The condo complex reeked of Miami Beach circa 1961, that Fontainebleau-Jack Kennedy-Frank Sinatra era. Framing the big outdoor space in front of the lobby were several oblong concrete rings that once may have passed as modern architecture, but now look like high-maintenance kitsch. Some plucky weeds had climbed the side of one over the years. Nobody seemed to care.
We got out of the car in the first-level parking garage. Thinning-Red-Hair pointed me toward a bank of elevators. I felt his gun sticking into my ribs as we entered.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘No funny business, now’?” I said.
“Keep it up, smartass,” said Thinning-Red-Hair. “Just keep it up, see what happens to you.”
“That’s a good line, too. I knew you were a pro.”
We rode up to the tenth floor and down a non-descript hallway, clean but thick with decades of mildew buildup. Thinning-Red-Hair opened a door and we entered a suite. I couldn’t tell if it was an apartment or an office. Maybe a little of both. The furniture was simple, the art bland. He moved ahead of me and knocked on a door.
“Yeah,” said a voice from inside. Thinning-Red-Hair opened the door and motioned me in with a head nod. I entered a sparse office with a stunning view of the Atlantic.
Sitting behind a plain desk was one of the strangest looking men I’d ever seen. He was almost perfectly round, except for the top of his pale bald head which was flat, almost like a crater. It reminded me of a big white dormant volcano. His face looked like it had been mashed together from pounded clay. His rotund but hearty body was a messy mix of fat and muscle that filled the space behind the desk with equal parts beach-ball and granite. He wore a white suit, a pale blue shirt, and a white tie. A gold chain fell inside from one lapel to the other. He had the whitest skin I’ve ever seen on a human being, nearly translucent. That, combined with not one follicle of hair anywhere, made him look like a tough mutant baby.
“Close the door,” he said to Thinning-Red-Hair.
A large black man, as big as Luther but more fat than muscle, in dreadlocks and a black suit with a white shirt open at the neck, walked in. He placed my revolver on the desk and its six rounds next to it.
He closed the door and stood with his hands clasped in front of him, staring straight ahead. The only way out is through him or a leap ten stories down. Bad odds, either way.
“Mr. Titus, I presume,” said the mutant baby in a deep voice with what sounded like a New York accent.
I shrugged. His stare told me he didn’t like shrugs. Most people probably beg him for mercy at this point. He isn’t used to shrugs and it irked him.
“My name is Tommy Nero,” he said. “I’m sorry for the abrupt manner in which I called this meeting, but I got the impression that you wouldn’t respond to a handwritten invitation on linen stationery. Plus, it’s faster this way. I like to get things done. Money loves speed.”
I shrugged again. We stared at each other for a good long beat. Yep, definitely irked.
“You’re a former police officer,” he said, studying a paper on his desk. “Discharged for a series of offenses including failure to follow interrogation procedure, witness intimidation, insubordination, and assault on a Federal agent. Did time for conspiracy to commit murder. Sentenced to fifteen years. Yikes. Only did ten months. Case was expunged when a grand jury allowed new evidence that cleared you. Sorry about your time in the stink. I’ve never been.”
I shrugged. He laughed. A vein pulsed near his temple.
“Do you know who I am?” he said.
“I think you said Tommy something,” I said, “but I wasn’t really paying attention. Why, do you have memory issues? They have supplements for that now, you know.”
He slowly turned red. I thought he might burst, which would be messy. Then, he closed his eyes, inhaled a couple of deep breaths, and returned to his normal Arctic pallor.
“Okay, Titus, you’re a funny guy,” he said. “I get it. Ha ha. But help me out here. What brings a former police detective all the way from Boston to Miami to work at a run-down bar that caters to local drunks? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“I like the ambience,” I said.
“You like the ambience. At Cap’n Jacks.”
“Okay, you’re right. The real reason I’m here is to audition for the new Miami Vice reboot with JoJo Burley, the guy from Gone.”
“Well, you see Titus, I’ve got a problem. I hate problems. I like money. Money is what I do. It’s my passion. I grew up on the streets in Camden, New Jersey. Ever been to Camden, New Jersey?”
“Only on Amtrak.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like for a guy as white as me to grow up in Camden, New Jersey?”
“Probably not a hell of a lot of fun,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “And yet, I came out on top. Ran a successful business, and then realized maybe it’s best to go somewhere warm, someplace maybe I wouldn’t stand out so much. So I come here to sunny South Florida, vacationland, endless sun and beaches, and guess what? I still stand out like a sore thumb. Everybody here is brown as fuck from the sun. I can’t go anywhere near the sun. But it’s okay. It’s nice and warm. I like Miami. Coming from Camden, it’s a piece of cake, ‘cept maybe for the Cubans. They don’t seem to appreciate me.”
“Shame. And you such a lovable fuzzball and all.”
“I’m a straight-shooter, Titus. I’m—what’s that fancy word?—guileless. Got no guile, not an ounce. I tell it like it is. I’m a businessman. My word is good. If I say something is going to happen, then you can bet your ass it’s going to happen. Got it?”
“I think I got it,” I said.
