Miami Burn

by John D. Patten

  “What do you usually do now?” I said.

  “I wake him up,” said Guido. “Or try to. S-some days it’s h-harder than others.”

  “Breathe and relax, breathe and relax. Start by calling him.”

  “H-hey,” said Guido in a soft voice and coughed.

  “Little louder maybe,” I said.

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “Hey! JoJo! Hey-yo-hey! Massage time! Wake up!”

  He looked up at me with a look that said was that good?

  I smiled and nodded, feeling like the worst bully on a school playground. This was definitely not the way to do this. I should have thought it out better. But whatever. We’re here and we need to make the best of it.

  “Again,” I said.

  “JoJo!” said Guido. “Massage! It’s Guido. Massage!”

  “Just a minute,” said a muffled male voice from the airplane hanger.

  “Is that his bedroom?” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Guido.

  “It’s huge.”

  “Coming,” said a voice I recognized as JoJo Burley from last night. “Just a sec.”

  Next, I witnessed one of the strangest sights I had ever seen. JoJo Burley, in a bright pink silk robe, emerged from the bedroom. The robe was open, his rolls of fat jiggling to and fro above what looked like a vast black patch of forest that started at his chest and continued all the way down to his knees.

  Even though he was exposing himself completely, the thick forest of pubic hair covered everything. If I didn’t know he was male, there was nothing visible to confirm that.

  “God,” said JoJo, yawning and scratching his head as he walked down the steps, talking to nobody in particular, “what a fucking night. Don’t know what the fuck time it is or who the fuck I am or who the fuck I fucked.”

  He stopped, pounded his fist on his chest, and let out a belch that echoed in the large space.

  Then he walked right past us into the kitchen, not even noticing me, Guido, or the gun at all. He opened up a refrigerator the size of my entire apartment and took out a gallon of orange juice. He chugged from the plastic bottle, consuming three quarters of it.

  I looked at Guido and saw almost a smile.

  “Man, that shit hit the spot,” said JoJo as he replaced the container and wobbled back out into the living room. “Guido, my man, how you doing?”

  JoJo went in for the bro-hug, suddenly realizing Guido wasn’t alone.

  “Holy fuck,” said JoJo, eyes popping at me. “It’s you. The guy from Sinz.”

  “No noise,” I said. “No sudden moves. I just want to talk, JoJo.”

  He wavered like he was going to throw up. I heard a gurgling sound as he turned to run.

  I leaned forward a foot and tripped him. He went down hard onto a white shag rug. I swear the entire building shook. Then, he threw up onto the rug.

  Guido made a run for the door. I got to him halfway and grabbed him by the shirt collar, dragging him back.

  “Ow! Ow!” he said. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, as I dragged him to the couch and threw him down on it.

  He landed all slumped, hitting his elbow on the armrest with another “Ow!” He looked like I had punched him even though I had barely touched him.

  I grabbed JoJo by the hair at the back of his head. It felt slimy.

  “Ahhhh!” he said as I dragged him up and plopped him down on the couch across from the one on which Guido sat nursing his elbow.

  “JoJo,” I said. “Sorry about this, but I need to talk to you. I couldn’t think of any other way. I’m not a bad guy, probably not what anybody told you last night. I just need to talk. In fact, I need your help.”

  Both of them just stared at me incredulously.

  “Is there anyone else here?” I said.

  JoJo thought for a good long time and then finally said, “Two girls. No, wait—” He counted on his fingers. “—three girls.”

  “Where?”

  “Bedroom,” he said, motioning toward the airplane hangar with his finger.

  Keeping the gun raised and pointed at a space between them, I circled the couch and moved up the steps backward to the entrance to the bedroom.

  On a sinfully large round silky bed lay a variety of legs, breasts, and buttocks with no beginning and no end, like an M.C. Escher porn shoot.

  “I count eight legs,” I said, circling back to the guys who hadn’t moved.

  JoJo closed his eyes and counted again on his fingers.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Four girls. I forgot Amanda.”

  I centered myself between them and the door, and tucked the gun away in its holster. I spread my hands. Warm. Open. Honest.

