by Mike Dennis
That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about, either.
I saw the Bushmill’s bottle on the shelf to my left, along with several rocks glasses lined up around it. I reached for it, then poured a shot into one of the glasses.
I gently sipped the magic fluid, pushing back the temptation to chug it. My first taste of Irish whiskey in three years. It was the good stuff: single malt, ten years old. It went down slow and warm.
For just a moment, I remembered back to when I was a teenager, watching my grandfather drinking this stuff from a private stash. He and my grandmother didn’t have much money, but he’d sometimes manage to save up enough to buy a bottle of the single malt, then he’d squirrel it away so she wouldn’t find it. He used to tell me about one of our ancestors — I forget which one — who was a bigshot at the Bushmill’s distillery over in Ireland way back when.
I almost smiled.
"Thirteen grand’s pretty strong, Sully."
"Damn right it is. And it’s gonna get stronger. I’m thinkin’ of opening another Sullivan’s up in South Beach. And get this. I got an angle to move into Cuba when they open things up down there. Should be pretty soon now."
"Cuba?"
"Oh, man. It’s gonna be great. Castro’ll be history by the end of the year, you know, now that the Soviet Union is no more. The Russians are gone, so he’s on his way out. And when he goes, things are gonna explode here."
"You think so?"
"Well, you know they don’t have shit down there right now. There’s all kinds of shortages all over the damn place. And the infrastructure? Forget it. They won’t be able to accommodate a lot of tourists for quite a while because they need everything."
"Everything?"
"Damn right. They need telephones, gasoline, good hotels, fucking toilet paper, the whole ball of wax. Paved roads, every goddamn thing."
"Really."
"No shit. It’s gonna be years before they’re really ready for the huge number of Americans who want to go there. And until then, a lot of people are gonna stay here and in Miami, in real hotels, and just take short day trips to Cuba. Man, this is where it’s at right now."
"You said you’re working an angle to move down there?"
"I can’t tell you about it now, cause it’s still in the planning stages, but the deal kind of involves BK."
"What’s BK got to do with it?"
"Well … I can’t really say anything just yet, but he’s behind it."
"Sounds like you’ve got big plans, Sully."
I sipped slowly at the Irish whiskey.
"Expansion," he said. "That’s what it’s all about. Hey, man, you got to move up or move out. This is the nineties, you know?"
This was only 1991, but I was already tired of hearing people say, "This is the nineties." The way they said it, I don’t know, it was like it excused any type of idiotic behavior or off-the-wall attitude. Hey, I know I’m an asshole, but so what! This is the nineties!
I hated it.
They’d even picked up on it in the joint. It looked like I was in for another nine years of it, but I swear, if I heard even one more person say it …
"So, uh, what’re you gonna do now? I mean, now that you’re back."
I took another sip without taking my eyes off him. "You know what I want."
He paused and looked at his cigarette, but he didn’t flinch.
"Sure, I know what you want. You want about two hundred thousand that you think you’ve got coming to you from our Vegas swindle."
"Think I’ve got coming to me? Think I’ve got coming? I don’t think anything. I know we got nearly a half a million from it. Take out our planning costs, including the fake diamonds, and that leaves about two hundred K apiece."
He leaned forward in his chair and looked straight at me. Then he said in a voice as cold as his eyes, "Yes, it does. But let me tell you something, boyo. There is no money."
The Bushmill’s suddenly ignited in my stomach.
"What do you mean, there is no money?
"I mean, it’s not here. I invested it. My share, too!"
"Invested it? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I’m telling you straight. I washed it through the club and then, you know, I gave it to a legit guy, an investment counselor up in Miami, and he put it to work for us in straight-up investments. Like these groups that invest in apartment complexes and office buildings and shit."
"Office buildings? You’re telling me my money wound up in some fucking office building somewhere?"
"It went into a tax-sheltered corporation with a bunch of other people’s money. It’s like an investment. Look at it as planning for your retirement. I can’t have that kind of cash just lying around here. This way, you actually own part of these properties. I think he said there’s one up in North Carolina, and another one somewhere near Houston … or was it Dallas?"
He gazed off toward the ceiling while he dragged another deep one on his cigarette.
Now it was my turn to lean forward. I did, all the way across the desk. I opened my mouth, then pulled back my cheek, showing an empty space where quite a few back teeth used to be.
"Look at this, motherfucker! Are you telling me that I fought off niggers and Mexicans for three years so I could come back and hear this bullshit?"
"Hey, I know it was tough for you. But don’t forget, I took a big chance. When we got ratted out, you may have taken the fall, but I snuffed the rat. A capital offense, in case you’ve forgotten."
I swept my arm hard across his desk. His fancy pen holder, his desk calendar, his telephone, the picture of his wife, it all went flying across the room.
"Fuck that! You think I did that bit so you could sit around here on your skinny little ass hauling in dough night after night? All I understand is that my cut is in someone else’s pocket! Probably yours. Now cough it up!"
