“NOTHING this exciting back in West Palm, is there, Bill?” bellowed one of the FDLE agents sitting in the back of the van as it moved slowly through the street filled with people. The eight agents, dressed in black from head to toe, each carrying a rifle of some kind, were on edge as pedestrians shot angry looks at them. The men gripped their guns. Five had MP-5 submachine guns, two had scoped .308-caliber sniper rifles and Tasker had his trusty AR-15. In addition to the rifles, each man carried about forty pounds in other equipment and a Beretta nine-millimeter handgun. The gear and some extra training made them the special operations team that got to wear the black special operations uniform and respond to fun events like riots and hostage situations. Two cars burned at the end of the block, as a Miami police cruiser with four cops in it pulled up alongside the big blue FDLE Special Operations van. Tasker sat on the end of the bench next to the open rear doors, watching as the fifty Miami cops started to organize into a field force.
Tasker thought about a quick cell phone call to the girls. He’d like to hear about their day and let them know he was fine. The girls wouldn’t understand the danger, and Donna might not care, but the call would make him feel better. A closer eye on Jack Sandersen during the arrest and he’d have been watching this from his house in West Palm Beach. A split second’s difference in timing and he’d have an entirely different life. A voice rang in his head, breaking his concentration.
The team commander leaned back from the front passenger seat and shouted, “This is it. When we hear the ‘Mount up’ command, we’ll fall out and form up behind the field force. Remember, we’re the only ones who can fire so keep your eyes out for guns. The field force will handle the crowds and we protect them from snipers.” The commander looked out the front at the crowds and then out the back at the field force. “Lock and load.”
As Tasker reached for his AR-15, he heard three shots and three hollow thumps against the van. The man across from Tasker yelled out and grabbed his arm as his MP-5 tumbled to the floor of the van. Blood spurted into Tasker’s eyes, giving the scene a momentary red haze. He leaned back instinctively, his hands checking his face for a wound. In a second, he realized it was the other man’s blood.
The commander twisted in his seat. “Everyone out. Watch Steve’s arm.”
Tasker scrambled out first, his rifle to his shoulder before his feet hit the ground, still blinking hard to clear the blood from his eyes. Two FDLE agents tried to stop the bleeding on the right arm of the wounded man. The Miami cops were in chaos, scrambling for cover. He saw a flash on the roof of the building across a small playground at the same time as another shot rang out.
Before Tasker could react, his ears were pounding with the fire of fifty weapons. The windows of the building shattered and the plaster along the roof crumbled under the withering fire. Every uniformed cop jerked the trigger of his Glock nine-millimeter. Some not even aiming, just raising their hand and shooting over the roofs of the cruisers.
“Cease fire, cease fire, cease fucking fire,” screamed a huge black uniformed sergeant. “You knuckleheads ain’t supposed to shoot. Only the SWAT guys.”
The FDLE commander barked a couple of quick orders, then turned to Tasker. “Bill, you go up with the Miami unit to make sure they got that son of a bitch. You probably won’t be able to identify him, just ensure they neutralized the threat.”
Tasker nodded, put his hands on his legs to keep them still for a second, and looked over at the wounded man being tended by a medic before he moved toward the group of eight cops getting ready to enter the building.
“YOU gonna be our cover at the building?” asked the young white sergeant forming up his team. He wore a uniform tailored to fit tight around the biceps, like most of the Miami cops.
Tasker nodded and fell in next to the last man. Tasker still liked action but he remembered when he’d thrived on it. As a new cop he’d have jumped at the chance to do something like this. Now he appreciated the fact that he could get shot. Although a few years ago he wouldn’t have cared, now he had things going his way again. He held his AR-15 close to his chest and took a deep breath as the sergeant said, “Let’s get this done,” and all eight men hustled toward the building, weaving past an old rusty swing set with no swings and a slide that rotted before it hit the ground.
