Cash Landing

by James Grippando

  “I understand. And I regret that.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame. It’s too late now.”

  “Is it?”

  “’Course it is. Kyla’s lived with me her whole life. She’ll be five years old next month.”

  Ruban paused, making sure he struck the right tone. “Edith, I was watching the children play soccer out on the street before I came up to your door. How many kids are you raising in this trailer?”

  Edith glanced at the drying racks in the middle of the living room. “Three. Kyla, Alex, and Dylan. They share the other bedroom.”

  “How much longer can a girl share a room with two boys?”

  “As long as she has to.”

  “Do the fathers help with the boys?”

  “Mindy don’t even know who the fathers are,” she said. “You’re the only boyfriend she ever had. And what a piece of shit you turned out to be.”

  Ruban averted his gaze, then looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve changed.”

  “Yeah, so has Mindy. For the worse.”

  “I want to help.”

  She scoffed again, dubious. “Really? How?”

  The backpack was at his feet. He picked it up and handed it to her. “Open it.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Have a look for yourself.”

  She unzipped it, peeked inside, and froze. “Money,” she said, gasping. “My God, how much is this?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Where did you get that kind of money?”

  “I’m doing all right these days.”

  “Baloney.”

  “It doesn’t matter where I got it,” he said. “The question is: Do you want it?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Ruban replied in the most level, matter-of-fact tone he could muster. “Do you want it, Edith?”

  “Well, of course I want it. Who wouldn’t want a hundred thousand dollars? But I’ve been around the block. I know there ain’t no such thing as somethin’ for nothin’.”

  He spoke in the same even tone. “I want to adopt Kyla.”

  “Ha!” she said, half laughing, half scoffing. “You want Kyla?”

  Ruban was deadpan, no change in his expression.

  “Well, that’s just beautiful,” said Edith. “You want Kyla. Kyla. Do you think you can just walk in here and buy a little girl like she’s for sale?”

  His tone didn’t change. “Yes. I do.”

  Silence. Ruban took it as a good sign. If it weren’t in the cards, she would have thrown him out immediately.

  “I love that child,” said Edith.

  “A hundred thousand dollars is my opening offer, Edith. It’s negotiable.”

  “And she loves me.”

  “You make a strong case. You will be treated fairly. I’m sure we can agree on a number.”

  Edith blinked. Another good sign. Ruban saw a flicker of hope, a sparkle in her eye that bespoke the old Edith—the one who’d pretended to be deathly ill and then split ten thousand dollars with the doctor who’d billed Medicare for treatment never rendered.

  “How can I be sure this money isn’t counterfeit? For all I know, you went into some fancy copy center and printed it yourself.”

  “Take one. Pick any bill you like.”

  Ruban removed a stack from the backpack and laid the bills on the table, fanning them like playing cards. “Take a closer look,” he said. “Some bills are crisp. Others are worn around the edges. These aren’t freshly printed fakes with consecutive serial numbers. These have been circulated.”

  She seemed to take his point, but he could still see suspicion in her eyes.

  “Take one,” he said.

  Edith pulled one from the middle of the stack.

  “Keep it,” said Ruban. “Take it to any department store in Miami. They’ll check the watermark, test the paper with that colored marker pen they use. They’ll tell you it’s real. Then you call me.”

  Ruban rose. He reached for the backpack, but she held on to it for a second or two, and he could feel the pull as he retrieved it. A look of angst came over her as she finally let go of the money.

  Ruban smiled thinly, then turned serious. “Don’t worry. This offer is not going away. You think about it, and let me know. Good to see you again, Edith.”

  He swung the backpack over one shoulder and let himself out.

  Chapter 27

  Pinky woke in the Red Room. Alone.

  Closing time at Night Moves was five a.m., but it wasn’t unusual for Pinky to find an empty bed in one of the private cabanas and sleep till noon on Saturday. It was a perk of being one of the club’s “Select Gentlemen,” a handful of members with “special talents” who weren’t required to have a woman in their company to enter the club. They serviced the women of other members.

  He fumbled in the darkness and found the dimmer switch on the wall. Even at full power it was mood lighting at best, which was fine. His eyes couldn’t have handled an all-out assault.

  His head pounded as he stepped out of the cabana. He wasn’t sure what he’d been drinking all night, but it made everything a blur. Almost everything. He remembered leaving the bar with two women. It was a typical scenario. Their husbands had been dancing with other women most of the night, and the wives were curious to find out if the anatomical rumors about Pinky were true. As always, he was more than happy to deliver. Mornings after, however, were getting more and more difficult.

  Damn, my back hurts.

  He straightened out the kink in his spine, pulled on his pants, and walked to the locker room. Members paid extra for a locker and shower access, but for the Select Gentlemen that was another freebie. Pinky had a prime locker directly across from the viewing window that looked out onto the “luv-nasium,” where some of the hottest action in the club took place, usually around two a.m. He found his key and opened the locker. His shaving kit was on the top shelf, where he’d left it. His cash was not.

  “Fucking bitches!”

