STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "I'm on it, Maxie."

  "Listen, Jimmy. Be careful. There's other Russian joints up around there, too. So you'll be in enemy territory. These guys are out walking the streets. Remember, they know what you look like, too. So watch yourself."

  "Right, boss. And thanks for this chance. We won't let you down." He flipped the phone shut.

  Out to the tiny kitchen, find the makings of a sandwich. He turned on the small TV. Local late night news show.

  Election bullshit, can the Dolphins win, more election bullshit, blah blah blah. But then, the anchor, a pretty black girl in a tan silk blouse and with perfect hair said, "Miami Beach Police now have a suspect in Sunday's sniper shooting of Hialeah native Alicia López in Miami Beach. DeQuan'de Williams, 21, of Northwest Sixth Street in the Overtown neighborhood of Miami was taken in for questioning. Police were careful to point out it was for questioning only."

  The TV cut away to cop brass standing around a microphone. One of them said, "We want to make it clear Mr Williams is not under arrest. He is, however, a person of interest in this case and we are questioning him as such. So far he has fully cooperated."

  The anchor came back to the screen, which soon cut away to the hotel entrance. "According to police, Williams was seen moments after the shooting entering the lobby of the Park Central Hotel from the stairwell rather than from the elevator. He was then seen walking out the front door. The hotel is located on Ocean Drive, right across the street from where Alicia López was killed. A sniper's rifle was found on the roof of the hotel. Ballistics tests have been conducted and that rifle has been positively identified as the murder weapon. Also, a pair of latex gloves and a long-sleeved, tight-fitting shirt were found bundled in a trash can inside the hotel. Those items have tested positive for gunpowder residue."

  The suspect's photo went up on the screen. Badass nigger, sneering at the camera, undoubtedly convicted already in the minds of the cops and most viewers.

  "Williams, who has a long criminal record, is a known member of the Rhythm Kings, an established Overtown gang whose members have been involved in drug dealing, extortion, and murder. Investigators are now combing Williams' past for any connection to the victim.

  "López, 32, was the owner of the highly successful Computer Superstore of the Americas, selling computer equipment to Latin American countries, with an emphasis on lower income people and rural communities in those countries. She was shot to death while sitting on a park bench on Ocean Drive.

  "López was a pillar of the South Florida community. She gave away computers and tablets to urban schools and churches all over the area on an annual basis, believing every child should have a chance to compete in our computer-dominated world. She sat on many boards of non-profit organizations, and she left behind a loving husband and a young daughter in their Star Island home."

  An idea flashed through Jimmy's mind, but just as quickly flashed out of it. He flipped the channel to Turner Classic Movies. Some black & white film from God knows when. Men in tuxedoes slugging back martinis. The women in fancy gowns with little curls on the sides of their heads. They all talked funny.

  But that idea came back to him.

  THE RHYTHM KINGS

  OVERTOWN, MIAMI, FLORIDA

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2012

  58

  Jimmy

  Hialeah, Florida

  Wedenesday, September 12, 2012

  12:35 AM

  THE BLACK & WHITE MOVIE ENDED, but Jimmy wasn't paying attention. He couldn't get the idea out of his head. Sometimes, he figured, you just have to go with it, even when it seems impossible. He picked up a flip phone and called one of Flaco's burners.

  He answered right away. "Yo, boss. What up?"

  "Put some decent clothes on and get down here right away. We're going to a club." Call ended.

  Flaco jumped into his car and shot down East Eighth Avenue into East Hialeah and within ten minutes presented himself at Jimmy's back door, according to hideout custom.

  Jimmy brought him into the living room and he began, without any preliminaries.

  "We're going to the Black Leopard."

  "The strip club? What we goin' there for, boss? Why you want to go to Overtown at this hour of the night?"

  "That place happens to be owned by Reaper Holmes. And we're going to pay him a little visit. So sharpen up."

  They slipped out the back door and walked across the street to Jimmy's Nissan. Cross over into Miami onto Northwest 79th Street, all the way to I-95 South. Take the big freeway to 395, then just before crossing the bridge toward Miami Beach, he swung off at Northeast Second Avenue. A quick backtrack to Northeast Eleventh Terrace and the Black Leopard.

