Miami Burn

by John D. Patten

  The boy nodded and walked over to where he had been working. He picked up the spilled can of white paint, which had apparently fallen from a ladder.

  The large man returned to his own gallon of white and removed the brush. He turned, spotted me, and gave me a once-over that sent a twitch through my spine. Then, he resumed painting.

  “Can I help you?” he said as he brushed.

  “Why aren’t you using a sprayer?” I said.

  He glared at me and I noticed there was something wonky about his eyes. My nerves triggered a silent alarm way down inside me somewhere. “You from OSHA or something?”

  “No, it’s just rather a large building and I used to do some paint work. Going to take a long time that way.”

  He painted some more.

  “I teaching the boy skills,” he said. “Children need to learn how to work with their hands. All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty. Proverbs chapter fourteen, verse twenty-three.”

  “Right,” I said.

  The voice in my head telling me to get away from there got louder and I felt myself turning.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me the question you came here to ask?” said the man, focused on his brush strokes.

  I scratched the back of my neck and turned to look at him. “Never mind,” I said. “I was just looking for the Reverend—well, I guess the Reverend Luther Wil-I-Ams according to the sign, but forget it.”

  He stopped painting, put the brush down, and turned to me. He took a step forward to stare directly at me. I felt myself involuntarily moving backward a little.

  I’m six-one, but this guy loomed over me. I’m not used to that. Six-four, I’d guess. Near forty or so. His right eye was grayish-white and slightly off-center, which only added to the menace of his size. Shoulders out to the West Coast. Trapezius muscles glistened in the sun like steps carved from stone. A neck that looked like it could deflect a tire iron. Tattoos all over forearms as thick as my legs.

  While I can handle myself in most situations, I decided it would be best to distract and run if ever I had to go up against him. Some fights are better left avoided.

  “What you want with the Reverend?” he said.

  “Nothing,” I said as I moved to go, “never mind. I’m just going to—”

  “Wait. Maybe he in. I’ll check for you.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll come back.”

  Ignoring me, he walked up the steps to the main entrance and waved me to follow.

  Wondering why I blindly obeyed his commanding gesture, I soon found myself inside. First church I’d been in since Ariel’s funeral. My chest tightened and I took a deep breath.

  The pews were ancient, but recently restored. Sandpapered and varnished with care. A nice fresh smell filled the space with a sense of promise. The sunlight from high windows beamed shafts of light in a warm glow. A new deep maroon carpet led up the main aisle to the altar.

  “Wait here,” said the large black man, and disappeared around to the right of the altar through a door.

  I waited, sitting in the front pew looking up at the plain white cross. Simple. Unadorned. Humble. No stained glass, no chalices. Everything white except for the pews, the carpet, and the floor. Lots of natural light from the big windows on either side.

  I noticed I was sweating and my breathing was heavy. I felt an urge to run.

  A movement caught my eye from the right. I looked over and saw the boy outside, peeking in at me. After meeting my eye for a split second, he vanished. I wonder if he recognizes the guy who knocked him off the bike he was trying to steal and didn’t turn him in.

  I was about to leave when the big man returned, his hand again motioning me to follow. “The Reverend is in,” he said. “Office back here.”

  I hesitated, patting the gun in its holster on my gun belt. I stood up, then turned and looked back at the door.

  “Well, come on!” he said.

  I walked up the steps and followed him back to a tiny office. Like everything else here, very plain. One small bookcase with several Bibles. One high narrow window. A wooden desk with two wooden chairs. Everything looked handmade.

  He walked behind the desk and smiled broadly.

  “The Reverend Luther Williams,” he said. “At your service.”

  “You?” I said.

  “You surprised? Don’t I look like a Reverend?”

  I folded my arms and looked at the window. “Well, I just thought, uh—”

  He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, brother—”

  “Titus,” I said, staring at his giant tattooed hand for a long moment. I relented and shook it, feeling vulnerable for a heartbeat as it completely surrounded mine.

  He sat down behind the desk and motioned to the chair on the other side. “Sit.”

  I sat down cautiously. His smile vanished as his left eyeball bore into me. The gray-white one on his right seemed to be looking at something else very far away.

  We stayed that way for an uncomfortably long silence, staring at each other. I wasn’t sure if he was looking into my soul or planning on killing me.

  “I see only shadows with that one,” he said. “Enough to know someone sneaking up on me.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You were wondering about my eye. You were also thinking that if you had to make a tactical move, it would be best to create a distraction to my right and then zip out and through the side door.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “The way you sitting, like a big cat, all silent and still, eyes peeled waiting for that right moment to pounce. Ready for action. I’d say you used to be a cop, but ain’t no cop no more. You ain’t a criminal, but you had some run-ins with the law yourself. You undisciplined, rebellious, don’t function well on teams. Gets you in trouble. You also passionate and dedicated. Like to help people. But you impulsive, even a little unhinged, sometimes your heart takes over and makes your brain all scrambled. And let me guess. That bulge on your hip is a Beretta, maybe a Sig.”

