’

  ‘Subtle
sardonicism? Malevolent malarkey?’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘You know, you’re so goddamned sexy when you alliterate.’

  She let that pass, hands still on hips, chin jutting.

  ‘I’m surprised Montmorency wasn’t in there as well,’ she said.

  ‘Motel mightn’t let dogs stay there. Barking might disturb the fish.’

  ‘Very funny. So funny in fact, I forgot to laugh,’ she said.

  ‘An Owl and a Pussycat registered as well?’ I said. ‘And a pea-green boat.’

  A look of total exasperation until she said after a short while, ‘The old guy said they didn’t look like fishermen to him. Especially the fat guy he saw who could have been an Italian gangster.’

  I said, ‘Italians are fishermen.’

  ‘Or the one who paid. Wore a cap and shades and tried to sound like John Wayne but the owner thought he could have been English.’

  ‘An English fisherman.’

  ‘As for the other guy in their group, the African-American. Where’s Jonah this evening?’

  I didn’t bother to point out he’s Jamaican. ‘He’s gone to a business dinner.’

  ‘Where they’re serving fish, I suppose,’ she said. ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Banking business. Dinner with Lori Reichardt from the bank. To cement our relationship with them, as it were.’

  ‘Cementing. That’s a new word for it. Speaking of the bank. What news of Johnny Steaknife in your travels?’

  ‘I think your fingerprint people must have made a mistake. Bezzant and Moresco are the guys you want.’

  She shook her head in frustration. ‘Fingerprints don’t lie. And don’t worry. We’re looking for them.’

  I said, ‘Good luck,’ thinking of their last resting place in the hourglass collection, assuming they’d retrieved Bezzant’s body from the seabed.

  She was on the verge of saying something, then burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re really something else, Milo,’ she said, shaking her head.

  She seemed to want to take this conversation further but I rather hoped she might by now have other things on her mind. And there was definitely nothing under her shirt.