  “JoJo”, I said.

  “That’s my name,” said JoJo.

  “Good. We’re making progress already. This won’t take long. I need you to answer just a couple of questions for me.”

  I could see JoJo in his mind changing character, like he was propping himself up for a scene. He raised his head and looked at me deadpan, not caring that the robe was wide open.

  In a thick Western twang, he said, “I ain’t telling you shit.”

  “You forgot to spit,” I said.

  His face lost the façade. “Huh?”

  “The spit. When you say ‘I ain’t telling you shit’ like John Wayne, you’re supposed to turn and spit. Your buddy Eddie Corrado has it down pat.”

  JoJo’s face went from frozen to a tiny laugh. Then, he started laughing hard, almost doubling over. He continued to laugh for much too long.

  “What’s he on?” I said to Guido.

  “Everything,” said Guido with rolling eyes and jazz hands.

  “JoJo!” I said in my toss-drunks-out-of-Cap’n-Jack’s voice. “Listen up!”

  JoJo snorted and sat up, a huge chunk of something falling out of his nose and landing splat on the coffee table. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “There’s nothing you can say or do to make me help you,” he said, again trying to sound like a gunslinger, “so get off my property, pardner.”

  This time he turned and spit to his right, then turned his head to meet me with hard eyes.

  “Better,” I said. “Much more convincing.”

  He broke character to say, “Yeah, you like that?”

  I looked over at Guido, who rolled his eyes again.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But we’ve got a problem, JoJo. Those hard eyes, that gravelly voice. You’ve probably practiced that in front of a mirror a hundred times for some scene where you had to pretend to be a tough guy. I, on the other hand, have never had to pretend being a tough guy, because I actually am one.”

  He stood up, the actor’s stare focused on me, his thumbs looped on an invisible gun belt. “I’d like to see you back that up,” he said.

  I leaned forward and tapped JoJo Burley in the chin with the back of my hand. Well, to me it was a tap. To an out-of-shape Hollywood actor who had never been in a real fight, it was probably a punch.

  JoJo Burley buckled down into a fetal position on the floor. Oh God, now he was crying. I looked at Guido, who was about to burst into either tears or laughter.

  “JoJo,” I said, “pull yourself together.” I kicked his large rear.

  “I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before, man,” he said. “Please.”

  “I already put the gun away, JoJo. Just tell me what I need to know, I’ll go, and everything will be fine.”

  He put his hands up. “Okay, man. Okay. Okay.”

  He got up and sat on the couch, finally realizing his robe was open. He wrapped it around himself.

  I noticed there was a yellow puddle on the floor where he had been. I felt bad for his cleaning staff.

  “Now,” I said, “listen to me. I have been hired to find a missing girl. Her name is Allie Hayes.” I took out my phone. “Now, I’m going to hold up a picture of her and you’re going to take a good long look at it and tell me if you’ve ever seen her before.”

 
; I held up the phone and JoJo looked.

  “Uh-uh,” he said.

  “Uh-uh what?” I said.

  “Uh-uh, no. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Okay.” I turned to Guido. “While we’re here, not that you frequent the same stations in life that JoJo here does, have you seen this girl?”

  Guido leaned forward and looked at the picture. He shook his head.

  “Okay,” I said. “She hangs around with Jake Preston. Jake Preston goes to Morton Hinraker’s sex parties at his house. You go to Morton Hinraker’s sex parties at his house. I want to go to one of Morton Hinraker’s sex parties at his house. It’s that simple. See, I’m a good guy, JoJo. Just like you. Your buddy Eddie Corrado doesn’t like me. Although if I were you, I’d question his intentions, not mine. I’m a good guy trying to find a missing girl for her mom who misses her dearly. Sounds like a movie, doesn’t it? Or maybe the pilot of a TV show you could star in, kind of like a new version of Miami Vice, only darker and more modern. Made for today.”

  At that, I watched JoJo’s entire face light up.

  “Kind of like the good guys aren’t all good and the bad guys aren’t all bad,” he said. “The cops are part-criminal, and the criminals are part-cop.”

