Setup On Front Street

by Mike Dennis

  The waitress refilled Rita's tea from a pitcher. She took a long, cold pull from it. It looked like it chased away some of the heat.

  Then she said, "Like you, I knew there was no sense in walking when I could ride."

  Suddenly, my shoulders relaxed. I felt comfortable talking with her, like we were both listening to the same radio station.

  "So you hooked onto BK's bumper and let him do the driving."

  "Right. And now, after eighteen years, I've got him covered like a tent."

  "So why're you telling me all this?"

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then slowly let the smoke out in a thin, gray trail. The breeze took it away again.

  "Because I don't want to see you get framed for this Sullivan killing."

  "But why should you care? I mean, you and I never —"

  "It's not about you and me," she said quietly. "It's the old man."

  She knew. She knew the whole damn story. But I had to speak carefully here. Very carefully.

  "You mean Mr Whitney? What about him?"

  "I mean it's time that old bastard got what's coming to him."

  True, but I wasn't about to jump into that swamp just yet. I needed a little more commitment from her.

  "Wait a minute. He's your father-in-law. A lot of people around here think he's tops. He's been a —"

  "He's a piece of shit!" She spit that sentence out.

  "Keep going."

  "He did everything he could to keep BK from marrying me. He treated me like shit! Like I was some kind of worthless bimbo that wasn't nearly good enough for his fucking boy-king son. Do you know that he even tried to buy me off?"

  I didn't know about any of this. My face said as much.

  "That's right. He offered me five thousand dollars to leave town and forget I ever knew BK. I mean, five thousand fucking dollars! The cheap son of a bitch! Like he didn't want to turn loose of any more to save his precious fucking son! Like I'm some kind of a grade Z slut!"

  She took a couple of rapid puffs on her cigarette and calmed her voice down a notch. "Not that I would've taken ten thousand, you understand, or even fifteen. It's just the idea that he not only thought he could buy me out of BK's life, but that he figured my price was so fucking low."

  I looked straight at her. Like everyone, she had a price. Hers was obviously higher than the five dimes Whitney was willing to shell out way back when. But not so high that she would turn down the easy life that BK could give her.

  Her upper lip curled into a sneer. "So I want that old buzzard to get what's coming to him. And to get it in spades."

  She washed that down with some tea. An ice cube landed in her mouth, so she chewed on it for a second, then mumbled around it, "He shouldn't've underestimated me."

  My turn to speak. "The cops'll never believe he had anything to do with Sully's killing. And I'm sure he's got an ironclad alibi."

  "You bet your ass he does. He was out with BK and me last night. Him and his new fucking girlfriend. We had a late dinner, then over to the Casa Marina for drinks, and then we all went out to his house, and he made sure we stayed there till after two. He and the girl went up to bed and BK and I left and went home."

  "Well, of course he wouldn't've hit Sully himself, anyway."

  "It was probably those two goons of his. Milton and Bradley."

  "Maybe, but I doubt it. They're too close to him. More than likely, he gave the order to one of them — probably Bradley. Then Bradley farmed it out to someone else. That way no one but Bradley can connect the killing to the old man."

  "And if he does, he cooks his own goose."

  "Right."

  She stubbed out her cigarette as she got up from the table, making a minor adjustment on her hair.

  "Listen, Don Roy, if there's anything I can do to help you out of this jam, you let me know. Here's my number — my private number at home."

  A pen appeared from her purse as she jotted down the number and slid it across the table at me. Reaching toward my face, she brushed my cheek, her fierce red nails lightly scratching me.

  Her smile was wicked, full of everything that a woman was all about.

  She said, "Remember, I said anything."

  FIFTEEN

  SHIMMY sat across from me in the dim corner booth at Mambo's.

  Last time I saw him, he was a fresh-faced kid, a wheel man making pickups for Mambo's bolita operation. He'd lost a lot of his boyish look since then, even though he was still somewhere in his twenties. He was a tough kid and pretty well-built, not afraid to mix it up if he had to.

  Now he was running a high-stakes poker game out of one of the big resort hotels here in town. Normally, these places frown on that kind of thing, but the hotel's GM was a big player himself, so he was only too happy to set aside one of his rooms for the game.

  It was a once-a-week thing, so Shimmy brought some of the high-limit players down from Miami and Fort Lauderdale, plus any of the rich hotel guests who could be lured into the game by well-paid concierges. He told me they played at the $100-$200 level with a high rake, which meant that he was pulling in, after expenses and before Mambo's cut, about three dimes a week.

  The waiter brought us a couple of beers. Shimmy moved around in his seat, but he didn't drink from his right away.

  Instead, he said, "So tell me about you, man. What was Vegas like?"

  I took a pull on my beer. "It's big. Let me tell you. There're big changes in the wind out there. It's starting to grow like crazy. Even before I went inside, you could smell the changes coming. By the year 2000, it's not even going to be the same town. A lot of the old casinos are closing up. The Landmark, the Silver Slipper, a few others … they even tore a couple of them down."

  "The Landmark? Isn't that the one that looks like a giant mushroom sticking up out of the ground?"

