by Jon Land
The head of the guard closest to him ruptured like a melon, spraying blood and brains everywhere. The man crashed across the table as a pair of red splotches appeared on the chest of the guard who had been seated next to Trelana. The drug lord was pushing the body aside when his head snapped back and blood leaped from his throat. Drew heard two more spits. Behind Trelana a section of the mirrored wall shattered, lined with scarlet grooves. Trelana slid dead to the floor.
Drew was swinging around then and saw a tall man standing by one of the rear tables with a gun still smoking in his hand and the barrel rotating slightly. Toward him.
“No!” Drew screamed.
He plunged to the floor, and more of the mirrored glass exploded behind him. What was happening here?
Drew realized that he still held the magnum in his hand, and he tilted it upward as the other man changed into combat position and sighted on him. There was no time to think; that was what saved him. He brought the magnum up and fired in the same motion. He thought he pulled the trigger twice, although it could have been three times. One of the bullets found the killer’s chest and the second his head. He pitched backward into a table and then over it.
Drew’s ears rang with the vibrations of the magnum blasts so close. Around him everyone was screaming.
I have just killed a man.
He found himself back on his feet. His eyes locked on the bloodied mirror, on himself with the gun still clutched in his hand and fresh blood sprayed all over his apron and part of his shirt. The blood was everywhere, the death. The screaming had started to subside. Drew tried to steady his thoughts.
Stick with the plan! Something had gone wrong, but that didn’t mean all. Get to the car.
Now!
Drew broke his trance and rushed from the dining area. All the patrons and workers had dived for the nearest cover. He saw nothing but their legs and covered heads as he ran for the door. He rushed from Too-Jay’s out into the plaza, prepared to leap into the backseat of a waiting car.
But there was no car.
Drew felt a fear like he had never known pass through him. The bitter, coppery smell of blood seemed to have followed him from the restaurant. His heart thundered.
Where was the car?
Something had obviously gone wrong. He couldn’t wait any longer. If it wasn’t here now, it wasn’t coming.
He ran through Royal Poinciana Plaza in the direction of Coconut Row. Trelana’s car would have at least two more men in it. They would have already been alerted by the gunshots and the panic. Drew had to flee the area before they had time to put everything together.
He stripped off and discarded the bloody apron as he ran, oblivious to the stares of pedestrians and those glaring at him from cars. He realized the gun was still tight in his hand and tossed that away as well. He slowed as he approached the traffic-filled Coconut Row. Rushing had made him stand out. If he moved at a leisurely pace, he would stand a better chance of going unnoticed. Except for the damn waiter’s uniform …
Holding his breath, Drew bounded across Coconut Row, skirting traffic. Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Threats were hurled through sunroofs and windows. Drew ignored them all. He reached the opposite side of the road and began running parallel to a row of bushes that bordered the Breakers golf course. He stole a glance behind him, checking for possible pursuit. There was none, at least none he could see. Nonetheless, as soon as the bushes were low enough, he hurdled over onto the back nine of the course.
The thought that his grandmother had been murdered on these very grounds was lost on him as he ran down the neatly manicured fairways. Again there were screams and shouts directed at him and again he simply outran them. His mind had begun to work logically now. From the golf course he would emerge on South County Road, which would lead him straight to Worth Avenue. Plenty of people, activity, and lots of stores. He’d be able to lose himself easily.
He was walking when he reached South County and kept the same pace when Worth Avenue finally appeared. The long street was lined with luxurious shops displaying their easily recognizable names. This was the Palm Beach version of Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, a rich version of Georgetown’s M Street. Thinking of that calmed him as he approached the Esplanade arcade of shops and stores, layered one after the other on two levels. Drew turned into the Esplanade, realizing he needed a phone most of all.
He heard the sirens clearly now, screaming close by. He imagined an endless parade of vehicles screeching to a halt outside Too-Jay’s from all directions. Royal Poinciana Plaza would be three-deep with police. Drew passed into the Esplanade through the parking entrance. Arrows noting Phone directed him to the right. He expected the standard pay variety, but instead he found a newer brand of pay phone with a touchtone resting on a table containing the pay slots and guts built into die front.