“If I say I’m going to kill you,” he said, “you can kiss your ass goodbye because it’s a guarantee. I’m not going to kill you, Titus. You’re not worth it to me. I just need to know what’s your beef with Eddie Corrado?”
“Look, Tommy,” I said, “this has been a great show. Way better than The Godfather Part Three, but I’ve got to hit the road. Time waits for no man. Bet you don’t know who said that.”
“Chaucer,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Impressive. A literate gangster.”
“Titus, don’t make me prove my credentials to you. Truth is, I don’t like using my credentials unless I absolutely have to.”
“Your credentials being Bubbly Bob Marley here?”
“His name is Armaud, and I seriously doubt you would be able to prevent him from showing you my credentials.”
I sat back in the chair. “Tommy, let’s stop the dick-waving and get right down to it. If I was really in the way of something, you wouldn’t bother to cart me here to your office. I’d be shark food. I know Eddie Corrado works for you, not you for him. You wouldn’t cart me here to chide me for bruising your boy. You’re trying to find something out about your boy.”
Tommy Nero shot me with his finger.
“You’re good,” he said. “You think. You quote Chaucer. I may hire you.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Pays better than Cap’n Jack’s.”
“Most things do.”
He shrugged.
“The way things look to me,” I said, “you suspect Eddie Corrado of something. In your business, everything is about money, so it’s something to do with money. Skimming, maybe?”
“Go on,” he said.
I sat forward, a plan churning in my head.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I was hired to find a girl.”
“What girl?” he said. I nodded no. “What does it have to do with Eddie Corrado?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “I’m still detecting.”
“So your connection with Eddie was just that he was there at Sinz. Nothing else?”
“As far as I know. Besides the fact I threw him and his buds out of Cap’n Jack’s one night and Eddie holds a grudge about it. But that’s it.”
We looked at each other for a solid minute.
“I
believe you,” he said. “You’re a straight-shooter, too. I recognize my own kind.”
“I’m nothing like you, Tommy,” I said.
“Maybe not, but your word is your word. I like that.”
I nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “so somebody hires you to find a girl. Why they would hire you is questionable. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
I nodded, looking far behind him at a tanker heading toward Port Everglades.
“Tommy,” I said, “Bottom line. It beats the fuck out of me what Eddie Corrado is up to with you.”
“Which is what worries me,” he said. “Eddie doesn’t act on his own, most times.”
“Until now.”
“Until now. Titus, I would appreciate your help.”
“To flush someone out? So you can find out how much he knows, how deep he’s in, so you can feed him to the gators? No thanks. I’m no accessory.”
Tommy Nero templed his hands and stared at me for an uncomfortably long beat.
“I could hurt you,” he said.
“You could fucking kill me,” I said. “Go right the fuck ahead. You’d be putting me out of my misery.”
There was another long pause.
“Well, come on, man, go!” I said, turning on the crazy. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Kill me! Because I’ll tell you, son of a bitch, if you stand in my way, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill you.”
We stayed that way some more—one crazy set of eyes staring into another crazy set of eyes.
He broke the stare first, and then laughed.
“You’re something else, Titus,” he said. “Fine. Let’s just leave it at me telling you to stay away from Eddie Corrado.”
“I don’t take marching orders from you or any man,” I said. “If Eddie is involved in my case, then I won’t be able to do that.”
“Why play it hard, Titus? I could use someone like you to handle things on the outside, make sure my team is clean.”
“I’d rather eat fire ants.”
“That can be arranged.”
“So, are we done here?” I said. “Can I get my gun back?”
“Phil will give it to you when he drops you back at your place,” he said.
I shook my head, reaching for my gun on the desk with my right hand. I felt the breeze of Armaud’s arm as it came down to prevent me as I knew it would, but I swiveled to my left in the office chair. Then, in one swift motion I swiveled right, my right knee smashing upward into Armaud’s groin as my left hand went up under his sportcoat and yanked his gun out of its holster.
Tommy had opened a drawer in the desk, his hand on a silver revolver, but I had Armaud’s Glock pointed at his large head before he could get to it.
“Take it out and hand it to me, butt up,” I said. “Or find out how crazy I really am.”
Tommy hesitated, but realized he had no choice. I took his revolver and put it in my left pocket.
With my right hand, I took mine and flipped open the barrel, never taking my eyes away from Tommy’s. Yep, definitely crazy in there.
I loaded my gun with my right hand without looking. I cocked it, pointed it at Tommy, and then stuffed Armaud’s gun in the back of my waistband. Three guns. Talk about armed and dangerous.
“Nice meeting you, Tommy,” I said. “I’ll see myself out. Call Thinning-Red-Hair in here.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Titus,” he said, and then shouted “Phil!”
Thinning-Red-Hair came in with his gun out, assessing the situation.
“Don’t do it, Phil,” I said. “I am crazy enough to kill your boss.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Phil.
“Slide your gun over, Phil.”
“Shit.” He did. I put it in my right front pocket, feeling bloated with lead.
“Tommy,” I said, “I’m going to slink out of here. I’ll leave everybody’s guns on the table by the door in that waiting area. If you want to send your boys to kill me down the hall, that’s your choice. Go right the fuck ahead. But you said you weren’t going to kill me and you’re a man of your word. You wouldn’t want to be called a liar now, would you? Thanks for the offer of a ride, but that car stinks. You might want to get it cleaned, seriously.”