Making his way across the open field and road, Tasker felt completely exposed and on edge. A bottle breaking near them made him jump. He kept an eye up high on the three-story building’s roof even though he doubted anyone could’ve survived the counterfire laid down by the cops.
No one peeked out a door as the small squad rushed down the first-floor hallway. Tasker figured anyone not already outside didn’t want anything to do with the madness that was brewing in the streets. The old building’s wooden floors creaked under his boots as he kept pace with the Miami unit. The smell of stale beer, urine and rotten wood filled his nostrils.
At the base of the stairs, they paused. The sergeant said, “FDLE, can you cover up the stairs as we take each landing?”
Tasker said, “No sweat,” and pushed ahead to the front of the group. He liked the feeling of having a job to do with a bunch of cops who just took him at face value: another cop doing his job. Looking back at the sergeant, he said, “Whenever you’re ready.” Then he sighted the long barrel of the AR-15 on the door to the roof, three floors above. He could just see it through the railings.
The sergeant said, “Anyone coming in that door is yours.”
Tasker nodded and kept the rifle to his shoulder.
The sergeant took three men and rushed up the stairs, leaving two men on the second-floor landing, then positioning himself near the door to the roof. He called, “The rest of you come on up.”
Tasker led the remaining four men up to the sergeant and they lined up to the side of the door, with one man on the other side ready to jerk it open. Tasker’s throat was dry. What if they hadn’t got the guy and he was waiting for them? What if the whole roof is full of people? He knew there was only one way to find out.
The lone cop jerked open the door and the sergeant rushed through to the right with the second cop jumping to the left. Tasker was the next man through, so he followed the sergeant. He quickly surveyed all of the roof in his path. Nothing. They darted around the little building with the door that sat on the roof, its walls pockmarked by bullet holes, and saw only crates and an old refrigerator.
“Where is he?” asked one of the cops.
“Maybe he slipped back inside,” answered another.
Tasker kept the rifle to his shoulder as he scanned the area. He just caught the movement and yelled, “There, by the refrigerator.”
Everyone turned and closed on the beat-up yellow Frigidaire on its side. At first it looked like a wad of old clothes, but as they got closer the pile of clothes was breathing. A thin black man in his twenties cowered between the refrigerator and a lawn chair. His head was pushed to the ground and his arms covered it.
When a Miami cop nudged him with his foot, the man started to scream, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I give up.”
A hand yanked him up to his feet. He was shaking and sweating with fear and stiff as a plank from head to toe, his wide, bright eyes shining out from under a bushy afro.
The sergeant grabbed him by the collar. “Why’d you shoot at us?”
“Don’t know, don’t know. Just got carried away.” Spittle gathered on his lips as he chattered.
“Where’s your rifle?”
He pointed with a shaking hand toward the refrigerator. One of the cops kicked it hard with a booted foot, moving it a few inches, exposing the butt of an old, cheap lever-action rifle stuffed behind the motor in the back.
The sergeant tightened his grip. “Why aren’t you dead?”
The man shook his head. “Look,” he said, holding open his unbuttoned shirt and displaying a pattern of holes that looked like a connect-the-dots picture of a strawberry.
The sergeant said, “You’re too fuck
in’ skinny, that’s all.” He turned to the cops. “Let’s go, and take this asshole with us.”
Tasker looked out over the city and saw smoke from four different fires. In the distance he could hear more gunfire erupting. This wasn’t fun anymore.
LOUIS Kerpal shook as he handed the satchel over while staring directly at the gun. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Cole Hodges snatched the bag and looked inside, seeing the CCR T-shirt and patch as well as the cash. “This is the satchel one of the parishioners bought for the reverend in Mexico. I knew what was in here by the way you held it. You see, Mr. Kerpal, I can read people, and you know what I saw in you every time we met?”
Kerpal shook his head.
“I saw greed.” Hodges moved toward the walkway leading to the street, using the .38 to motion Kerpal back to the front door. “Greed is the root of almost all problems. As a bank manager, you should be a better example for the kids in the community.”