  “I like your thinking, JoJo,” I said.

  “Dude, this is a great idea! This is the idea I’ve been waiting for. I can see it now. You’re never too sure who the good guys are and you think the crime is solved and—bammo!”–he slammed his fists together—” the season is over and everyone watching on Netflix is like ‘what the fuck just happened?’ Brilliant, man, brilliant!”

  One of the girls appeared at the doorway stark naked.

  “Oh,” she said, scratching her blonde head. “You’re having a meeting. Sorry. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Other side of the bedroom,” said JoJo.

  “Okay,” she said while yawning. She turned and disappeared.

  “Then,” said JoJo, “we could have a guy who looks just like Edward James Olmos to play the old grizzled police commander. In fact, maybe we could get Edward James Olmos himself. What’s he doing now since Battlestar Galactica?”

  “JoJo”, I said, “back to here and now.”

  “Huh? Oh, sure man. No problem. Look, man, this is brilliant. I’ll cut you in. This was your idea.”

  “Just get me into one of Hinraker’s parties.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you want?”

  “That and fifty percent.”

  “Eighty twenty.”

  “Seventy thirty.”

  JoJo stared at me and said, “Fine.” There was a long pause. “So this pretty girl? Her mom misses her, huh? Thinks something bad happened to her, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Her mom thinks she may go to Hinraker’s parties?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see that.” He scratched his chin, trying to play the part of a deep thinker. “Okay, I’ll get you access. Next one is Tuesday night. Shit, I won’t be here. I have to fly to L.A. I have pitch meetings all next week out there. Got to catch a flight at four today. Hey, what time is it?”

  “Two.”

  “Shit. I’ve got to go. No massage today, Guido. Sorry.”

  “Can you call Hinraker before you go?” I said. “Get me in?”

  “No, man,” JoJo said, “that’s not how it works. Wait a sec. I’ll give you my Sapphire Key, but you’ve got to promise to give it back to me.”

  “I promise.”

  He got up and wobbled up the steps to the bedroom.

  I smiled at Guido. He didn’t smile back. I took out my wallet, peeled out two hundred dollar bills of Pam Hayes’ money, and handed them to him. He took them and looked at me incredulously.

  “For the trouble,” I said. “No massage, having a gun pointed at you. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “Sure,” said Guido, still jumpy.

  There were rummaging sounds coming from the bedroom. Then, JoJo returned holding what looked like a purple leather box.

  He set it down on the glass coffee table and opened it. Inside, encased in purple velvet, was a huge old-fashioned key with a sapphire embedded into it.

  “This will get you and a guest into Hinraker’s,” said JoJo. “Just show it to the guys at the door. But you’ve got to really really seriously promise to bring it back to me. I mean really really really seriously, no shit.”

  “You’ll get it back, JoJo,” I said. “I really really really seriously promise. I’m a man of my word. Thank you. I appreciate it. Mrs. Hayes appreciates it. See, I told you. You’re a good guy, I’m a good guy. We’re friends now.”

  I heard Guido breathe a sigh of relief as JoJo stood up with both arms extended, going for a bro-hug. The silky robe flew open.

  “Let’s just fist bump,” I said.

  He smiled and held out his fist, which looked slimy.

  “Later,” I said. “When I return the key.”

  “Okay, man,” said JoJo. “Later. But we are going to make a fortune with this new updated darker Miami Vice reboot idea!”

  “Of course we are. But hey, if you run into Vin Diesel out there in L.A., you might not want to mention it to him. Now I’m going to leave and everything is going to be cool, right?”

  “So cool,” said JoJo.

  Guido nodded emphatically.

  I backed out of the apartment and got the hell out of the building as fast as I could.

  FOURTEEN

  BACK AT MY PLACE, I PUT THE SAPPHIRE KEY INTO MY stash spot in between Pam Hayes’ envelope and my Sig. Being inside JoJo’s condo made me want to shower again, so I did. Once I finished, I realized I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

  I thought about getting another five-dollar Dominican dinner from the Art Deco Supermarket, but instead walked to Puerto Sagua at 7th and Collins, where I had a Cuban sandwich with a side of deep-fried yuca sticks. As I ate while watching tourists scream and run for cover as the daily summer storm rolled through, I thought about Allie Hayes, Eddie Corrado, Jake Preston, and JoJo Burley. Nothing new came to me.