Tommy made a silent gesture to Armaud to let me go. I slinked backward and out the door, leaving their guns on the table as I left and closed the door to the suite behind me.
I took my time walking out. Like Tommy said, they had no reason to kill me. Tommy would do it, but only if absolutely necessary. He’s a criminal, but he’s also a practical businessman. Probably why he never did time. Wish I could say the same.
Out on the street in the hot sun, I crossed Collins and over to the big Latina woman with the sign standing in the divider.
I approached her and studied the picture of a pig-tailed teenager with big pretty eyes and a sweet smile. It was a school portrait, 9” x 16” with a white border. Middle school graduation picture, I’d guess.
“You see her?” said the woman. “You see my Marisol?”
“No,” I said. “When did she go missing?”
“I sorry, not good English.”
I tried to dig up the little Spanish I knew from the back of my brain. “Cuanto tiempo desde . . .”
“Oh, sí, sí! Hace una semana. Siete días.”
A week. Not good. A lot can happen in a week. I stared at the picture of the girl. She looked familiar. Stunning eyes. Where have I seen that face before?
I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the picture.
“Cuál es . . . uh . . . su número de teléfono?” I said.
The woman gave her number to me and I programmed it in my phone.
“If I see her, I’ll call you.” She frowned, not understanding. “Si la veo, voy a llamar a usted por teléfono.”
I hope that came out right.
“Si, si!” she said. “Gracias, gracias, gracias! Sólo quiero saber que Marisol está a salvo.”
I nodded and crossed to the sidewalk. Then I thought of something and crossed back.
I pulled out two hundred dollar bills of Pam Hayes’ money and handed them to her.
“For you,” I said.
“No,” she said. “No, no, no.”
“You need food and rest. Are you eating? Where do you sleep?”
She placed her hands on mine, tears in her eyes.
“No puedo tener su dinero,” she said. “I no can take.” The fire in her eyes was palpable. She was serious. “No give to me. Use to find Marisol.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, responding to the hard-edged female command in the same tone with the same voice I used with my mother in Georgia before she died.
“You good man,” she said. “Solo necesito mi hija.”
“Entiendo.”
She grabbed my hands, wrapping hers around mine.
“Dios te bendiga!” she said.
I nodded.
I turned and crossed to the southbound side of Collins. Several cabs passed by. I could have easily hailed one, but I didn’t. I didn’t have to work tonight and if I was going to join Luther on an early morning run one of these days, I’d better start getting in shape.
Plus, I needed to think. I think really well when I walk, so I put one foot in front of the other and headed south past the Fontainebleau.
I noticed a black SUV with its engine running parked at the corner of 41st Street, but it pulled out into traffic before I neared it.
FIFTEEN
I PASSED ALVIN’S ISLAND AT LINCOLN ROAD AND TRIED not to look at the I Love Liquor superstore coming up on my right. But one glance and I was inside, paying for another 750ml bottle of Rebel Yell, the idiot voice in my head telling me it had been a stressful day—TV stars and gangsters and guns and all—and how much I deserved it.
A gold Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows was parked in front of my building. I tensed up, my hand on my gun as I approached. The window rolled down and I relaxed when I saw who it was. I re
cognized him from the pictures on FoxNews and CNN.
He was sixtyish, big and soft, with jowly cheeks and a round pudgy nose going to rosacea.
“Titus?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
He opened the door and got out. Our eyes met for a moment, two predators from two different worlds sizing each other up. A smile spread across his vast face.
“I’m Rexford J. Hayes,” he said in a molasses-thick Southern drawl with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I shook his hand. It was slimy and soft.
His face was more lined and bloated than the pictures let on. He was golf casual today, a size 2XXL yellow-and-blue striped polo shirt tucked into large baby blue Bermuda shorts, a brown leather belt barely visible under a drooping mid-section. His silver hair was thick and recently trimmed, parted on the side. His feet were in Top-Siders, no socks.
“I’m Allie’s dad,” he said. “Mind if I come in? I’d like to talk with you about my daughter.”
I opened my door and motioned him in. A puff of cigar smoke hit me, lighting up my lungs.
“Much obliged,” he said with a big smile.
I stepped in and closed the door behind him. He looked around and made no reference to the shabby state of my existence.
“Oh,” he said, “do you mind if I smoke? I’ll put this out if you like.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
I made a silent bet with myself. I opened the cabinet and took out two plastic cups. I removed the bourbon from the bag I had been carrying, and poured a thick finger into each cup. I placed one in front of him on the countertop.
He glanced at the cup, then at me, and then at the bottle. He wanted to say no, but something told me he never says no.
“Well,” he said as he took the cup, “I suppose it’s late enough in the day. Thank you.”
I win.
He downed half of it. I raised my cup and sipped, smiling at him full force. Eager beaver. Willing prospect. Persuade me, you master politician you.
I motioned toward one of the plastic chairs. He studied them, and then said, “No, this won’t take long. Mr. Titus—”
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