  Another five thousand dollars, picked clean. It was the second time since the heist that prostitutes claiming to be another man’s wife had lured him into a cabana, plied him with a special BYOB concoction until he passed out, and then cleaned out the cash from his locker. He could never prove it, of course. There were no cameras in the locker rooms, security or otherwise. He was starting to feel as stupid as his nephew at the Gold Rush.

  At least I’m actually getting laid.

  He showered, got dressed, and headed down the dimly lit hall to the exit. His friend stopped him in the lobby before he reached the door. It was the club owner, Jorge Calderón.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Calderón.

  “What about?”

  “In my office. It’s important.”

  Pinky followed him. “Important” could mean a lot of things, especially between two old friends who’d known each other since their sophomore year at Miami Senior High School. They’d drifted apart after graduation but reconnected a decade later, when Calderón owned the body shop. Pinky couldn’t count the number of stolen vehicles he’d pushed through Calderón’s chop shop. Business was so good that Calderón had branched out with Night Moves. Pinky held no financial stake in either business, but the club benefits were definitely tangible.

  “Have a seat,” said Calderón.

  Pinky settled into the chair. Calderón sat behind his desk.

  “Bro, why so serious?” asked Pinky.

  “I’m sorry, Pinky. I can’t have you hanging here no more.”

  “What?”

  “Every other Select Gentleman in my club is under thirty. You’re forty-five. You had a good run. But it’s time.”

  “But I don’t look forty-five.”

  “Now you sound like Priscilla. Have you stood in front of a mirror lately?”

  “So you’re kicking me out of the club?”

  “No. You’re welcome to come if you bring a woman with you. But no more Select
Gentleman status.”

  “This is really harsh, bro.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” said Calderón. “This is business.”

  “Business?”

  “I’m grooming the club to sell it. I have investors coming in from Brazil, Singapore, all over. These people have a keen eye for what a club like this is worth. It has to be top notch. I can’t have my Select Gentlemen asking for the AARP discount on their club dues.”

  “I’m not that old.”

  “You’re closer than you think. The point is, if I’m going to get top dollar for this club, I have to get rid of the dinosaurs.”

  “Speaking of dinosaurs, size does matter.”

  “Not to these buyers. They’re looking for a first-rate operation, with some style and flash, not a red-light-district freak show.”

  “Ouch. Now you’re really getting harsh, bro.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not just testing the waters here to see what I can get. I need to sell this place.”

  Pinky’s gaze drifted toward the montage of photographs on the wall. “Nurses Night.” Pinky had been on fire at that event. Hard to believe it was twelve years ago.

  “What if I buy the club?”

  Calderón smiled and shook his head. “You can’t raise that kind of dough.”

  Pinky had told his old friend nothing about his involvement in the heist, not a word about chopping the pickup truck at Calderón’s shop, and even less about the job his bodywork mechanic had done with a blowtorch on Marco Aroyo.

  “What if I could raise the money?”

  “Get real, Pinky. I’m asking five million.”

  Pinky did the quick calculations. His share was $2.5 million. He still had Marco’s share of one million. He’d blown through at least a hundred grand, but it wasn’t beyond reach.

  “Would you take four?”

  “No way. Five is practically land value. My broker would lock me up in an insane asylum if I went a penny lower. And let’s stop pretending like you even have four.”

  “Give me two weeks. I can get five.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Pinky glanced at the photos on the wall again. Nurses galore, and his equipment had been just what the doctor ordered. “Never been more serious in my life, bro.”

  “His real name is Craig Perez,” said Andie.

  She’d stopped by the Littlefords’ townhouse to update her supervisor, and she was on his patio again. Littleford had the Saturday edition of the Miami Herald in his lap. He was one of those tactile nostalgic types who clung to a real weekend newspaper, especially when relaxing in his Adirondack chair on a perfect south Florida afternoon in November. His gaze was fixed on a pair of blue jays in the poinciana tree as Andie filled him in about Pinky.

  “I’d like to get a wiretap.”

  He turned his attention from the blue jays to Andie, thoroughly unimpressed. “You have a guy with a big schmeckle and one prior for auto theft who stopped by the tile depot looking for Marco Aroyo after the heist. Is that it?”

  “And who also quit his job two days after the heist. I tracked that down this morning.”

  “Still not enough,” said Littleford.

  “I went back and watched the video from the security cameras. Pinky has the same build as the perp with the gun. Similar walk, too.”

  “You’re getting warm.”

  “No offense, Michael, but that would have been enough for my supervisor in Seattle.”

  “You’re not in Seattle.”

  “I have a hunch about this one.”

  “A hunch isn’t probable cause for a wiretap.”

  She had another angle, but just then Littleford’s wife stepped out to say hello.

  “Andie, hi there. So sorry you weren’t able to meet up with my cousin John last night.”

  “Talk about a schmeckle,” Littleford muttered.

  “What was that, honey?” asked Barbara.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Barbara smiled at Andie. “Perhaps we can set something up for next weekend.”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar.”

  “Please do,” said Barbara. “And let me know. I’ll leave you two alone now.” She stepped back into the kitchen and closed the sliding glass door. Littleford apologized.

  “No worries,” said Andie. “Back to our man. Forget the wiretap for now. Let’s put a tail on him. We don’t need probable cause to do that.”