Kerpal started to whimper, sweat gushing off his forehead.
“You have broken a special bond between banker and customer. I don’t think I can continue to do business with this bank. And I’m not comfortable with you finding out about my discretionary fund.”
Kerpal, shaking uncontrollably now, said, “I won’t tell anybody.”
Hodges smiled and said, “I know.”
SIX
COLE Hodges held the satchel tight against his dark pin-striped suit as he maneuvered his Lincoln through the rubble on Miami Avenue. The crowds had already moved on to more profitable areas. The few stores that sat on the avenue carried things like old clothes and used books. Nothing worth looting.
Cruising toward the CCR’s office on Brickell Avenue, Hodges made his plans. He had to grab some papers, shit he’d been working on for a year or so, like a new birth certificate and a California driver’s license in the name of Irving Smalls. He was going to be a financial adviser with a degree in business from the University of Mississippi, magna cum laude, 1973. The million five from the CCR would cushion him until he siphoned another million or so from clients in the Los Angeles area, then he’d return to Florida. After he retrieved his papers, he’d decide what needed to be done with the good Reverend Watson.
No traffic in downtown today, he thought. An occasional police cruiser screamed past on its way to the growing riot. Not much to do in the affluent east business district. Too far for rioters to walk. Hodges pulled into the front of the twenty-story building, taking his pick of all the vacant spots. He’d never seen that before, usually he’d have to drive up the garage for half a mile. He walked through the front door, casually nodding to the feeble old security guard at the console. The ancient moron would’ve probably called the cops about a black in the lobby if he hadn’t recognized him.
The CCR office was open but empty. Reverend Fat-ass must’ve gone to his flock. Too bad, thought Hodges, it would’ve been a hoot to blast the pudgy little preacher. Hodges had put up with enough bullshit from the round little faggot to justify a bullet in the head. Oh well, time to pick up his personal papers, erase the main computer’s hard drive in case anyone wanted to audit the organization, and complete some strategic shredding. Just to confuse things on his departure to sunny California.
Hodges moved from one giant oak desk to the matching one in the corner of the room, plucking out papers and folders he needed. As he was about to reformat the hard drive of the main computer, he heard the front door open. A second later, Reverend Al Watson peered from around the doorstop.
Watson said, “Going somewhere, Cole?”
“Greener pastures, my friend, greener pastures.”
“Is it the right thing, leaving our community in its time of need?”
“Cut the shit, Al. I collected my retainer and closed the account at the Alpha National in Overtown. You’re gonna have to work the congregation some more.”
Hodges hit the enter button on the computer and watched as the warning came on the screen that everything would be deleted if he continued. Hodges hit enter again and the processor went to work. He looked up at the reverend, then pulled out his .38 and pointed it at the center of the pudgy preacher’s belly.
“Back in the other room, Al.”
Watson, unflustered, backed into the main room. “Cole, you’re making a big mistake.”
“Only mistake I’ve made, Al, is not figuring a way to have more time to enjoy this. I’m not your do-boy, nor do I work for you. I’m no damn worker bee. Can’t tell you how many times I cringed hearing you tell people what a valued employee I was. Goddamn, Al, I was the brains behind this whole operation.”
“Cole, I’m afraid somebody has a rather inflated view of himself. You can’t kill me.”
Hodges smiled. “Why, ’cause I’ll feel guilty about it?” “No, because I’m expecting a news crew from Channel Eleven any second. They want the CCR to broadcast a message of peace.” Watson paused and nodded toward the satchel of cash on the desk Hodges was sitting on. “You do own a share of that, but only half at best. The rest is mine.”
Hodges said, “Then consider the other half my inheritance.” Just as Hodges started to squeeze the trigger, the other door in the lobby flew open and a short man waddling under the weight of a TV camera walked in backward, filming a young woman in a neat, striped business suit. Her striking dark eyes were hard to notice with that long straight nose that came to a point like a saber. Another man walked behind the reporter.