Drew sat down in a chair next to one of the phones, able at last to collect his thoughts. He had come to Too-Jay’s to kill Trelana. But someone else had killed the drug lord and then tried to kill him.
A man he had shot. Oh God ….
Everything about Masterson’s plan had gone wrong. Either the agent had set him up … or had been set up himself. Only one way to find out which.
Drew inserted a quarter and dialed Masterson’s private number. The number rang and rang.
And went unanswered.
He was alone.
Chapter 8
SUNDAY HAD BEEN AN all-around shitty day for the Rivero brothers. Never mind that their six-month-old custom Cadillac seemed already to be pleading for a tune-up, backfiring and stumbling about the South Beach streets like a dying dog. Never mind that. The car they could get fixed, buy a brand new one maybe. But their other problems wouldn’t be nearly as simple to solve.
To begin with, they hadn’t received payment and shipping instructions on their newest shipment of powder. This particular cocaine channel had been by far their most reliable and lucrative, and the brothers didn’t want to make any move that might threaten it. But something must have fucked up somewhere. They had taken delivery of the powder on time and everything was set up for the meet. Then the courier never showed. The Riveros were stuck with two hundred pounds of uncut powder they didn’t dare move on their own. They had to stick to the agreement, after all. Shit, some things were sacred.
Then there was the problem of a new pusher in South Beach who had forced out their top street man over the weekend and was opening up shop for himself. The man obviously didn’t know who he was fucking with. But the Riveros caught onto him plenty fast and were ready to set up a meet for him with the angels.
Problem number three was a bit more complicated. The three Anglo kids who were pushing powder and pills for them in the Miami schools weren’t returning the greens they should have been. The Riveros knew skimming was to blame and a few years ago would have jumped at the chance to shove hot pokers up the boys’ tight white asses. But they were businessmen now and had to think like businessmen, like maybe using problem number two to help solve problem number three. It would be like killing two fish with one stone, ventured Marco, who had never quite mastered American idioms.
Miguel headed the stumbling Caddy down Route 95, screeching onto the exit ramp closest to a private school with the colorful name of Ransom-Everglades, while his brother toked on a fat joint in the passenger seat. Miguel knew Marco was the better looking of the two, but Miguel was undeniably the smarter. He didn’t look smart because his face was square and flat, his skin and hair perpetually oily. Acne had cursed him as a youth and he had torn at the blotches in frustration, leaving his face pitted and marked. As if this wasn’t enough, a pair of knife fights in Cuban jails had partially closed his left eye and left a long scar on his right cheek. He hated mirrors and gazed in them only in dim bathrooms.
His brother Marco’s real name was Julian, but he had changed it on coming to the States in the great Mariel Harbor boat lift because Julian figured he looked more like a Marco. Anglos said he looked a lot like a dead
spic comic named Freddie Prinze, especially with his mustache. How’d he die, Marco wanted to know? He blew his brains out, they told him. What a way to go… .
Miguel pulled the Caddy up to the entrance of Ransom-Everglades and pushed a button, which automatically flicked all the door locks open. A long-haired Anglo boy wearing a crisp leather jacket climbed in the backseat. Two more schools, and two more boys joined the first in the Caddy’s backseat. One wore oyster-colored corduroys and a high school letterman’s jacket. The other wore jeans and a light windbreaker.
“Hey, man,” said Marco, “let’s party.”
Miguel headed the Caddy back to South Beach, specifically the southern end of Collins Avenue, which was their prime turf. A small Cuban diner had been headquarters of their man Ramon until the dude, soon-to-be-a-dead-fuck, moved in. The Riveros figured he was part of somebody bigger, so an example was called for. It was Miguel who stepped inside, glad to see the diner was deserted except for a big dark man standing behind the counter wearing an apron.