  I looked at my watch. 4:00 PM. Shit, what do I do now? I’m definitely not used to two days off in a row. Maybe I should go buy a car with Pam Hayes’ money.

  I didn’t buy a car. Instead, I walked to Alton Road and picked up a large iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, feeling itchy and restless. I wondered how Bruno was doing at Cap’n Jack’s. I thought about stopping in to check as I passed, but I needed to think some more.

  On the walk back up Meridian Ave, the bright sun twinkling on the post-storm steam, I realized that Luther is right. I’m getting soft, losing my edge. It’s true. I’ve hit rock bottom here—drinking Rebel Yell, smoking cigarettes, bedding club girls.

  If I had my edge, I would have noticed the guy in a baby blue sport coat walking a hundred yards ahead of me and how he maintained the distance between us. By the time I spotted him and another guy on the other side of the street in a tan sport coat, it was too late. Classic mistake, and I walked right into it.

  I turned and looked behind me, knowing what I would see. Yep, a third guy. In a red plaid sport coat. Do they call each other in the morning to color coordinate?

  The guy across the street crossed, moving parallel to me. A car glided up on my left just as I reached for my gun.

  “Think again,” said a deep voice behind me. I turned to see a guy with thinning red hair, a gun in his hand.

  Shit.

  The guy ahead of me had turned around and was walking toward me. Thinning-Red-Hair opened the door to the back of the car and put his hand out for my gun.

  “Tommy Nero would like to see you,” he said.

  “You think I’m just going to get in the car with you?” I said.

  “You will. One way or another.”

  “Who’s Tommy Nero? What’s he want to talk to me about? I got no business with any Tommy Nero.”

  “Look, pal, Tommy Nero says to get you and bring you to him. I do what I’m told
. I’m not his fucking therapist, okay? Now, can we play this civil, please? I’ve got a headache and you’re not helping it any.”

  Rage boiled up inside me, not at these goons but at my own stupidity. I walked right into this. The only people wearing sport coats in the summer in South Beach are morons with guns.

  I could flame out now. Just call it quits. Pull, shoot, and die right here a block from my place. Why not? What’s the point of going on? What do I really have to live for?

  But something inside kept me steady and said to play along. Fine, whatever.

  I took out my gun, butt up, and handed it to Thinning-Red-Hair. He dropped it in the right front pocket of the sport coat.

  “Lose the coffee,” he said.

  “Aw man, really?” I said. “It’s Dunkin’ Donuts. This is the good stuff.”

  “Lose it.”

  I sipped a huge amount and placed the still half-full plastic container at the foot of a No Parking sign.

  I got in the back and Thinning-Red-Hair joined me. The other two guys piled in, one on my other side and one in front next to the driver. There was a heavy smell of garlic.

  “You forced me to litter,” I said to Thinning-Red-Hair. “That’s against the law, you know.”

  “My trigger-finger is itchy,” he said, shoving his gun into my side. “I’d hate to have the urge to scratch it.”

  “You’ve been watching too many gangster movies. The New York accent is good, but you’ve got to frown and smile at the same time if you want to really sound like Robert DeNiro. Not to mention calling someone who’s obviously not a pal ‘pal’ is so outdated.”

  He laughed. “Boys, we got ourselves a real comedian here. Thinks he’s hilarious.”

  Nobody said anything. The driver took the car right past my apartment. We turned right and then left onto Collins Ave, heading north.

  We rode in silence all the way up to where endless rows of condos on both sides of the street block the sun, creating a wide dark tunnel.

  As we pulled into a building on the right, I saw the same large Latina woman I saw two nights ago. Standing in the middle of traffic on a divider way up here. Still holding up the same sign. Still braving the elements to find her missing daughter. Damn. What was it Luther had said about no coincidences?