  “No, but we do need money. Between the tail on Alvarez and your undercover gig at Night Moves, we’ve already blown through half our surveillance budget.”

  “Can’t you request an increase?”

  “Not based on what you’ve told me. Look, Andie. Miami-Dade has the Marco Aroyo homicide investigation. From the FBI standpoint, this is basically a property crime that doesn’t involve terrorism, cyber threats, public corruption, civil rights, or major crime syndicates. Unless this Pinky has a direct link to al-Qaeda, there’s no chance in hell that I can get a budget increase to tail him.”

  The blue jays were fighting, drawing Andie’s gaze toward the tree.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound condescending. But in the world we live in, my unit does more with less. It’s expected. Frankly, I find it to be part of the challenge that gets me up every morning. Working a case means working a case, not putting in a budget request for the latest gadget that makes teenage boys in movie theaters say, ‘Ooo, awesome.’”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “I’m probably not helping my efforts to recruit you into the bank robbery unit, am I?”

  “On the contrary. I really do get it.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. But a supervisor who believed in what he was doing and didn’t try to oversell it—that only made Andie want to work harder.

  “You have any objection if I tail him on my own time?” she asked.

  “No, but understand that it truly will be in your free time. It doesn’t count toward availability pay, you won’t get credit for unscheduled duty, and you won’t get reimbursed for any of your expenses.”

  She shrugged. “What else am I gonna do with my weekend? Have a blind date with Barbara’s cousin?”

  He smiled. “Keep me posted on what turns up. And, who knows? Maybe you’ll get that wiretap after all.”

  “Count on it,” she said.

  Chapter 28

  On Tuesday morning, Ruban had a million-dollar delivery to make. Rush hour was just getting under way, and he was right on time.

  Three lanes of northbound traffic crept along U.S. 1 toward downtown Miami. The western suburbs drained into the northerly flow from Bird Road. In peak traffic, commuters could easily wait at the intersection through four or five light cycles, a good twenty minutes, just to make that dreaded left turn. Shaded by the elevated Metrorail tracks overhead, it was a prime panhandling opportunity for anyone with the street credentials to work it. On this Tuesday, like every Tuesday, it was up to Ruban to decide who had what it takes and who didn’t. The usual homeless suspects rode in the backseat of his car, with the notable exception of the previous week’s disaster, the guy who’d deposited the chief symptom of irritable bowel syndrome on Ruban’s upholstery. The others had lost or forgotten their “Please Help” signs—of course. Ruban gave them new ones and sent them off with the standing order about the three-hundred-dollar minimum.

  Chicken scratch, compared to what was in the backpack on the seat beside him.

  Ruban pulled onto the shoulder and watched his team get into position. They knew the drill. No one walked straight toward the shade beneath the tracks and curled up for a nap, which was surprising. Usually, at least one joker sat down on the job from the get-go. Ruban did notice an old man going from car to car in the far lane, collecting a buck or two for the puppet figures he’d fashioned by hand from palm fronds. Grasshoppers and butterflies were his big sellers. He was an artist. He was also a squatter, operating without authority, and, technically, Ruban should have flexed his muscle
s and told him to beat it. This morning, however, he was in no mood for small-time Miami.

  I can’t wait to be done with this crap.

  He put the car in gear and pulled back onto Bird Road. Westbound traffic was nonexistent, so he zipped right across the street to the parking lot in front of the convenience store, the designated meeting spot for the delivery.

  Ruban felt good about this split. Pinky was a dirtbag. Jeffrey was a loser. Marco—who the hell knew how far out into the bay the river currents and tides had carried his body? But Octavio Alvarez had been his buddy since boyhood. They’d started boxing together at the gym as seven-year-olds, knocking each other around the ring, equally determined to be Cuba’s next gold medalist. They used to watch the Cuban national béisbol team practice through a hole in the right-field fence, then scrape together their moneda nacional to buy a scoop of chocolate ice cream at the world-famous Coppelia. Test scores and other academic indicators landed them in separate high schools, and most of Ruban’s friends at the Vocational Pre-University Institute of Exact Sciences stopped talking to him after he got kicked off the college track for violating the government’s ban on access to the Internet. It didn’t seem to matter that he hadn’t been planning to overthrow the regime, that he’d been searching for information about his dead Russian father. Alvarez was the old friend who had stuck by him. More than stuck by him. “Let’s get a raft to Florida,” he’d told Ruban. So they did.

  And, of course, if it hadn’t been for Alvarez and his work at the armored-car company, there would have been no heist.

  Ruban checked his rearview mirror. A homeless man was approaching from Bird Road. He was wearing blue jeans, an army jacket, a beanie, and sneakers. The gnarly beard and cheap sunglasses were the finishing touches on a convincing disguise. If Ruban hadn’t known Alvarez was coming, he would never have known it was him. Ruban lowered the window.

  Alvarez stepped up to the driver’s side and held out his hand. “Got any spare change, Mr. Trump?”

  Ruban handed him the backpack. He’d brought all hundreds for Octavio, to lighten the load, but a cubic foot of tightly packed currency was still a good twenty pounds. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”