  "That's the one. It was only around twenty years old when they brought it down."

  "Man, why do they want to destroy those places?"

  "To build bigger ones. I hear that eventually all the older casinos are gonna go. The Sands, the Dunes, the Desert Inn, all of them."

  His chestnut-colored eyes widened into the look of someone who is just now learning that there is a complete world out there beyond Big Pine Key.

  "I heard about those places. I gotta get out there one of these days. The action is still great, though, isn't it?"

  "It's still great," I said dryly, "and I ought to know because I contributed more than my share to it."

  Shimmy showed surprise on his baby-face. "You? Man, I didn't know that. What … what …"

  "I never could pass by the dice tables with money in my pocket."

  "Dice. Shit, that's a tough game, brother."

  "Not if you know how to play it. What's tough is when you've got twenty or thirty thousand spread around the table and the shooter sevens out on you. Poof. There it all goes, right down the toilet."

  He relaxed back into the booth, running a hand through thick, black hair.

  "Man, I'll stick to poker. With that game, you only have to beat the other players, not the house. At least you got a shot, and if you're a good player, you can be a favorite to win."

  I'd heard all of these arguments before. Shimmy wasn't really arguing, he was just trying to tell me in a very indirect way that I have a problem I should do something about, because it's cost me a lot of money.

  Thing was, I already knew all that. Even though I was smart enough to know better, I still somehow wanted to believe, deep down, that the big score was waiting for me at some dice table somewhere.

  He ordered up another beer.

  "So what'd you have working out there?"

  "A lot of things. Up until the diamond deal, I was doing all kinds of things."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, for example, I had this mail order thing going. Selling those books that aren't really books, but rather, places to store cash and valuables. You know, cut-out inside where the pages are." I held my hands out like an open
book.

  "Oh, like you see in the movies."

  "Right. I got about twenty-five bucks apiece for them. But I had a deal with this second-story guy I knew. Guy they call Doctor Chicago. One of the top cat burglars in the country. Broken in to over a thousand homes, never been caught. I mean, he gets past alarms and guard dogs and the whole bit."

  "How's he manage that?"

  "I don't know how he does it. Anyway, he paid me a grand for the name and address of each customer, then he would go to their home, wait for them to leave, slip in and look for the book. Every one of those books was loaded. Jewels, Rolexes, cash … fucking loaded. All of them."

  "You just sold him the addresses? That's it?"

  "That's it. I sell him the address, he takes all the risk. I cleared about ninety grand when all was said and done. But he made over a million."

  Shimmy smiled through glistening white teeth. "He'd go wherever these people lived? Anywhere in the country?"

  "Sure. Even with the travel expenses, it was worth it to him. He said some of his biggest scores were in tiny little apartments in rundown parts of hick towns. People who didn't trust banks, or —"

  "Or people like us. Members of the cash economy."

  We both had a good chuckle.

  As we clicked our bottles together, the hazy outlines of a plan floated into my mind.

  SIXTEEN

  IT was dark out by the time I left Mambo's. High clouds blacked out the moon. Looking down the silent street toward Truman a few blocks away, I could see traffic flowing in both directions.

  As I headed that way, a car pulled up to a stop next to me.

  I braced for trouble.

  "Don Roy Doyle?" said the driver. He spoke across the front seat through a lowered passenger-side window.

  I kept on walking.

  "Doyle?" he repeated as the car slid past me. He jumped out, flashing a badge. "FBI. Hold it right there."

  He got out, then came around to the sidewalk.

  "Hands on the car," he said. "Come on, you know the routine."

  He patted me down. When he was satisfied, he said, "Get in the car."

  I looked at him. Khaki pants, a bright yellow Hawaiian shirt, worn outside to conceal the waistband holster.

  The "new" FBI.

  J Edgar Hoover would be rolling over in his grave, puking his guts up.

  "What's the beef?" I asked.

  "Just get in, Doyle. And don't try anything."

  I got in the passenger side. He drove me to a spot I remembered from my childhood.

  It was abandoned now, much worse for the wear, but when I was a kid, I remembered the bakery that used to be there, not far from my house, in fact. The aromas that flowed endlessly from that building were some of my favorite memories of growing up. For some reason, no other bakery ever smelled as good.

  My mother would buy Cuban bread in there every day, then when she could afford it, she'd bring me a few cookies or other treats. Often times, on my way home from school, I would detour just to pass by that great old building, inhaling its pleasures.

  Now, however, it sat empty, crumbling, ready to surrender.

  He escorted me inside. Reaching over to the side wall, he flipped a light switch which looked like it had been recently rigged up. It lit up a naked bulb suspended from the high ceiling.

  All remnants of the bakery had disappeared, with dirt and junk everywhere. Under the bulb sat an old, cleaned-off wooden desk with three chairs around it.

  He nudged me into one of them, but remained standing himself.

  "All right, here we are in your little playground. So who the hell are you and what's going on here?" I asked.

  He showed his badge again. This time I took a closer look.

  "I'm Special Agent Ryder," he said. "I understand you've been having some trouble with former mayor Whitney."

  I had to laugh. Is there anything in this town that isn't public knowledge?