“Can I help you?” the fucker asked in Spanish.
“Yeah,” Miguel came back. “I’d like a take-out order.” Right across the counter from him now. “For Ramon.”
His fist came up fast. The fucker never had time to react. The blow bashed into his solar plexus and doubled him over the counter. The guy was big, but he was slow. Miguel cracked him once on the back of the head just for fun and then half-led, half-dragged him out of the diner and had him squeezed in the Caddy’s backseat with the Anglo dudes before anyone in South Beach was the wiser. Then he was back behind the Caddy’s wheel, gunning the engine.
“Let’s party, man,” said Marco.
Miguel drove the Caddy north toward the Orange Bowl and an abandoned warehouse, which doubled as the brothers’ home and headquarters. They didn’t care about bringing the Anglos down here because they wouldn’t be in condition to tell anyone about it. The boys sat all squeezed together in the backseat, the effects of Marco’s pot lessening in them enough for the fear to come through. The stranger next to them was only semiconscious, eyes glassy. He was moaning and he didn’t smell too good.
It was Miguel who dragged him through the warehouse front door while the cooler Marco led the way for the rest of them.
“Come on in, man, it’s party time!” he announced as if he genuinely meant it.
He closed and locked the door behind the boys. They were in what looked like a huge living room partitioned off with old and broken furniture scattered over a dust-coated floor.
Miguel tossed the stranger to the floor, then kicked him once in the head and twice in the gut. A whoooosssssh of air sped through the guy’s mouth. Miguel kicked him in the gut again. He rolled over.
Marco slapped his arm around the shoulder of the boy in the leather jacket. He squeezed it tenderly.
“I like you, man,” he said. “You’re my favorite.”
But then his hand was in motion, incredibly quick like a cat after a ball of yarn, switching from the shoulder to the throat. The boy reeled backward as he felt his air being choked off. His eyes bulged when he saw the gun in Marco’s hand coming straight for his mouth.
The other boys were too shocked to move and by the time they looked to the door, Miguel was on them from behind, grasping them by the scruffs of the neck and shaking viciously. They felt like puppets in his fleshy hands.
Marco tilted the barrel of his monstrous revolver down the throat of the boy in the leather jacket. He cocked the hammer, all the soft prettiness gone from his face, rage replacing it.
“You fuck with us, man? You fuck with us?”
The boy’s eyes bulged with fear. He tried to mumble something.
“I’m gonna blow your brains out! You like that idea, man?”
The boy wet his pants.
Marco heard the dripping sound, looked down, and snickered.
“You fucking baby! You gonna shit next, stink up our house? You fucking baby gringo pisspants!”
Marco shoved him against the wall, holding his hair in one hand and the gun in the other.
One of the boys Miguel was holding started to sob. Miguel slammed him into a table.
“You boys think you can fuck with us!” Miguel charged. “You think we’re stupid spics who can’t read or nothing? Well, we’re smarter than you asswipes. When you playin’ our game, you don’t make up your own. You want to work for us, we give you your cut, you don’t take it.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said the boy with one side of his face swollen.
Miguel patted the bruise tenderly. “It’s good you don’t lie, gringo.” He slammed the boy’s head against the table again. “But bein’ sorry, it ain’t good enough for us.” He was speaking to all three of them now. “You boys worked good for us in the beginning, but if we let you out of this, word would get out that you can fuck with the Riveros, and we can’t have that. So we gotta do all three of ya. We’ll make it look like the creep on the floor over there did it. Nobody’ll know the difference. You boys should have stuck to the deal.”
When Miguel had shifted toward the still prone stranger to make his point, he had noted something was wrong, but it didn’t seem important enough to be bothered with. The stranger’s position had perhaps shifted. Maybe his breathing had steadied.
No matter.
The rest happened very fast. His new position allowed an easy draw of the pistol from his armpit holster for Selinas. He had packed numerous other weapons on the chance that the Riveros would have searched him and found the gun. But the gun was what he needed now if he was going to get the boys out of this. Their presence had been unexpected and had necessitated him keeping up the ruse longer than he would have preferred.