He stayed cool. "Hey, my man! I don’t have your money. I told you, it’s all tied up. You can’t get to it. And neither can I."
He took a slow drag off his dwindling cigarette, examining the tip as he brought it down from his mouth.
"I want you to think back, Don Roy. Remember, after you left Key West, you scrounged around Vegas for what — two or three years — working these nickel-dime mail order scams and other bullshit routines. You were nowhere till we pulled that diamond sting."
My voice barely contained my rage. "And I was the one who took down the mark."
"I’m the one who set that score up, and it took me, like, six or seven months. This was the take of a lifetime, boyo! What do you think, I’m gonna turn over two hundred dimes in cash to you in a brown paper bag so you can run around buying cars and shit? I’m protecting us, you understand? Now if you got a problem with that, take it up with the investment counselor."
He went back to his cigarette.
When it came to brass balls, I had to hand it to him. Here I was twice his size, plenty hot, and ready to tear him apart. But he was still jacking with me.
I reached across the desk, grabbing him by his silk shirt.
"Open the safe."
"Hey, what —"
"Open the fucking safe!"
I poised a big fist in front of his face. I saw the beginnings of a quiver. About time.
He got up. I led him by the shirt over to the safe. He opened it, revealing a wad of cash in there, what looked like about seven or eight grand, along with a couple of passports. I took the cash.
"Hey, wait a second! That’s —"
"Let’s call this the vig," I hissed, shoving him up against the wall. I got right in his face.
"Today’s Wednesday. You got one week to come up with my money, the full load. You better know I mean business, Sully. You don’t deliver and a couple of Cubans are gonna come calling on you one night, and the next morning you’re in the fucking breakfast sausage up in Little Havana. Got it?"
He got it. His fear-filled eyes said so. No more of his cockiness.
"Y-yeah, Don Roy. I got it. You’
ll get the money. You’ll get it."
I finally released his shirt with one final push. His back hit the wall.
"Remember, the full load by next Wednesday, or else. And no bullshit stories."
I headed downstairs, out the back door.
The night was still warm but no longer hot. It felt good. Back here behind the building, the Duval Street racket was muffled.
I reached under my guayabera, fingering the scar on my side. I thought about the nigger who shanked me two years ago because I turned the channel on the rec room TV. That’s how they do it in there. No warning, no nothing. The minute I turned off his cartoons, he came up behind me and let me have it.
I dropped him in secret last week, just a couple of days before I got processed out.
I had one more stop to make. I decided I would make it, then go back to my nice cool room to watch TV.
Whatever shows I wanted.
OTHER BOOKS BY MIKE DENNIS
The Key West Nocturnes Series (all novels)
SETUP ON FRONT STREET
THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA
MAN-SLAUGHTER
THE GUNS OF MIAMI (coming soon)
Available in digital and paperback
The Jack Barnett/Las Vegas Series
TEMPTATION TOWN (a novelette)
HARD CASH (a novelette)
THE DOWNTOWN DEAL (a novel)
Available in digital and paperback
BLOODSTAINS ON THE WALL
Three stories from the dark side
Available in digital and paperback
CADILLAC’S COMIN’
A rock & roll novel
Available in digital and paperback
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND
THE DEEP BLUE EYES
A Las Vegas noir short story
Available in digital only
THE SESSION
A short story of broken dreams
Available in digital only
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It's been a long time since I sat down and wrote my first word of fiction. But that word would never have been written, nor any of the ones that followed it, had it not been for the urgings of Marda Burton, New Orleans writer. It was Marda who convinced me that I could fill up hundreds of pages with made-up stuff, and somehow make it all sound like a real story. Her influence was so strong that all these years later, I can draw a straight line from this novel all the way back to her.
Morgan St James made invaluable contributions to this work. As my beta reader, she found things I never could have spotted, first by reading it on her own, then by reading it aloud with me. Without Morgan, this novel would not have the shape it has today. I owe her big time.
I became a better writer by belonging to the Casa Marina Group and the Henderson Writers Group, critique groups of Key West and Las Vegas, respectively. Their many sharp eyes and ears provided exactly the fresh look that every novel requires in its early stages.
There's a guy out there somewhere who came into the Landmark Hotel piano bar on Bourbon Street one night many years ago. I never knew his name, nor did I ever meet him. He looked like a young Jack Palance, only without the swagger. He tried hard to impress the girl he was with, but she only yawned, turning him away at every opportunity. The guy just didn't have it, but for some reason, his memory stayed with me, so much so that when it came time to write this book years later, he became the inspiration for Eddie Ryan.
Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to the late, and very great Marty Robbins, whose timeless classic song, El Paso, gave me two standout lines which formed the basis for this entire novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Mike Dennis.
Published by Mike Dennis
Copyright 2009 by Mike Dennis
ISBN 13: 978-1603182775