  He dropped the car with a valet who wasn't too pleased to be parking an aging Nissan. But when Jimmy slipped him a ten-spot, a smile magically appeared on his face along with a crisp "Yes sir!" on his lips.

  They bypassed the line with a C-note to the doorman, who pulled the velvet rope back for them with great ceremony. Jimmy knew, as a Cuban, he was not exactly the Black Leopard's target market and would therefore not be treated particularly well by the club's employees. But money — sweet money — cuts through all that shit.

  Inside, the room was enormous. Capable of seating hundreds of people, maybe even a thousand, it stretched outward in all directions, with booths and crannies and little rooms and doorways everywhere. A second level overlooked the ground floor with a perfect view of the stage, where two girls pranced around wearing only a G-string, each one stuffed with cash tips from the slobbering suckers lining the stage.

  The hostess, a pretty girl with very black skin and Caucasian features, said, "Good evening, gentlemen. Would you like a table? Or maybe a VIP booth?"

  The music was loud, but not nearly as loud as it was in Honey Buns. Here, you could make yourself understood without going hoarse.

  Jimmy said, "We'd like to see Reaper."

  The hostess said, "I'm sorry, but he can't be disturbed right now. He's —"

  "Tell him Jimmy Quintana is here. Tell him it's extremely urgent. You understand me? Extremely urgent."

  She threw him a tentative nod and picked up the phone on her podium. After a minute or so, she hung up and pointed toward the rear of the room. She said, "Go up those steps and turn right. All the way to the end of the hall."

  Jimmy slipped her a twenty for her trouble. She thanked him — a genuine gesture, he thought, but in these nigger joints you can never be sure if they're thanking you or ready to blast you in the back of the head.

  The room at the end of the hall was large and nice, nicer than the one at Honey Buns. Tastefully outfitted with an expensive sofa-loveseat set and matching chairs in soft gray leather. No red velvet shit here. The floor was covered with a very thick rose-pink carpet and the occasional pieces of furniture were clearly high-end. What looked like original art hung on the walls and a well-stocked wet bar stood over in one corner. Even though the room was spacious, it seemed intimate. The touch of the decorator. Jimmy wondered why Maxie didn't give his private room an upgrade, to make it at least as nice as this joint.

  Like Maxie, Reaper Holmes sat on the sofa in his private room, and like Maxie, he had a stripper on each side of him, one black and one white, although definitely not the girl-next-door types. In addition, bottles of champagne and single-malt Scotch cluttered the very expensive coffee table in front of them. Bodyguards sat in the matching chairs and one stood to one side of the sofa. Reaper smiled, but at the strippers, not at Jimmy and Flaco.

  They closed the door behind them and stood silently for a moment while Reaper pretended the strippers were more important than his two Cuban visitors. Jimmy realized this was all part of the routine, the intro to the show. Finally, Reaper said, "Jimmy. My man. Come on in."

  Jimmy and Flaco were already in, of course, but what Reaper meant was they should approach the table, sort of like a European king ordering a visitor to come forward and genuflect at the foot of his elevated throne. The two men
stepped up to the table and Jimmy said, "Reaper, I have urgent business to discuss."

  Reaper — short for Grim Reaper — was a large man, well over six feet tall and weighing around two-sixty. Jimmy put his age at somewhere north of his own, maybe crowding forty. His black suit, Jimmy noticed, was probably custom-tailored, and his shirt was pale blue silk. The platinum rope around his neck with a carved scythe on it had to run fifty large or more — Jimmy seriously doubted if any of Reaper's boys knew the meaning of the scythe. Watch, rings … all of it high end. Even though he wore these top-drawer clothes now, he came up from the very hard streets of Overtown and Jimmy had heard of the unspeakable things he did to reach his position as top dog of the Rhythm Kings.

  Just like Maxie had done at Honey Buns, Reaper sent the strippers on their way with promises of activity later on. When they were gone, he pointed to the love seat and Jimmy sat down. His deep voice carried plenty of authority.

