STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  Vargas said, "Might be factional, Silvi. You know? Like, a group of them in Brighton Beach want to set up a rival outpost in Miami. For whatever reason, maybe somebody in Lauderdale pissed them off, or maybe they feel they've got something to prove."

  "You may be onto something, Bobby," Acevedo said. "I've heard the Lauderdale Russians aren't doing anything comparable to the Miami drug business."

  Silvana said, "Fact is, they've got their own drug trade up there, along with gambling, whores, and the rest of it, but none of it compares to the dollars Miami produces. Their main job is laundering the tons of mob cash that comes down every week from New York and the rest of the Northeast."

  "So," Vargas said, "if some of the Brighton Beach boys can come down and push the Colombians out of Miami, they score a lot of points with the heavyweights back in Odessa."

  "All right," Silvana said. "We've got an idea to work on here. The three of us are going to take a little ride up to Fort Lauderdale. To the Broward Sheriff's Office — they're the top dogs in law enforcement up there. We want to find out if they know anything at all about rival Russian factions setting up shop in either Miami or Broward. They might tell us to fuck off, because they hate Miami and everything it stands for, but maybe not. My being there as a lieutenant might show them we're serious. It's worth a shot."

  54

  Silvana

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  Monday, September 10, 2012

  1:35 PM

  DESPITE WHAT MANY MOVIES TELL YOU, the Broward County Sheriff is not a pot-bellied redneck surrounded by sweaty, shotgun-toting deputies in rusting pickup trucks. The Broward Sheriff's Office is a huge complex of modern buildings in central Fort Lauderdale with branch buildings all over the county, specializing in cutting-edge law enforcement. The sheriff, Al Lamberti, came up through the ranks after decades of service to win election in 2008. And he ran a tight ship.

  Vargas pulled into the vast parking lot and they made their way into the Ron Cochran Public Safety Building. After showing their tin a few times, they were eventually led into the office of the BSO's Organized Crime Unit.

  Captain Alejandro Peña, the chief of the unit, rose to greet them. He topped six feet by several inches with big, solid shoulders and powerful arms. His uniform did nothing to hide the immensity of his ultra-fit body. The intimidation fell away, however, when his innocent smile glittered against his dark complexion and he spoke in a soft voice.

  "Welcome to Fort Lauderdale, Lieutenant Machado. Always glad to see some of our brothers and sisters from down the road."

  "Thank you, Captain," Silvana said. "Allow me to present Sergeant Vargas and Detective Acevedo, also of the Miami PD's Homicide Division."

  Everyone shook hands and happiness filled the air. Then Peña cut through it all. "What exactly brings you here today, Lieutenant?"

  "We believe the Russian mob is planning a big move into Miami. I say the Russian mob, but I mean perhaps a faction of the Russian mob."

  "A faction?"

  She ran down her notion of the breakaway crew trying for brownie points in Odessa. Peña nodded solemnly every now and then during her presentation.

  "We hope this theory is just that, a theory," she said. "We hope we're totally wrong about it. What we would like to know is whether your people have heard anything at all about this supposed plan, if anyone's been talking about a Russian move against the Colombians in Miami."

  Peña shook his head. "Can't really help you there, Lieutenant. Oh, not that I'm holding back anything, but just saying we haven't heard any of that kind of talk, no buzz about any big move into Miami."

  Silvana said, "How about anything out of the ordinary, anything that would maybe raise your eyebrow? Even just a little."

  "No … not that I can … well, now, hold on a minute." He paused to consider saying something. Instead, said, "No, it's probably nothing."

  "What is it?" Silvana said. "If it's nothing, then there's no harm done. But you know from your years in law enforcement the slightest thing has the potential to carry great weight."

  "Well, this is really nothing — or next to it, anyway — but a week or so ago, we got word of a guy circulating around a couple of the Russian strip clubs, a guy supposedly from Miami. We don't see too many Russians from Miami up this way, so it caught our attention."

  Silvana began to salivate. "What was he doing? Who did he see?"