  "What of it?"

  "What of it? Oh, nothing much."

  He finally sat down in the chair behind the desk and continued. "Only that I know he's guilty of just about every crime imaginable over the last thirty years, including whacking your pal Sullivan. This local jerk, Ortega, he's trying to pin that on you, but you and I both know who did it. Whitney's got a date with justice, and I intend to see that he keeps it."

  I stood up to leave. "You're full of sh —"

  He quickly moved around the desk, shoving me back into the chair.

  "You're not leaving until I say so."

  For a guy who was only medium build, he had giant-sized balls. It was just the two of us there in that dark old building and I could've cracked his skull right then and there for pushing me down in that chair. But he was a fed, and there was no percentage in it whatsoever.

  I sat there and took it.

  "What the hell is this shit?" I said. "If this was a real FBI roust, we'd be in your office, not in some falling-down building with the rats and lizards."

  Ryder said, "I'm FBI all right, Doyle. You can bet on that."

  "Then what're we doing here? In this place?"

  I took another look at our surroundings. The light bulb cast a harsh glare across the desk. Not that it mattered, since there was only an ashtray on it. Beyond the desk, shadows gave way to total darkness.

  "Let's just say this is a … a … let's call it an unofficial discussion. A fine example of a dedicated federal law enforcement officer working overtime, after hours, in a secret meeting with a Confidential Informant. All in the name of truth, justice, and the American way."

  "Informant, my ass. Why should I do anything to help you?"

  He came around to sit on the front of the desk, just a foot or two away from me. This close, I could see he appeared to be in excellent shape. His body was relaxed.

  "You're looking at it backwards," he said. I'm here to help you. Unless I miss my guess, you're going after Whitney on your own. If for no other reason than to get out from under this murder frame."

  He pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, sparking it with a Bic lighter, whose flame shot up about a foot into the air.

  Then he went on. "But you may need a little boost here and there. A little help from an unseen hand. That's where I come in. I can give you the FBI."

  I looked hard at him, figuring him to be in his early thirties. His face told me he was deadly serious.

  "Why? Why would you want to get me out of a murder charge? It's not even a federal beef."

  He began to gesture with his hands. They were clear gestures, easy to read, and they complemented his words.

  "You know a lot of people in this town, Doyle. The kind of people who might have the information I want. The kind of people who wouldn't tell me shit."

  "What kind of information?"

  "We think Whitney's in bed with the Russian mob. We also think they're down here establishing a base to move into Cuba when Castro gives up. Probably to set up gambling and prostitution operations. We're not sure of the details just yet."

  I sat still while he got up to walk around, burning energy.

  "Like I said, Doyle, you name the crime, Whitney's done it. But we don't have a shred of evidence on him, especially for federal offenses. So I can't touch him, yet. However, if a private citizen — yourself, for example — should suddenly get the urge to dig something up on him, well … I'd certainly do what I could to grease the way. Unofficially, of course."

  "Yeah, but the FBI doesn't act 'unofficially'. What's your real reason?"

  "I just told you. Anything else is my business. Now are you ready to cooperate?"

  "What's to keep me from just blowing off the whole thing and skipping town? Which I've got half a mind to do anyway."

  He threw the cigarette hard onto the concrete floor, stomping on it.

  "Because if you do, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest. You will be hunted down and arrested for an armed robbery that will have taken place, an armed robbery for which yo
u will have no credible alibi, and one in which you will have been positively identified by two eyewitnesses. That, plus the obvious violation of your parole, which requires you to maintain weekly visits with your parole officer, would mean a fifteen-to-twenty-year stretch, minimum. You ready for that?"

  I didn't answer. But I think he picked up the "no" in my eyes.

  He lowered his voice a notch, losing the bad-cop hard edge. "Look, Doyle. I know you better than you think I do. I know you've been on the grift for a long time. You stood up for Sullivan, and did your bit out in Nevada, and you kept your mouth shut. I know you don't work with cops, especially the FBI. But I'm not like any other cop."

  I was beginning to believe him.

  He said, "Get us anything you can on Whitney's link to the Russians."

  He leaned closer toward me, slipping a scrap of paper into my shirt pocket.

  "This's my private phone number. I've got one of those new cellular phones you carry around with you, so you can get me twenty-four hours a day."

  Then, he shifted his voice all the way down to a cold, hard whisper. "Whitney's nothing but scum. He's going down. One way … or another. You get my meaning?"

  I got it, all right. I threw him a nod. Our meeting was over.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE next day, I found Milton shooting pool in a smoky little joint behind one of the shopping centers on North Roosevelt. His long hair flowed out from beneath a soft-brim hat, which tried real hard to cover up a heavy bandage.

  He was bent over the table, lining up the seven ball for an easy long shot. The eight and the nine were cripples, hanging on the lips of their respective pockets.

  I reached beneath my shirt to adjust my piece in my rear waistband, just in case I needed it, then moved over to a point a few feet off the table, directly in his line of vision.

  As soon as he saw me fill up the background behind the seven, he stroked the cue ball, scuffing it with a loud, awkward clack. It rolled harmlessly off to the right.