  "Now what urgent business brings my Cuban brother to Overtown tonight?"

  "DeQuan'de Williams," Jimmy said.

  Reaper nodded, not giving anything away, even surprise at hearing Williams' name. "He goes by 'Cake'."

  "Well, 'Cake' is completely innocent of killing Alicia López in Miami Beach yesterday morning."

  Reaper said, "And you know this … how?"

  "Well, first of all, because I was there, on that bench with Alicia, and I know it was me they were after. Your boy Cake had absolutely no motive to clip either me or her. And you had no reason to order it done."

  Reaper began to measure his words, slow his speech cadence. He had long ago washed the ghetto inflections from his accent. He knew that was necessary in order to rise above street level. And he was right. His manner of speech had helped him immeasurably in his dealings out in the world, simultaneously disarming his adversaries and gaining their respect. "Okay … so you see the full picture. You didn't come here, though, to tell me that."

  "That's right," Jimmy said. "Listen, Cake is going to have a hard time beating this. You probably already know that. He may actually go down for it."

  "I do know that. The brother comes walking out of a fancy South Beach hotel sticking out like a priest in a whorehouse. The fact he came walking out right after gunshots were fired from that building, the cops are gonna grab him on general principle."

  Jimmy said, "Miami Beach doesn't like Overtown gang members going over there and killing pretty young girls, especially a young girl like Alicia López, who has done a lot of charitable work around town through the years."

  "We got him a Jew lawyer," Reaper said, "but you're right. It may not be enough."

  "A classic case of being in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Now, I don't want to mislead you. I can't help you with Cake. But together, we can get the guy who pulled the trigger. And maybe the guy who gave the order as well."

  Reaper leaned back into the soft leather. It gave with a small whoosh. He linked his hands together and said, "Who would they be?"

  "Russians."

  "Russians?" One eyebrow went up.

  "Yes, but not your garden variety Russians who took a wrong turn on their way back to Fort Lauderdale and wound up at the Park Central Hotel. These motherfuckers come straight from New York. Brighton Beach. A few of them came down several months ago to move in on our drug business. It won't be long before they set their sights on yours, too."

  Reaper gave a single nod. "Couple of my street boys got shoved around last week by two white men over who to buy their supply from."

  "It's happening already," Jimmy said. "Anyway, three of their guys got hit over the last couple of weeks. We didn't have anything to do with any of it, but they think we did. So they took out Alicia yesterday, when they were aiming at me."

  "So you're saying you're at war? War with the Russians?"

  "That's right. It just started."

  "And you're trying to drag the Rhythm Kings into it?"

  Jimmy knew it was time to lower the temperature. "Not at all," he said. "I want the shooter and the guy who ordered it done. Cut off the head and the war is over. I have reason to think these guys are down here pulling this shit by themselves, not with any real support from the heavyweights in Brighton Beach. And certainly no green light from Odessa."

  "These Russians have names?"

  "The top guy is Pavlo Marchuk," Jimmy said. "The top guy in Miami, anyway. I'm pretty sure he ordered the hit. The one under him — and the one who I think was the shooter — is Nazar Voloshin."

  "These guys are … renegades? Acting on their own?"

  Jimmy said, "I think they're trying to make a few inroads in the drug business in Miami. Maybe with the ultimate goal of even snatching the distribution from the hands of the Colombians. If they can show they made progress, show they have initiative, I think then they'll go back to Brighton Beach and get major help. Organizational help. And once they get an organization going, like they have in Fort Lauderdale, there's no getting rid of them."

  "Hmph! You got that right. But what if you're wrong? What if the big boys up in New York are behind all this one hundred percent?"

  Jimmy shook his head. "I don't think that's possible. If they were on board with this, they would be getting their revenge right now in spades. There would already be dozens and dozens of Russians down here shooting every Cuban street guy they could find. It would be the 1980s all over again. We're both too young to remember those days, but we both know about them all too well."

