by Layton Green
“In Palo, it’s believed the most effective way to influence human affairs is to beseech Kalunga. The cauldron contains everyday items believed to hold the residue of the dead. Each prenda also contains the bones of a nfumbe, a deceased human being whose spirit, with the proper supplication and nourishment, will do the bidding of the Palo priest, or palero.”
Grey held the phone away and frowned at it. “I gotta say, I don’t like the sound of this religion.”
“Palo Mayombe is viewed as a haven of sorcery and black magic. But like Juju, it’s not an evil religion—just ancient and foreign.”
Grey leaned an arm on the balcony railing. “How do you think the rituals are connected to the murders?”
“Beyond the obvious, that both took place during Palo ceremonies, I’m unsure.”
“I found a shopping bag full of religious trinkets at the Lopez house: candles, chalk, beads and necklaces, some sort of bull’s horn with a mirror on it.”
“Vintage Palo material. The mirror allows the nfumbe, or resident spirit, to see the reflection of its soul.”
“Yeah, well, speaking to this world, there was a receipt in the bag with the name Botánica Caldez. I looked it up; a botánica is an herb shop, though apparently in Miami they double as supply shops for Santeria.”
“That’s right,” Viktor said. “Checking it out would be wise. Be discreet, but look for evidence that the shop supports Palo Mayombe.”
Viktor sometimes forgot that Grey did not have a PhD and had not witnessed thousands of religious ceremonies. “Like black cauldrons full of skulls?”
“You’ll know if the botánica is involved with Palo,” Viktor said. “It will have a different feel.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
“Not to be dramatic, but Palo Mayombe is a secretive religion whose worshippers do not generally approve of outsiders probing their affairs. Add murderers and drug dealers to the mix and, well, I think you understand.”
“I understand perfectly. That’s why you hired me, remember? Hey, what about the blue lady in the witness report? Any idea what that’s about?”
“It’s an angle I’m still researching. I hope to have a better answer next time we speak.”
“Fair enough. Take care of yourself, Viktor. Enjoy the clean air.”
Grey finished the night with a cold beer on the balcony. Though the details of the investigation disturbed him, especially the bizarre religion and the involvement of the CIA, he was happy to be working.
He also didn’t deny that a part of him longed to please Nya with news of more arrests, higher up the poisoned food chain. He knew he still loved her, and felt his wall of carefully constructed denial starting to crumble.
As the night deepened, the lights of the art deco district illuminated the swirl of people on the street below, South Beach fashionistas striving for the most addictive drug of all, the elusive crown of social majesty. The fancy cars, yachts, clothes, people: he felt like the city was full of human squirrels scurrying around to collect as many shiny nuts as possible.
Where did it all get us? Grey wondered. When we left the jungle and washed and clothed ourselves, trimmed our hair and nails? Did it bring us closer to a creator, fulfill another step in evolution? Would we all be shiny hairless gods one day, smooth and golden and clothed in the universe’s finest?
He took a swallow of beer. He didn’t know.
He just knew he was fine right where he was.
After dropping Grey off, Fred headed to the office to fill out some paperwork. He cranked the A/C and pondered the case as he drove.
A South American crime lord with some kind of weird hold on the cartels? A blue Indian offing drug dealers at cult ceremonies? Cult investigators?
He still didn’t get the CIA angle. Lana’s explanation of the issues was reasonable, but why not involve Homeland Security? ATF? Border Patrol? All he knew was that if the CIA was in the game, there were reasons involved beyond what Lana was telling him. Reasons he probably wouldn’t like.
He also wasn’t sure what to make of Dominic Grey. Grey’s government record was spottier than chicken pox on a leopard, and that professor he worked for sounded like a kook. Fred couldn’t deny, though, that Grey was one cool customer. According to the police report, he’d taken out two of the dealers himself before facing down the sicarios in the hallway.