  I laughed.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Two can play that game. First, those aren’t ordinary tattoos. They’re the kind you get in prison. The one on your right hand between your thumb and forefinger signifies serious time. I’d guess ten, maybe fifteen years served. Manslaughter—probably because that’s all they could pin on you. Lost your right eye in a prison fight. The Jesus tattoos are more recent, some sort of a conversion while you were inside. You struggle with your old violent ways, especially when you see kids like you when you were their age. Oh, and the reason you came back here alone first was to get your gun out of its hiding place and put it in the top right-hand drawer of your desk there. I’d bet a Colt .45 long barrel.”

  The Reverend laughed, a big hearty laugh that filled the tiny office.

  “Python .357,” he said. “You?”

  “Smith & Wesson Airweight,” I said.

  “Really? I figured you for all automatic all the time.”

  “I have a Sig 9mm for formal occasions.”

  “You right about almost everything, ‘cept for the eye. That was an incident when I was a young’un. And it was armed robbery, not manslaughter. I did eight, out on parole. How I do with you?”

  I shifted in the chair. “Not bad.”

  His left eye squinted. “How long you in for?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Ten months. Attempted murder. Cleared by new evidence and expunged.”

  “Must be nice to carry legally again. I knew you was trouble when I saw you staring at the sign.”

  “Is your name really spelled Wil I Ams like the rapper?”

  “No,” he said as he moved his hand in front of his face with an irritated wave. “I just run out of L’s.”

  “I know a guy can get you some,” I said. “Good quality.”

  “You think you funny, don’t you? Hide behind humor. Mr. Tough Guy, nothing affects you. Make a sarcastic comment, brush everything off.”

  I glanced ove
r at the window with a view of a rotting fence.

  “Been told that,” I said.

  “You ain’t a God-fearing man, are you?” he said.

  “Not since about fourteen.”

  “Life can do that. But it up to you to get your soul back. Redemption is possible. Ask, and it will be given you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and it will be opened for you. Matthew, chapter seven, verse seven.”

  “I’m looking for a missing girl,” I said. Anything to change the subject.

  “Relative?” he said.

  “No, client.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Someone hired you? You a private investigator?”

  “No, not really. Although informally I guess that’s what I’m doing. Woman hired me to find her daughter.”

  “Why you come to me?”

  “A, uh, mutual friend, said you would be good to talk to. Not quite sure why.”

  His face dropped. “This mutual friend wouldn’t happen to be a police officer, would she?” His voice had gone from Georgia to West 125th Street.

  I smiled.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say,” I said. “I’m not even sure why this person sent me to you. The girl I’m looking for isn’t the church-going type.”

  “The police officer I’m thinking of got a chip on her shoulder,” he said. “Maybe both shoulders.”

  “Sounds like her.”

  “You be careful with that one. She toss you in and throw away the key, never lose any sleep over it.”

  “I gather you two are close.”

  His hand waved sharply in front of his face again, like he was swatting away a fly.

  “She busted me for trespassing when I got out,” he said. “Then again.”

  “What was the second one?” I said.

  “Preaching without permission.”

  I laughed. “That a big crime in Miami?”

  “I went into this church, see. Not this one, a different one. Moved by the Holy Spirit. It flowed through me and the words came out, but—”, he caught himself, “—why am I telling you this?”

  I laughed again. “I can see her doing that. She’s all about permission. Licensing, authentication, stamped, sealed, and approved. Don’t let her find your Python.”

  “How you know her?”

  I again felt my hands all clammy on the steering wheel of the rental car the night Sofia pulled me over. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach came back to me, my hands lit by blue-and-red flashing lights as I gripped the steering wheel and looked over at the graffiti art that said Welcome to Miami Beach.

  “I caught her at a low moment,” I said. “Or maybe she caught me at a low moment. Prevented me from doing something.”

  Luther’s bad eye seemed to turn from its far away gaze and right onto me, which rekindled my desire to run.

  “Tell me more about this missing girl,” he said.

  I gave him the bare facts about Allie Hayes, leaving out some details.

  “Rich college girl,” he said. “Messed-up rich club boy. Find him, you find her.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  I showed him the pictures of Allie and Jake.

  “He no pimp,” said Luther. “Wouldn’t last ten minutes on the street. My instinct tell me they into something high-end. If she into hooking, she going to run into Royce de la Vega. He run most girls in Miami Beach.”

  “You know this how?” I said.

  “I save children of thugs from the street. I know the players. If it be drugs, she going to run into Frank Terillo or Andres Vasquez-Ruiz, ‘El Carnicero.’ Tommy Nero maybe, but Tommy strictly top shelf. Protection and money laundering.”

  “What about porn?” I said.

  “What about it? Used to be a big business here. Not now. Back in the day, girls come to Miami from Podunk, Iowa, walk out on the beach, and ten porn producers be there saying ‘Hey girl, where you from? I make you a star.’ First, everything moved to San Fernando Valley, but now the entire industry in decline. Now every girl from sea to shining sea be ‘videoing’ theyselves on their iPhones, twenty-four-seven. They perform a lewd act, stream it live on Pornhub. Look, ma and pa, I got mad skillz.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What about human trafficking?”