He went for Miguel first, not because he was charging as Selinas lurched to his feet gun in hand, but because shooting Marco now would almost assure the involuntary pulling of his trigger and the splattering of the boy’s brains across the wall. It took two bullets to halt the powerful Miguel and by that time Marco had the gun out of the boy’s mouth and was bringing it around.
Selinas dove to the floor and rolled. Behind him a bullet from Marco blew a lamp apart. A measure of the room’s light faded. Another round exploded in front of him as he snapped to a halt. Marco was about to fire again when Selinas let go a round. The glazer bullet, composed of hundreds of tiny pellets, blasted into his shoulder and tore his arm halfway from its socket. Marco pitched backward screaming.
Selinas rose to his feet.
“Get up!” he ordered the three boys who had all collapsed tight to the floor. “Get up!”
Finally, they did, slowly until Selinas lifted one bodily to his toes.
“Get up and get out of here!”
The one who’d wet his pants stood shaking with arms wrapped around himself against the wall.
“Help your friend,” Selinas told the other two. Of course, his employer’s instructions would have been to kill the boys. They had seen much too much here tonight, but so long as no one else found out no complications could result. “Take their Cadillac to get home,” he continued. “Ditch it a few miles from where you all live. You can use the walk.” One of them started to speak. “No questions. Move!”
They were gone seconds later.
Selinas walked over to Marco and leaned over him. Marco’s eyes had gone glassy and the shock had forced his teeth to slice right through his lip. The glazer bullet had done quite a job on his shoulder. Selinas could see the sinews of ruined ligaments, cartilage, and muscle intermixed with the blood. Marco spit up at him.
“You set us up, man… .”
Selinas didn’t bother to nod. He had quickly determined days before that finding the Riveros would be impossible, so he elected to have them find him and they had cooperated brilliantly.
“What you waitin’ for, man?” Marco rasped. “Come on, do me and get it over with.”
“Tell me where the suitcases are.”
Marco grimaced in pain. “You get the powder and I
get to live. Is that it, man?”
Selinas’s expression was noncommittal.
“You did my brother. I got to get you for that. What the fuck, man, I don’t need the powder anyway. I’ll give it to you just to get my chance. Upstairs. Second room down. Wall on the right side of the window is false. Smart man like you, you’ll spot it right away.” Marco looked up at the gun and squeezed his ruined shoulder with his other hand. “You’re gonna be dead, man,” he spat angrily. “You’re gonna be dead quick.”
“You already are.”
And Selinas pulled the trigger over Marco’s face.
Chapter 9
SUNDAY TURNED INTO THE longest day of Drew Jordan’s life. His useless phone call at the Esplanade left him with two choices. One was to throw himself on the mercy of the Palm Beach police, the other to get out fast for a safe port—DEA regional headquarters in Miami. The first option was appealing only in that he was guilty of, at worst, a self-defense killing. But explaining the circumstances of his presence at Too-Jay’s and his possession of a gun promised to lead to questions he couldn’t answer. Option number two, then, was his best bet. The DEA was involved in this through Masterson regardless of the agent’s fate. They would have to help him, learn who the assassin was, and who had sent him.
Drew had no idea if the police were looking for him, so he decided to play it safe. He was not crazy over the prospects of returning to the Hyatt under the circumstances, but he liked less the prospects of remaining in his waiter’s garb. He needed clothes and money. He could be at the Hyatt and gone before news of Trelana’s murder even reached television or radio.
But how to get to Miami? A rental car seemed the simplest and safest means. The key was to move fast and keep moving. He called a cab from the Esplanade pay phone, and it deposited him back at the Hyatt where he packed quickly, checked out, and took the hotel jitney bus to an airport car rental agency. With surprising ease he was heading down Route 95 for Miami not even ninety minutes after blood and brains had splattered all over Too-Jay’s.