Fred was a fifteen-year veteran of hard-core sting operations, and he could take one look at someone and know if he could handle himself on the street. When he had first laid eyes on Dominic Grey, watching Fred and Lana coolly from in front of the hotel, danger vibes had radiated off of him like steam off a glacier.
Besides, Fred’s record wasn’t any better than Grey’s, nor his career on any sort of upward trajectory—that ship had sailed. That ship was at the bottom of a whirlpool in the Pacific Ocean.
He was in a slump, the office shrink had told him.
Slump? He was participating in a personal cataclysm.
Fred hated the Suits in DEA headquarters who had steamrolled his career and who chose politics over what was right, and he got the feeling Dominic Grey felt the same. Idealistic and jaded, street smart and burned by the government, independent to a fault—maybe the two of them weren’t so different after all.
After finishing his paperwork, Fred found an empty witness room and placed a call to Jimmy Nichols. Jimmy and Fred had been stationed in Tijuana together back in the nineties. Now that, Fred thought with a smile, had been some crazy shit. Busting up celebrity coke parties every week, riding motorcycles through underground drug tunnels, Wild West shoot-outs up and down the Baja.
Jimmy was a Suit now, but one of the rare ones who fought the good fight. Or at least tried to. With three kids in college and retirement looming, Jimmy had moved to the upper floors for the money and the pension, and Fred didn’t blame him.
Jimmy’s voice was an odd combination of a copacetic surfer and a smoker’s growl. “Freddie, man! How’s Northern South America treating you?”
“I can’t stop sweating here. It’s like someone left the oven on, all the time.”
Jimmy chuckled. “You’re the only Latino I know who doesn’t like hot weather or soccer. I know you’re loving that sweet eye candy, though.”
“Yeah, sure, go to Lincoln Road any given night and you’ll see twenty girls who make Jennifer Lopez look frumpy. It’s not like they want my hairy paws groping them.”
“If I know you, you’re doing all right for yourself.”
“To be honest,” Fred said, “most nights I sit at home and wish I was with my kids.”
“Hey, I hear you, man. You and Linda still separated?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m a real sob story these days,” Fred said. “Listen, lemme run something by you, since you’re the only Suit I trust.”
“Shoot.”
“You ever hear of a legendary dealer called El General?” Fred asked. “The General?”
“Course I have. I’ve heard of Batman and the chupacabra, too.”
Fred bit down on his toothpick. “Yeah, that was my impression. You think it’s possible there’s any truth to it? Ever heard any of the other Suits talking about it?”
Jimmy took a moment to respond. “Here’s the thing that makes me pause—over the years there’s been a lot of chatter about this guy, enough that we’ve got a file on him. But it doesn’t make me pause long. One person couldn’t possibly have the reach attributed to this guy, everything from Miami to Santiago. What would be the yoke? And the rumors have been around since the early eighties, maybe earlier—who do you know’s been around that long?”
“No one,” Fred said.
“That’s right. And like I said, there’s a lot of chatter on the chupacabra, too. Doesn’t make it real, though campesinos from Puerto Rico to Texas will swear otherwise.”
“So what is it, then?” Fred said. “How does a rumor like that even get started?”
“Headquarters thinks
it’s some sort of bogeyman for drug dealers. Someone they can blame when they don’t want to take the heat, or maybe someone to keep the troops in line.”
“When have cartels ever had a problem keeping troops in line? And what’s this blue Indian lady all about? She’s been seen before.”
“The one who shows up once a decade to murder wayward drug dealers? C’mon, Freddie. You know how reliable eyewitness reports are. Someone way back in the day probably saw a Panamanian sicario in a blue poncho, and the legend grew from there. Hell, maybe someone’s impersonating a blue Indian now, just to rile up the masses. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“There was a hit a few nights ago in North Miami. We’ve got a crack whore said she saw a blue Indian take out a crew of dealers. I interviewed her myself, made the report. The next day a spook came to Miami talking about investigating El General.”
Jimmy laughed.
