Diabla Makes an Entrance

by Karl Tutt

  Bugsy put a tumbler on the table and a water chaser. I took a sip. I was cold, but the rich Irish wasn’t helping.

  “I see you bring yur friend, Mr. Fuenes, wit you. I watch him carefully. He does vunderful job of being inconspicuous,” he pronounced the last word syllable by syllable, mostly getting it right. “But he shud do better at hiding de lump under heez coat.”

  I was glad for the lump under Ricky’s coat. It was pure Glock. I still hadn’t said anything, but I didn’t need to. Three D wasn’t here to listen to the troubles of a failing female detective.

  “I assure you dat you are in no danger . . . at least not tonight. But as you know, Ms. Rabow, tings vill alvays change. I luf de expression in yur language, ‘last chance’. It is so definitive, so final. I tink dat is vhat you haf . . . ‘de last chance.’ You shud consider. Perhaps a vacation, another line of verk vud suit you? I know well you haf other talents.” Again he grinned and he iced me with those dead eyes.

  They were blue as the North Sea, but the sheer malevolence was stormy and threatening. I wanted badly to keep myself under control, but my foot was tapping like a trapped pigeon in a filthy cage.

  “Please forgive me dat I rush. Finish yur vhiskey. Perhaps it vill soothe you. It is paid for. Oh, by de way, M sends his varmest regards. ”

  Something damp and slimy crawled up my back. I ran my fingers through my hair. I wanted to grab a handful and yank it out by the roots. I stared at the brown whiskey. I swirled the last of it in my glass and threw it down.

  M . . . God, I thought I’d seen the last of that sonovabitch. I worked for the goddamned pimp. Did the clubs and the other things that buried me in the dirt and made me doubt my very sanity. Kept me so doped up I would have screwed the New York Giants and not known the difference. He’d already tried to kill me once. Came close. Did kill my roommate in Key West. Fed her to the alligators in the pond on that hellish golf course. I still had the shadow of his tattoo on my wrist, the one that marked me as one of “M’s girls”. So Triple D was his latest recruit. At least they had something in common. They both liked to hurt people.

  Chapter 16

  I reached for the phone. I wasn’t sure she would take my call, but I was out of options. Anything was worth a shot. I dialed the number. She answered on the first ring.

  “Ms. Longstreet, this is Detective Dee Rabow, Fort Lauderdale P.D. I was wondering if I might have a few moments of your time today or tomorrow. Just some routine questions concerning a homicide we’re investigating.”

  At first there was no response. I thought maybe we’d been cut off, then I felt the icy breath blowing out of the receiver.

  “I must say I’ve been expecting your call, Detective. At the moment I am very busy. I am hosting a luncheon on Thursday for the members of FSSH. I am sure you are unfamiliar with them, The Florida Supporters of Symphonic Harmonies. It is crucial that we do our part to provide cultural opportunities for some of our residents.”

  The tone of her voice assured me that the ‘some’ didn’t include me.

  Translation: Keep the rich bitches busy inflating their own importance. Just leave the riff-raff out.

  “I certainly understand, Ms. Longstreet. I promise not to take too much of your time.”

  “Well, if we must. I can squeeze you in at 2:30 this afternoon before my meeting with the caterers. But I trust you will be brief. I doubt that you have been in our area. 228 Poinciana Drive. I am sure you can find it. Please be prompt.”

  “Yes Ma’am. I will be there and I will be brief.”

  I had some time to kill and my stomach was screaming at me like Audrey, the starving plant, in “The Little Shop of Horrors.” “Feed me. Feed me,” it demanded.

  I hustled down to Pedro’s Burrito Bonanza, a favorite of famished cops. Their food was world class and there was plenty of it. I ordered the Sooper Dooper Supreme. It was smothered in sour cream and guacamole. I grabbed extra napkins and slid into a booth hoping I wouldn’t leave wearing my lunch.

  I didn’t really know what to expect from the Queen of Symphonic Harmonies. I did know what I had heard from sources who were decidedly prejudiced. It was in my best interests to go into the interview with no preconceived notions. Cool, logical, and non-judgmental was the best approach. I thought I could pull it off if I was deaf, dumb, and blind, but that probably wouldn’t happen unless Three D got hold of me again.