  “Happens all over too. Same sales pitch. Come with me, I pay for everything, and girls find themselves trapped in a harem.”

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking of the movie Trina had been watching.

  We were both silent for a long pause.

  “What you going to do?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said as I stood up with my hand out. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  He stood and shook my hand. “Good luck, Brother Titus.”

  I took a step out of the tiny office, but turned back.

  “One more thing,” I said. “You’ll never find another love like the Lord? Really?”

  He beamed a big smile that turned into a hearty laugh.

  “Bet you didn’t know God a big Lou Rawls fan,” he said.

  I chuckled and headed down the aisle to the door. I was almost out when I heard his big booming voice behind me.

  “Brother Titus,” he said, standing on the pulpit, his voice echoing in the rafters. The big serious stare was back. “Before you leave, I have a message for you.”

  My heart fluttered as I looked back at him, unsure of how to respond.

  “Let go of your resentment,” he said.

  I froze. I swear my hair stood on end.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  He took a step closer, his wonky eye piercing through me, sending shivers up my spine.

  “Resentment coming out your ears,” he said. “You angry at someone. I sense it, I feel it. It’s eating you alive, burning a hole in your soul. If you let it, it will be your undoing. Resist, my brother. Don’t let it consume you. Give your resentment to God and accept His blessing.”

  I trembled, tried to say something, but all I could do was turn and walk out.

  I walked a full block until I realized I was headed in the wrong direction. I turned back, passing the church again, and picked up my new suit.

  NINE

  OCEAN DRIVE AT NIGHT IS A HOT AND STICKY Hollywood East. Celebrities with bodyguards and limousines, an endless parade of “look-at-me-I’m-rich” exotic cars, and a nonstop thump-thump-thumping bass pulsing everywhere. Rappers in chains and top hats with entourages of wannabes. Young guys with ridiculous multi-colored haircuts, standing up straight and long on the top and shaved on the sides. Some in suits, others in outfits like the circus was in town. Unbelievably sexy girls in tight bright dresses with maybe a tenth of an ounce of fabric, hoping their shapely bodies will win the velvet rope beauty contest that grants access to a pill-and-alcohol fueled nirvana of loud music and strobe lights.

  Leaning on the low stone wall in the park across the street in my new suit with my hair slicked back, the dark Atlantic behind me, I smoked a cigarette and took in the dazzling show. I dreaded the moment I had to enter it. I always hated the late-night club game, everyone trying to outdo each other to see who can be the most arrogant asshole. I never got why most people are status-seekers, always wanting to be watched, admired, and approved by the lords and masters of whatever group they want to join. You see it everywhere from the L.A. celebrity crowd to Ivy League country clubs to the Washington, D.C. power junkies. Silly popularity contests, just like high school. And for what? We all end up in the same place. I thank my lucky stars that I was born blessed with the apparently rare ability to be happy without any approval from another human being.

  I tossed my cigarette into the nearest bin and crossed the street, where I was nearly hit by a black Maserati outfitted to be part-Batmobile. I glared at the kid driving it, who appeared mesmerized by the tantalizing waves of round bosoms and bottoms bouncing to-and-fro along Ocean Drive.

  I sauntered up to Sinz. The line was around the corner, just like Paulie said. Also just like Paulie said, I felt ancient as I walk
ed up to the doorman. He was a big black guy who looked at me and almost laughed.

  He was about to shake his head no when I said Tony V’s secret code-phrase. He looked me up and down incredulously, and said something into his lapel microphone. We waited for an uncomfortable moment while the person on the other end spoke. The doorman rolled his eyes, chuckled to himself, and opened the velvet rope.

  A twenty-four-ish kid with dyed red hair in a black suit and little round red glasses at the head of the line said, “Well done, my man!” and gave me a thumbs up sign. He was surrounded by six glittery girls, each with a body part touching him.

  I passed the metal detector, having reluctantly left my gun secured at home in the stash spot. Once fully inside, the music hit me with an eardrum-piercing barrage of noise. Then I remembered the other reason I hate these places. They destroy your senses while placing you in a crowded uncontrollable environment. Too many variables. Too many people stuffed into too small a space, senses violently assaulted by music and strobe lights. Not to mention everyone’s ingesting copious amounts of reality-bending substances that inhibit thinking skills.

  Without a gun, I felt nearly naked as I walked around the perimeter, getting a feel for the layout and the exit locations. Always good to know.

  As I looked for how to get up to the VIP area, a big bald white guy with a black beard in a black suit stood in front of me, blocking my way. He was built like a tank, only sturdier.

  “Mr. Titus,” he said, barely audible above the pounding music.

  “Just Titus,” I said, not even hearing my own voice.

  “My name is Axel. I’m with Tony V. Do you have a crew?”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. We’ll get you one. Follow me.” He had a voice like gravel in a food processor on pulse.

  Axel led me to a staircase with another velvet rope. On either side of the staircase was a set of three beautiful girls of various heights and skin colors. They looked like they were auditioning for a pageant, hands on hips, glossy lips in photo-shoot pouts.