“That’s the reaction I thought you’d have,” Fred said.
“They’ve got balls, don’t they? The CIA would spread disinformation about Santa Claus if it served their purpose.”
Fred chatted a while longer and then closed his cell. He sat at the conference table, legs crossed, toothpick in his mouth, unable to shake the sight of that cracked-out witness in the back of the police car, the pot of bones sitting in the field outside, and the four dead bodies rotting in the sun.
Just after noon Fred drove over to Flanigan’s, a neighborhood bar in Coconut Grove festooned with fisherman’s kitsch. The place did a brisk lunch hour, and Fred walked past tables of boisterous patrons feasting on fried shrimp platters and blackened snapper sandwiches.
At the rear of the joint, he slid into a booth across from Ernesto Reinas, an accountant with a nasty coke habit who had spent the last three years on the DEA payroll. Caught with an eight ball of coke during a traffic stop, fearing the loss of his cushy lifestyle in paradise, Ernesto had told the police he had two minor drug dealers as clients and would give them up in exchange for amnesty.
Amnesty had been given, but at a much higher price: the DEA had insisted that Ernesto grow his client base and work as a narc. With the DEA’s help, the poor accountant’s reputation within the drug world had exploded, as had his stress level and coke habit. He now advised a bevy of mid-level players on how to launder their money, while the DEA kept promising to release him once he handed over a few big fish. Fred knew Ernesto would be their pawn until the day he offed himself in his garage.
Ernesto was hunched in the back of the booth, underneath a fishing net nailed to the wall. The metrosexual type, he had manicured nails and a curling feminine mouth. On weekends Fred imagined he drove around in a golf cart all day, then sipped fruity martinis poolside at his country club.
“I don’t have anything new,” Ernesto said, his voice low and defeated. He snuffled, and Fred noticed the redness lining his nostrils.
Fred gave him a broad grin, then ordered a plate of ribs and a Budweiser. Once the waiter left, Fred said, “I’m not here to bust your balls today.”
Ernesto took a nervous sip of iced tea, pushing his half-finished salad to the side. “Yeah.”
“How’s the family?” Fred asked.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“The business?”
“Good.”
“Great. You’re a busy guy, I won’t waste your time. I just need a bit of info.” Fred chomped down on a succulent bit of pork fat. Flanigan’s had the best ribs in town. “I know this is a little off the wall, but you ever heard of someone called El General?”
“There’re plenty of generals on the cartel payrolls. You know that.”
“I mean El General.”
“What? No.”
“Take a moment to think about it,” Fred said, chewing as he watched Ernesto, who exhibited no signs of deception. After a few more bites Fred asked, “Aren’t you curious who he is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a name we’ve been hearing. Someone high-level, maybe very high-level, who has a hand in the cookie jar. Maybe a few of them.”
“I’ll check the books if you want,” Ernesto said, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Do that, though I’m sure the payments are off the books or under a series of fronts.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Look for a string of payments by various cartels to one source,” Fred said.
“I would have noticed that.”
“Probably, but check again. Be clever, think of an angle. You’re much smarter than they are.”
Ernesto didn’t respond to the flattery, merely took another sip of tea and slumped farther in his seat.
“Start with the Alianza Cartel. You have a couple of clients there, right?”
“Oh God,” Ernesto muttered, mashing his hands together in front of his glass. “I don’t even like thinking about them.”
“Sorry pal, you know the deal. I’ll check in again on Friday. That should be enough time, right?”
This time Fred couldn’t even hear Ernesto’s response, just saw his lips move in affirmation.
Later that afternoon Fred took to the street, trolling the fringes of Overtown looking for Freckles, an informant whose light African-American skin was dotted by so many pepper-colored marks that his face looked like a Pointillist painting.
Freckles had been a cocaine dealer for most of his life before succumbing to the lure of his own product. Though not as useful as he used to be, Freckles had his ear to the ground and was a wealth of information on the old guard.