  The house was magnificent. Lush lawn trimmed with fingernail scissors, hyacinth and oleander everywhere. Two marble Greek goddesses, Aphrodite and Artemis, welcomed the visitor up the sidewalk and onto the portico. Her Black E-Class Mercedes was immaculate, washed daily, no doubt.

  I rang the bell and was surprised to see the lady, herself, answer the door. She wore tailored ivory silk slacks finished off with Jimmy Choo heels. The emerald top hung gracefully over one tanned shoulder. Her hair had a natural insouciance that must have cost her $700. The jewelry dripped from her neck and wrists like icicles from a roof. A discreet touch of eye shadow and a brush of lipstick. She was a Cover Girl’s cover girl, the epitome of mature perfection.

  She smiled and made a sweeping gesture as if to welcome me into her lair. Tommy Bahama was everywhere. Hey, its South Florida. Mostly originals on the walls mixed with a few signed and numbered lithographs. Phil Capen, Jo Ann Sandborn, Joseph La Pierre, even a Bean Backus, some of the more prominent regional artists. Not a speck of dust anywhere, but looking at her perfect nails, I doubted that Ms. Longstreet was the female incarnation of Mr. Clean.

  She showed me to a sofa facing a bamboo coffee table. The diva sat opposite, crossed her legs gracefully, and smiled like a python about to crush a white rat.

  “You did promise to be brief.”

  “Yes Ma’am. Were you aware of your husband’s friendship with a lady named Angie . . .” She cut me off like a meat cleaver.

  “Friendship? A delicate choice of words, my dear.” She paused as the storm gathered.

  She leaned toward me and sneered. “Lady, my ass . . .” she snarled. “That tawdry little whore nearly ruined the perfect marriage. I hate Stuart. He hates me, but we live in blissful oblivion of each other for social and financial reasons. It actually worked until that trollop waved her well-worn cunt in his face.”

  The language was a bit direct coming from one of the doyennes of the Fort Lauderdale social scene, but hell hath no fury . . .

  “As you know, she was the victim of a vicious homicide.”

  “More like the bitch got what she deserved. Actually saved Stuart’s worthless ass. I was going to take the sonovabitch for every nickel he has and ever hopes to have. He’d have been lucky to afford a tent and roll of toilet tissue.”

  “And you discussed this with him?”

  “Goddamned right. Believe me, that bastard knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Oh come now, my dear . . . that I had his balls in a vice and a firm grip on the handle.”

  I hesitated for a moment. Where to now?

  “Let me move on. Do or did you know a man named Louis Callano?”

  “Please Ms. Rabow, do not insult me. Dreary little man, but quite effective. You know as well as I do that he was the pig who nailed my beloved husband for me. Photographs. You would have loved them, perhaps even recalled some fond memories for a girl like you. They would have been quite appropriate on one of those filthy porn sites on the internet. I must admit, the slant-eyed bitch had a rather voluptuous body. But if I had been there, I would have removed Stuart’s dick with a rusty meat cleaver, then thrown her nasty Asian ass off the twentieth floor balcony. Now, if you please.”

  She looked at me like a stray mutt who’d just peed on the rug. Then she pointed to the door.

  I stood on the porch a bit dumb-founded. I hadn’t heard language like that since my last longshoremen’s meeting. And talk about motives. I had them for not one, but two, murders. And there was the serious threat against the dearly beloved Stuart. I should have gone in wired, but
hindsight is always 20-20.

  Unfortunately, she’d told me nothing I didn’t already know. I went back to the precinct with my tail between my legs.

  Chapter 17

  Ricky was sitting at his desk when I came in.

  “Glad to see you, Miss Diabla. Enjoy your meeting with Cruella Deville?”

  I feigned sticking my finger down my throat. He got the idea. I gave him a quick rundown. He grinned and shook his head.

  “And this is the cream of South Florida society? How charming.”

  “So what have you been up to, my faithful Indian companion?”

  “Make that Cuban companion,” he said and smiled like Riccardo Montalban welcoming me to Fantasy Island. “Nothing too exciting. I’ve been beating the bushes for any of our local vermin who might shed some light on our latest mystery. Not much, but one of my users says there’s new snow on the street that’s as pure as anything the junkies have seen in a very long time. Snort it, shoot it, whatever. Sends you straight to the moon. Lots of it available, very reasonably priced. Some of it is going up north, probably by truck.”