  "Can't say for sure," Peña said. "It was a Confidential Informant who tipped us. We never found out what the guy was doing here."

  Silvana said, "Did your CI give you a name?"

  Peña rustled through a few files on a table behind his desk. He selected one and opened it, careful not to disclose its contents to the visiting Miami cops.

  "Yeah, he did," he said. "Here it is. A guy named Nazar Voloshin. We ran a make on him. Traced him to Miami and from there straight back to Brighton Beach. Looks like the big boys sent him down here."

  "Nazar Voloshin," Silvana repeated and Peña spelled it for her. "Do you have a photo?" she asked. "Any info on him at all?"

  "We did get a surveillance photo from the FBI." He showed her a candid black and white shot of a man in his early thirties, sandy hair, well-built. Bold, animal eyes. He wore a leather jacket and stood by a dark-colored SUV. A slinky brunette hung an arm around his shoulder.

  "Any kind of data on him?"

  "Born Kiev, Ukraine … DOB 12/2/78 … last known address, Brighton Beach, New York … occupation, enforcer. We looked further but couldn't find anything else. We just had that CI tip spotting him in a few places around town, but no indication of anything illegal."

  "Can you make me a copy of the photo and the information on him?"

  "Will do."

  While he ran the copies, Silvana said, "You said you don't see too many Russians from Miami, Captain. Why is that?"

  "Most of the ones we have here come directly from Brighton Beach. Fort Lauderdale is like their Florida headquarters. When we heard this Nazar character came up from Miami, we thought it was odd."

  "Did your CI tell you how he knew Nazar was from Miami?"

  "As I recall, the CI said Nazar told people he came from Miami. Maybe he was trying to impress them, I don't know. Like I said before, it's probably nothing. I'm sorry you made this trip and got so little out of it."

  "You never know, Captain. You just never know in this business."

  551

  Logan

  Key West, Florida

  Monday, September 10, 2012

  6:50 PM

  DOROTHY'S POT ROAST WAS SPECTACULAR, as usual, and I had just polished off my second helping when the phone rang. It was the new one I bought the other day after those psycho cops from Miami ripped our other one out of the wall. This one was a regular desktop model. It sat on our kitchen counter, right below the hole that guy made in our wall. I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID, just the Miami area code.

  "Logan? You know who this is?" I knew. That ballet bitch from Little Havana.

  "Yes, Laura Lee. What do you want?"

  "Don't say my name! I'll call you right back."

  Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again. Different number on the caller ID, still Miami area code.

  I said, "Hello, yes I know who this is. What do you want?"

  "Have the police been to see you? Have they?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, they have."

  "They have? What did you tell them?" she said. The way she talked, her wary tone of voice, it sounded like she was afraid of cops bursting through her door any second.

  "What do you think? Nothing. There was nothing to tell."

  "You sure? You sure you didn't let something slip?"

  "I'm sure," I said. "What's this all about?"

  "What the hell do you think it's about?" she said in a raised voice. "They're onto us! I think I'm being followed. I'm almost certain my land line and regular cell phone are tapped. They may even have planted cameras in my house."

 
; "Don't worry about it. I know where I was that night, and so do a lot of other people. I was right here in Key West shooting pool and watching baseball on TV with a bunch of other guys."

  Her voice modulated into little-kid playground-mocking mode. "Shooting pool and watching baseball on TV." Then back to "normal". "You may think you're sitting pretty down there, but let me tell you, they know. They know, I'm telling you."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because. Because they're tailing me everywhere I go, even to the drugstore. They're outside my house, right outside my window! They might even be there now."

  This was growing tiresome. I said, "Take another pill and lie down. Get hold of yourself."

  "Don't tell me what to do! Don't forget what I've got on you."

  Right then, I remembered Dorothy's warning to me: Kill her, not the dancer. She's got a lifetime hold on you. And she was squeezing me right now.

  "All right, listen. What do you want? What did you call me for?"

  She fell silent. After about twenty seconds, she said, "I … I just wanted to know … if … if the cops called on you. You know, what they said, what you said."