Fred rolled through the treeless, sunbaked streets, flat and narrow as tapeworms, possessed of an eerie calm that he knew was due to the residents’ fear of venturing outside. Overtown was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Miami, developed to house the railroad construction workers—ex-slaves—who had helped carve Miami out of the swamp. The construction of I-95 and the Dolphin Expressway had gutted the historic neighborhood.
After a few hours of rolling through the ghettos and trash-filled streets, he gave up and moved a few blocks north to Liberty City, an even worse neighborhood, its street corners marked by toys that served as memorials to slain children.
He found Freckles lounging on a cardboard box underneath I-95. Somewhere around forty-five years old, he looked seventy.
“Let’s take a ride,” Fred said.
Freckles didn’t even argue, just got in the car with his hand out, his movements quivery. Fred kept a hand on his gun, wary that Freckles might be part of the “bath salts” epidemic plaguing the homeless population. “Ivory wave,” “zoom,” and “cloud nine” were a hodgepodge of cheap synthetic chemicals that poured dopamine into the brain and led to violent hallucinations. The drug had resulted in a rash of gruesome crimes, including a homeless man in Miami who had eaten the face off another man in broad daylight.
Fred slipped him a twenty, checking Freckles’s eyes for signs of dilation or disassociation. “There’s two more of those at the end of the ride.”
“What’cha need, my man? You know I ain’t know much no more. Gonna change, though. Gonna change.”
For some reason, Fred had a tiny soft spot for Freckles. Maybe it was because no matter how bad things got, Freckles remained an optimist, at least on the surface. In a country full of depressed middle- and upper-class citizens with full bellies and two-car garages and 401(k)s, Fred found that refreshing.
“You hang in there, Freckles. Want me to drop you at the treatment center when we’re done?”
“Nah, you just drop me right where you got me. Now what’s it be?”
“You know about the recent murders? Frankie Garcìa and Manny Lopez?”
“Everybody heard.”
“What’s the word on the street? Seemed a bit excessive, even for the Alianza. And I’m told Manny was on the fast track.”
“Well, that don’t matter none, these days there’s a kid on every corner waitin’ to take his place. Twenty of ’em. But those there murders, make no mistake about it. Th
ey was a message.”
“A message from the Alianza?” Fred asked.
“Well, that’s the thing don’t make no sense, cuz them cats ain’t known for caring who get hurt. Ain’t like the old days. We had codes and shit, you know what I’m sayin’?” His fingers slipped as he tried to crack a knuckle. “But that done changed.”
“Think you can make some inquiries, maybe get me a name? It might be something we’re interested in, if you know what I mean.”
Fred saw a greedy light in the corner of the informant’s drug-addled eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’ll ask around.”
“I want to know who put the order in. Those were professional hits on American soil. Extradition fodder.”
“Like I said, I ain’t got no pull like I used to, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good man,” Fred said, then decided to go out on a limb. “Back in the day when you were dealing, you ever hear about someone named the General? Some high-level player down South who pulls strings?”
“Freddie, you finally been dippin’ into that DEA stockpile?”
Freckles cackled, and Fred caught a whiff of breath that smelled like a dead squirrel decomposing in a garbage can. Funnily, he also thought he heard a nervous edge underlying the laughter. He’d known Freckles to be many things, but never nervous.
They rolled to a stoplight, and Fred tightened his grip on his weapon as a group of teenagers approached his car with rags and a bottle of Windex. He waved them off. “Nah, I’m serious. What if someone like that ordered those hits? Like you said, making a statement.”
Freckles tried to grin, but it turned into a spasm and contorted his face. “Hey man, I need me some crib. What say you take me back?”
Fred did a U-turn at the light and wound back through Liberty City. As they reached the underpass where he had found Freckles, Fred took a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on his thigh. The informant’s eyes were twin lasers focused on the bill.
“What do you know about this guy, Freckles? A rumor’s fine. Does it have anything to do with the recent hit, the blue lady?”