  “So where’s it coming from?”

  “All they know is off shore. Coming in on boats. But there’s too damned much of it to be small shipments like we’re used to seeing. My guess is that they’re moving quantities in bulk. Maybe smuggling it in on containers. Maybe even a larger craft, big commercial fisherman? Running it through Dania Beach? Hell, I don’t know.”

  I shook my head. The cigarette boats were fast, but so obvious. Nevertheless, they didn’t draw much, got in and out of all sorts of shallow coves and creeks. Quick off-loading. They were hard to track, but they usually didn’t carry much. Just a few kilos could make you a very rich man if you made the run a few times. I doubted any kind of large vessel could evade both the Coasties and the DEA.

  “Okay Ricky, maybe it’s time to call my old pal Raoul Marquez. He told me to inform him if I had any ‘pertinent information’.”

  “On the other hand, if they don’t know about this shit, they should be working at Burger King.”

  I nodded as I dialed. Generic recording. ‘My message was important to him, but he was not available.’ The voice assured me he would return my call as soon as he received my message. I had barely put the receiver in the cradle when it sounded insistently.

  “Raoul Marquez,” he blurted.

  I gave him the info Ricky had picked up on the street.

  “Really, Detective,” thick sarcasm in the voice, “who the hell do you think we are? The Keystone Cops? We’ve known about the cocaine for a couple of months. Your so-called snitches need to get up to speed and you guys need to get your heads out of your asses and pay attention. I guess someone has to ice one of your favorite whores to wake you up.”

  “Agent Marquez. Sir . . . go fuck yourself.” I hammered the phone down, hoping the sonovabitch would soon need a hearing aid.

  Ricky was wide-eyed.

  “Dee. I know how you feel, but we may need those bastards at some time.”

  “Yeah and they can jump right up my ass.”

  He shook his head and buried his face in a file folder.

  I could feel the fire in my cheeks and my stomach began to churn. He got to me, Mr. DEA fucking agent Marquez. I couldn’t think. I had to calm down. It’s the only way I could help Angie. She was my friend. She’d trusted me. I flashed to the lacy necklace of blood that raced around her neck, the gray pallor in her cheeks, the ice blue lips slightly parted as if to say “why?” I had to get the man with the garrote.

  Chapter 18

  I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I went back to my desk. My head was beginning to clear. I was breathing normally again. I picked up a handful of files and began to sift through them. Maybe I had missed something. I heard the door to the precinct squeak open. It needed another shot of WD 40. I pulled the can out of my desk drawer. When I looked up, Harve, my so-called buddy from Internal Affairs, was standing in front of my desk flanked by two stiffs in matching gray suits and identical Peter Lorre leers.

  “Dee. I need to talk to you outside.” No smile, no “good to see ya”, just a voice like the Grim Reaper. I stepped out into the hall.

  “Please render your weapon.” I checked my Glock to make sure there wasn’t a round chambered. I popped the clip and handed the pistol to him butt first.

  “So what’s up, Harve? You read me my rights, put on the cuffs, slam the cell door behind me?”

  “Come on Dee. This is tough enough as it is.”

  “So I’m supposed to feel sorry for you and the Bobsey twins?”

  “Just come on upstairs. A few questions . . . in private. No charges, yet.”

  “Yet . . . Harve? So what’s next? Indictment for first degree murder?”

  We went upstairs and sat at a pock-marked table in a 10 x10 room with a two-way mirror on the wall. The air was fetid and the chair smelled of sweat, filth, and guilt.

  I wasn’t being formally charged, but I was on leave with pay indefinitely. They had my prints on the Ruger, had matched the hollow point slug in Louis’s cranium with the gun, had video of me breaking into his office building, and it corresponded closely with his time of death. The Ruger had been found in my apartment. They had obtained a warrant and conducted a perfectly legal search and seizure. Damned tight case if it went before a jury.

  I didn’t say much. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I was now a cop without a badge. No authority, no legal firearm, no resources but myself. And I wasn’t sure that was enough.