  "Well, I told you. Nothing is going to happen. We're both okay. If you hold up, that is."

  "I'll hold up, all right! Don't you lecture me on holding up, goddamn it! I've been holding up with this fucking pain for twenty-four hours every fucking day for two years! Don't worry about me!"

  "All right, all right," I said. "I won't worry about you. Don't you worry about me. And don't call me again. Got it?"

  "Don't tell me what to do, Mister Big Shot. Don't you fucking ever tell me what to do."

  "Okay, I won't tell you what to do. Please don't call me again. Pretty please. How's that?"

  "Fuck you!" She ended the call.

  Dorothy sat on the couch fiddling with the remote. The evening news was wrapping up and she had it muted. Her body was relaxed and so was her voice. "What did I tell you?"

  "Okay, maybe you were right. She sounded like she was losing it on the phone. Maybe I should have done her instead of the dancer."

  She pointed the remote at me. "You still can, you know."

  "No. Not now. Not after those Miami cops braced me the other day. Anything happens to her, I'm gonna be the first one they look at."

  "Get Mambo to set you up with another alibi," she said.

  I took a seat on the couch next to her. "Right. And get deeper in debt to him? No way. Delivering that vanload of weapons was scary enough, being in that fucking warehouse with all those Russians. No, we let this go."

  "I don't know. You might want to consider —"

  "I said, we let it go. Those fucking cops don't play by the book. We give them an excuse, they might drive down here just to waste me the way they did the Dávila brothers last year. We can't give them any reason to think about me ever again. They're the type that, once they get a hard on for you, they don't give up. Ever."

  She snuggled up next to me and unmuted the TV. Wheel Of Fortune was cranking up.

  56

  Silvana

  Miami, Florida

  Tuesday, September 11, 2012

  1:10 PM

  NO NAME SHOWED IN THE CALLER ID. She answered.

  "Lieutenant Machado."

  "Lieutenant, it's Flaco. I need to see you. Talk with you 'bout something."

  "What's with the different phone?" she said.

  "I can't use my regular phone. But I need to see you. Today."

  Meetings with Flaco were usually productive. "Our usual spot." She glanced at her watch. "One-thirty."

  At precisely one-thirty, Flaco pulled up to the Bay Of Pigs Museum on Southwest Ninth Street. A charming little 1940s-style building containing the full story of what happened that tragic day in 1961 when Cuban exiles, working in conjunction with CIA handlers, decided to invade Cuba.

  Silvana had arrived about one minute earlier. They both got out of their cars and walked to the open alley-driveway running alongside the building. Flaco had his customary cigarette going.

  Silvana said, "What's on your mind, Flaco?"

  "Yo, you got my boy Yoso Domínguez locked up on a drug pinch. Coupla bullshit bags was all he had on him."

  "What can I say? Two bags or two kilos. It's still against the law."

  "Oh, man, he was just workin' over there in East Hialeah, this bullshit 'hood, scrapin' by on a few hundred a week. We need him out there. 'Specially now. To show the flag, you feel me?"

  "Careful what you say about East Hialeah," Silvana said. "That's my old neighborhood."

  "You know what I'm tryin' to say. We need him out there, otherwise the Russians are gon' take over that route."

  Her eyes opened a little wider. "Russians?"

  "Yeah. They been tryin' to move in all over Maxie's territory and a few of 'em got smoked lately. There's a war goin' on. I ain't even s'posed to be here right now. I'm s'posed to be in my safe crib, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "I might be able to do something about your boy Domínguez," Silvana said. "But I need to know what you can tell me about the Russians."

  "Whaddya mean?"

  "I mean, I want to know who's pushing this move, how far do they intend to take it, the whole ball of wax. I especially want to know anything you can dig up on a guy named Nazar Voloshin."

  "Say what? Who?"

  Silvana took out her phone and typed Nazar's name and texted it to Flaco's burner number, along with a scan of the photo Captain Peña gave her yesterday.

  "This guy," she said. The text arrived and Flaco looked it over.

  "Don' know this dude by sight," he said, "but the name …"

  "What about the name?"