Hodges said, “What the hell is all this?”
Watson didn’t change his expression and started to explain, “This is the crew I told you about.” He turned toward the reporter, who had just finished her intro. “Hi, Olga, how’re you holding up?”
She smiled, revealing artificially white teeth, and said, “Fine, Reverend, just need you to make the CCR’s statement or give me your take on the riot.”
“I’m flattered, Olga, but I really don’t know what to make of it.” He smiled warmly and clapped a hand on Hodges’s back. “But Cole here speaks for the entire organization. He needs some credit for his work. After all, he is my most valued employee. Talk to him about profiting in this time of tragedy and how wrong it is to loot, then I’ll speak in a little bit.” He patted Hodges again and backed away from the desk, grabbing the satchel as he moved away. “Isn’t that right, Cole, none of us gets enough credit,” Watson said, backing toward the door.
Hodges started to protest when Watson said, “See you after your interview, Cole,” as he closed the door.
Hodges made a quick phone call before his interview. No way was he gonna let the good reverend pull this off.
TASKER stood behind the field force in the middle of Northwest Third Street in the section of Miami known as Overtown. Next to him were two more FDLE agents with MP-5s and one with an M-14 rifle. The FDLE agents’ job was to protect the Miami cops from sniper fire. That kept most of their attention on the rooftops of the three- and four-story buildings that dominated this dilapidated part of the city. The crowd on the curb milled around, not willing to commit itself to action. A couple of blocks down the street, a group of about two hundred locals started raising hell with the other field force—throwing bottles and surging up and back. The physics of a riot were unique to each situation. The soccer hooligans of Europe often settled down quickly as the alcohol wore off, but a riot with righteous outrage at its root could grow on itself. Even if arrests were made, that could incite the crowd further.
Since talking with Sutter about the past riots, Tasker viewed this one differently. He now saw there were people who just happened to live here and not everyone was causing trouble. In fact, it seemed as if just a few were really trying to stir things up. The people who lived in the neighborhood were going to suffer more than anyone else. Their houses could burn, kids get terrified and businesses be destroyed.
Tasker stood, amazed that things could be so hectic down the road and relatively calm here. He shifted the weight of his tactical vest, which held magazines of ni
ne-millimeter as well as .223 rounds for his AR-15. The sweat that had been pouring out of him since the sniper on the roof shot up the SOT van now soaked his socks and waistband. His eyes burned from the sweat and his head pounded under his heavy ballistic helmet.
A middle-aged black man carefully crossed the street near the FDLE agents. He nodded politely to the heavily armed men, saying, “Hello, officers. Be careful out here, these folks is crazy.” The heels of his shoes flapped on the ground because he wore old tennis shoes like slippers, crushing the backs with his feet. His lips covered one front tooth until he spoke.
Tasker smiled and nodded back, slowly turning as the man crossed behind them to the crowded side of the street. As the man’s foot hit the curb, he turned and joined with some of the crowd screaming, “Fuck you, cops, you goin’ down tonight.”
Tasker laughed; so much for community respect. In the last hour, the taunts had turned from simple calls for justice and short rap verses to specific, personal insults. They liked to pick at his light hair and youthful face, calling him “vanilla cracker” and “creamy Oreo filling.” Tasker figured he’d been called worse.
A fat woman in really stretched pants and a Martin Luther King T-shirt, fifteen feet from Tasker, yelled, “Hey, cracker, you gonna be sweatin’ a long time. Can’t dodge rocks all night. We gettin’ us some cop’s ass tonight!”
The agent next to Tasker said, “You’d empty the whole clip of that AR-15 trying to stop her.”
Tasker nodded and tilted his head back to answer him with the clear face shield down. “Vinnie, you should keep your shield down.”
“It’s too hot and it fogs up. Besides, they’re just loudmouths.” He gripped the stock of the MP-5 as the flashlight under the barrel swept the rooftops looking for threats.
“Better hot than a bottle across your face.”
Walking Money Page 5