  I had been set up. I remembered that day in the evidence room and mentally kicked myself in the ass. Why didn’t I report the gun missing? Stupid strikes again. And who the hell had access to my apartment?

  I was escorted out of the building by the twin gray suits. I caught a cab back to the apartment. There was a note on the door from sweet Ms. Medford reminding me that I had two weeks to vacate. Great. I sat down at the kitchen table and poured a belt of Jameson straight up. I thought about calling Ricky, but I was sure they were watching him, too. Just because my ass was in a sling didn’t mean he had to join me on the swing set.

 

  Chapter 19

  I slogged some of the hot Irish. I gritted my teeth as it fired down my throat. Then I grabbed my spiral notebook, a pen, and began to write.

  Someone had made me the fall guy for Callano’s murder. Obviously they needed me out of the way. That meant I must be closer than I thought to something big and ugly. I listed the players: Angie, Stuart Longstreet, the lovely Miss Nancy, Triple D, Mustapha, the late Louie Callano. I hesitated a minute, then added Raoul Marquez.

  So who had been in my apartment? I called Ms. Medford. If anyone knew it could well be my sweet busy body landlord. She answered and I identified myself.

  “Yes, dear. So good to hear from you. Are you moving?” she asked hopefully.

  “Well, I am certainly looking,” I lied. “By the way, has anyone been in my apartment without my knowledge in the last few days?”

  “Only those people with the warrant. Oh . . . and that handsome Cuban boy came by. I forget his name. He said it was police business. I let him in. You know him. He’s been here before.”

  Holy shit . . . it had to be Ricky or some gorgeous Cuban clone.

  “Thank you, Ms. Medford.”

  “Yes, dear, and if you find something, let me know immediately. I am sure we can work it out, possibly pro-rate this month’s rent if you can find another place quickly.” Strong emphasis on the word “quickly”.

  Translation: I was serious persona non grata. Get out as fast as you can.

  So did I need to put Ricky on my list of potential bad guys? Good God, I hope not. He was the only one I could trust. There had to be a legitimate reason, but why hadn’t he told me? Things had been moving so fast. It was probably nothing, but I’m not a big believer in coincidence. Not many cops are.

  I went back to my notes. A very wise m
an once said, “Follow the money”. The Longstreets were definitely in over their heads. The house, the boat, the cars . . . all in hock. Cocaine meant lots of cash, especially in the amounts being smuggled in. Mustapha had a long history of involvement in illegal trade in anything that lined his pockets. A few killings along the way . . . what’s the dif as long as the big bucks flowed?

  I still couldn’t put it all together. As the Irish invaded my body, I was suddenly very sleepy. I glanced at the clock. It was only two P.M. What the hell, I was on vacation even if it wasn’t planned or wanted. Maybe I’d dream about Hot Rod.

  The phone rang about six. Four hours of good sleep, unfortunately, no Hot Rod.

  The voice on the other end was cool, but distinctive.

  “Detective, I have a great deal of information for you. I know who killed Mr. Callano. I also have the files. Please meet me at that despicable bar you frequent tomorrow afternoon at four. By the way, the luncheon was simply fabulous.” She hung up before I could answer.

  A killer, the files. She could only mean the files that were stolen from Louie’s office. I would damned sure be at Bugsy’s at four the next day. Meanwhile, I had some time to smoke it all over for the hundredth time. I wondered if the old Focus I had parked in the lot down the street still started. I had been using the unmarked for a month or so. I walked down the block and the damned thing fired up immediately. I grabbed a burrito and drove for a while just to charge the battery and think. Nothing helped much. About eight, I was back under the covers with a glass of Cabernet and Anderson Cooper bleating some inane chatter about the seriously lousy state of the Middle East. No news there. I slept nearly round the clock.

  Not much in the paper. The Taliban had blown up some more women and children at a shopping mall in Kabul. All for the glory of Allah, no doubt. Our magnificent President was doing a two-step on the Syrian rebels and the Supreme Court had decided that the obscenely rich shouldn’t have their free speech restricted. Translation: They could buy as many votes as they wanted with huge campaign contributions. Sweet Nancy was on the front page of the society section kissing the cheek of some beneficent supporter of symphonic harmonies. The best part of the paper was the comics, although sometimes it was hard to tell which was which.