  "Jimmy Quintana tol' me to dig shit up on these Russians, too. 'Bout a week ago."

  "What did you find?"

  He said, "I know this dude up in Lauderdale, he got an in with the Russians up there. He move a little coke for 'em around Cooper City, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Silvana knew Cooper City. Ghetto Central.

  "So what did he tell you?"

  "He got a coupla street corners he workin', you know? And one night he go to make his buy and his supplier show up with another dude, I think this one." He pointed to Nazar's photo in between quick puffs on his cigarette.

  "How did he know it was Nazar?" Silvana asked.

  "He say — and this him tellin' me, now — that for the nex' coupla months, they're gonna have a different supplier. He say Ivan — that's his supplier now — tell him he goin' to Miami with this Nazeer dude, or whatever. He tell me the name, something like Nazeer."

  Silvana said, "Just to make sure I get it straight, in English, your friend in Cooper City buys his coke from this Russian, Ivan, who told him another Russian was going to be selling him coke for a couple of months because Ivan is going to Miami with Nazar. Do I have it?"

  "You got it," Flaco said. He dragged deep on his dwindling cigarette.

  "When did this little exchange go down?"

  "Last week sometime. I think he tell me, like, Wednesday. Maybe Thursday."

  "Do you know why Ivan is coming to Miami?" Silvana said. "Or if Nazar has recruited anyone else to come down?"

  "I don't know nothin' else, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "How about local places? Where do these Russians hang out?"

  Another drag on the cigarette and Flaco said, "Far as I know, there's a coupla places up in Sunny Isles Beach. A restaurant. Some kinda Oasis somethin' or other. And a strip club. I don't know the name."

  "Got anything else for me?"

  "Naw, that's all I know, Lieutenant. Now how 'bout my boy Yoso? You gonna spring him?"

  "Not so fast," Silvana said. "You said there's a war going on. Right now? Tell me about it. I know about the three Russians getting clipped. Anyone else?"

  "Only them, far as I know."

  "You hear of any of Maxie's people getting hit?"

  "Naw, I ain't heard 'bout any of that."

  Silvana said, "We
ll, here's a piece of information you might be interested in. Maxie's top money launderer was put down yesterday morning on South Beach."

  Flaco was about to flick his cigarette away, but paused at the last second. This clearly was news to him.

  "No … no, I didn't know that," he said.

  "You better get back to your hideout and stay there until Maxie gives the all clear. Meanwhile, give me your burner numbers right now in case I need to contact you."

  "How 'bout Yoso, Lieutenant? You gonna take care of him?"

  "What's he charged with?"

  Flaco said, "Simple possession. Coupla bags. Thass it."

  "No intent to distribute?"

  "Naw, he didn't have that much on him."

  Silvana patted him on the arm. "Okay, Flaco. I'll see what I can do."

  57

  Jimmy

  Hialeah, Florida

  Wednesday, September 12, 2012

  12:20 AM

  JIMMY LOUNGED ON THE COUCH. He was feeling hungry. One of the cell phones rang. Caller ID: Maxie.

  "Maxie," Jimmy said. "Everything okay?"

  "Everything's fine," Maxie said in his familiar voice. No anguish, no anxiety. Nice and easy.

  "What's on your mind?"

  "That Marchuk prick. I got a line on him."

  Jimmy sat up straight. "Where is he? Where is that cunt fuck?"

  "He was spotted Monday night at a place called the Chayhana Oasis." Maxie spelled it out. "It's up in Sunny Isles Beach. A Russian restaurant. He was in there with some broad and a coupla bodyguards."

  "Looks like he can't stay away from Mother Russia's home cooking," Jimmy said, jotting down the name.

  "You remember what he looks like, don't you? The older guy? From that meeting? He was the one who was in charge of their side."

  "I remember."

  "I got a photo of him. I'll text it to you anyway. Along with one of that Nazar guy who was with him in the meeting. Take some of your boys along with you. Go up there every night. Around the dinner hour. Maybe he'll show up again for some more of those dumplings. Nazar might turn up, too."