  Reaper said, "I had four uncles go down back then. I learned about all that from my mama. That's why the Kings don't go to war. Unless, of course, we got the other guys way outnumbered. That way any war we get into is gonna be a quick one. And there ain't any other gang who can outnumber us."

  "So what do you say, Reaper? You want to help me get these faggots?"

  Reaper remained calm, relaxed. Like an international CEO closing a billion-dollar deal. "My nigga's gonna take the fall for this. Ain't no jury gonna let him walk. If they don't strap him to the gurney, he's gonna get life without for sure. This is your war, Jimmy. If you want me to get involved beyond losing my boy Cake, you got to come up with a reason for me to jump in."

  The two men stared at each other. Neither moved. Flaco appeared to be holding his breath. Reaper's bodyguards were like statues, their hard, suspicious eyes drilling Jimmy for any false move. The subtle lighting in the room cast a shadow over the left side of Reaper's dark face, creating the appearance of half a mask. A piece of ice melted in one of the whiskey glasses on the coffee table, causing a cube to fall to the bottom of the glass. The tinkle was the only sound in the room, apart from the faint rumbling vibrations from the music on the ground floor downstairs from this soundproofed room.

  "I'll give you part of our territory near Liberty Square," Jimmy said. "Northwest 58th Street and 58th Terrace between 13th and 14th Avenues. That gives you the foothold in Liberty City you've always wanted."

  "That's only one square block."

  "Yeah, but what a block it is. We sell a shitload of black tar around there. From there you can strengthen your foothold. Put in a clubhouse. Have your guys there around the clock. Use that block to expand into surrounding blocks. North and west, away from our blocks, of course. There's only little gangs up there right now, and they're doing mostly coke business. You shouldn't have any trouble rolling over them." Jimmy did not yet see the "Sold" sign go up in Reaper's eyes. So he said, "Remember, if we do this together, we'll succeed. If I do it with my guys alone, we may succeed, but maybe not. And if not, you can be sure those fucking Russians will put Overtown — and you — next on their list."

  "What have you got in mind?" Reaper said.

  Jimmy exhaled, very slightly. "We go to Sunny Isles Beach. Restaurant called the Chayhana Oasis. Here's the thing. Sunny Isles Beach is, like, ninety-five percent white. The Russians don't stand out, but we would. We need to send a white guy up there, preferably with a white woman, posing as tourists. They blend in, we give them photos of
the Russians we want, and then wait for them to walk through the door."

  "Yeaaahhh," Reaper said. "I'm feelin' you."

  "Have them go in and eat dinner there every night till those motherfuckers show up. The minute Marchuk and Voloshin walk in the door, our couple notifies us and we go up there."

  Reaper said, "I got just the couple. Real straight-ass white people. They won't raise an eyebrow."

  "Good. Send them in starting tomorrow night."

  "Text me photos of the Russians. I'll send them on to the couple so they'll know who to look for."

  Jimmy sent the text. "This one's Marchuk," he said. "He's the older one."

  Reaper pulled out a flip phone, obviously a throwaway. "Write down your cell numbers on this piece of paper. I'll text you a few numbers of mine. You want me, you can reach me at one of these. Soon as they call me, I'll call you and we move."

  They exchanged the numbers and everyone stood, including the bodyguards, with handshakes all around. As Jimmy and Flaco headed for the door, Reaper poured himself a fresh single-malt whiskey and said to his bodyguards, "T-Mac, Percy. Get those bitches back in here. And get one for each of yourselves, too."

  59

  Silvana

  Sunny Isles Beach, Florida

  Thursday, September 13, 2012

  4:30 PM

  THE SUNNY ISLES BEACH POLICE DEPARTMENT took up a little space in City Hall, right along with the Building Department, Code Enforcement, and all the other red tape generators of your average town. Silvana wasn't surprised. The town was just another one of the countless burgs strung along the Gold Coast of South Florida to fill in the gaps between Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and West Palm Beach.

  Since this wasn't Miami, they couldn't just pull up in front of City Hall and walk in. Vargas maneuvered the car into the small adjacent parking lot and found a vacant spot.