Miami Run

by David Robbins

  “It will?”

  “Sure. The Dealers all have their assigned territories in the Greater Miami metro area. The whole city is divided among them. North Miami.

  Hialeah. Coral Gables. You name it, a Dealer controls it. But not Miami Beach. That’s neutral territory. No one Dealer can claim it, and that’s where most of them hang out. Practically all the Dealers have suites there.”

  “Fowler’s Dealer too?”

  “Yeah,” The Narc confirmed. “But I can’t think of the name of his hotel.

  I’ll have the forms and the info sent to the desk at the Ocean View. All you have to do is complete the paperwork, then drop it in the mail. Easy as pie.”

  “You have mail service?” Nickok asked.

  The Narc snickered. “Yep. You’re definitely country boys. Of course we have mail service! It’s only in the Greater Miami area, and delivery is slow sometimes, but the mail gets through.”

  “I appreciate your effort on our behalf,” Blade said courteously.

  “No problem. Now I need your names.”

  “John Clayton,” Blade answered.

  “And you?” the Narc asked, looking at Hickok.

  The gunman grinned. “William Cody.”

  “And you?” the Narc inquired of Rikki.

  “Bruce Lee.”

  The Narc dutifully scribbled the names in his notepad. “Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.” He nodded at them, wheeled, and strolled off with his fellow officer.

  “Most mystifying,” Rikki mentioned.

  “Not really,” Blade said.

  “Then maybe you can explain it to me, pard,” Hickok chimed in. “Why the dickens was that hombre so blamed nice to us? Why didn’t he haul us in?”

  “Checks and balances,” Blade stated. “The Masters have set up a system of keeping everyone in their organization in line. I didn’t realize it before, but the tourist trade must be critically important. They wouldn’t want the pushers to endanger it.”

  “Where do these tourists come from?” Hickok asked.

  “The southern U.S.,” Blade guessed. “Probably elsewhere. Maybe Central or South America. The Dragons must have trade relations with someone able to supply the fuel for their vehicles.”

  “What’s this business about checks and balances?” the gunman questioned.

  “The Narcs serve a two-fold purpose,” Blade said. “They insure no one interferes with the drug trade, but they also keep an eye on the pushers to make sure none of them step out of line. That Narc said he gets a bonus for turning in pushers gone bad. The idea is brilliant. The pushers are continually monitored by the so-called police force created to protect the drug trade.”

  “I’m glad you’re impressed,” Hickok stated.

  “We can’t underestimate the Masters,” Blade warned.

  “I don’t intend to estimate ’em,” Hickok said. “All I want to do is plug ’em full of holes.”

  “Are we going to Miami Beach?” Rikki inquired.

  “We are,” Blade replied. “Let’s go.” He headed to the east.

  The next hour passed uneventfully as they meandered into the heart of the metropolis. Both the pedestrian and vehicle traffic increased the farther east and south they went. Guns were in evidence everywhere, but the citizenry appeared to take the presence of the firearms in stride.

  Miami’s population was a cosmopolitan mix of ethnic groups. Some neighborhoods consisted of predominantly Hispanic or black residents, while others were racially integrated. Gangs were in abundance. Every six blocks or so, there would be an average of ten youths lounging on the steps of a tenement or hanging out on a street corner. Their faces were invariably hard and challenging, and black leather was obviously the preferred style of clothing.

  If the gangs and the guns were common, the drug use was universal.

  Deals were conducted openly. Hundreds of people the Warriors passed were smoking odd, stubby cigarettes that gave off a pungent odor.

  Popping pills or capsules was also a favorite pastime. A large number of the gang members bore needle marks on their arms. Street vendors, urchins mainly, hawked their wares brazenly. The result of all this drug use was reflected in the customers; heavy users weaved as they walked, or gazed at the world with blank expressions, or talked to themselves. Totally wasted men and women were a frequent sight, their personalities shattered, their clothing mere rags, filthy and beyond reclamation.

  “Remind me to never take a vacation here,” Hickok said at one point.

  “Same here,” Rikki said. “Why would anyone come to Miami as a tourist?”

  “Why else?” Blade responded. “For drugs. Miami could well be the drug capital of the Western Hemisphere, for all we know. When that Narc talked about tourists, he wasn’t referring to the old-fashioned kind who took their families on trips to amusement parks once a year. He was talking about drug-users. Think of it. An entire tourist industry catering to drug-users. Every drug a person could imagine, right here at their fingertips.”

  “People come here from all over merely for drugs?” Rikki commented in disgust.

  “That’s the way I read it,” Blade replied.

  Hickok spotted an emaciated man, naked from the waist up, to their left. The man’s arms were discolored and dotted with needle tracks. “This is sick.”

  The buildings were becoming taller, more stately. Dozens of skyscrapers appeared to the southeast.

  Blade made for them. He spied a Narc car patrolling the adjacent street, and realized dozens had driven by during their trek. The Narcs must need to maintain a high profile to keep a lid on the city.

  A boy of six or seven, wearing jeans and a green shirt, ran up to the Warrior and tugged at his left leg. “Hey, mister?”

  Blade halted and glanced down. “What?”

  “Can you spare some coin?”

  “I don’t have any coins,” Blade told him.

  “Please, mister,” the boy said. “My dad needs a dime bag bad.”

  “You need money for your dad to buy drugs?” Blade asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “I can’t help you,” Blade said sadly.

  Frowning, the boy ran off.

  “How could these folks do this to themselves?” Hickok wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Blade admitted.

  They entered the heart of Miami, the downtown section with its towering skyscrapers, with predominantly antiquated cars and trucks bumper to bumper, and with a seething wave of pedestrians on every sidewalk.

  Blade drifted with the crowds, enthralled by the spectacle. He was in no hurry to reach Miami Beach. Studying enemy terrain was essential to the success of any mission, and he was familiarizing himself with the landmarks, noting the tallest skyscrapers and other distinctive structures.

  “Does the air smell funny to you two?” Hickok inquired. “Sort of tangy?”

  “We might be near the ocean,” Blade guessed.

  They traveled in an easterly direction. A sign materialized ahead: BAYFRONT PARK. Water was visible to the east and south.

  “We’ll take a break in the park,” Blade suggested.

  They followed the sidewalk until they came to a beautifully landscaped strip of land, a garden of tropical foliage. Dozens of people were lounging on the green grass. Others were engaged in games or conversation.

  Skimpy attire was the order of the day.

  “At last!” Hickok remarked. “Breathin’ space.”

  The Warriors mingled with the crowd, moving at random, observing.

  “What the blazes is that guy doing?” Hickok asked.

  Two men and two women were sitting on a blue blanket under a tree.

  In the center of the blanket was a small folding table, not more than six inches high. On one side of the table was a pile of packets of white powder.

  On the other side, one of the men was opening packets and arranging the white powder in straight lines.

  The Warriors halted, perplexed.

  One of the wo
men leaned forward over the table, pressed the first finger of her left hand against her left nostril, then lowered her right nostril to the white powder. She started inhaling loudly.

  “She’s suckin’ that gunk up her nose!” Hickok declared in amazement.

  One of the men heard the remark and looked up, smiling. “Hi. Care to join us? There’s plenty to go around.”

  “What are you doing?” Hickok asked.

  “Getin’ high, dude. What else?”

  “What is that stuff?”

  The man stared at the Warrior as if he was from another planet. “Coke, man. We’re snortin’ a little. You sure you don’t want some?”

  Hickok shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t even stick a finger up my nose unless it’s a serious emergency.”

  The man shrugged and returned his attention to the small table.

  “Cow chips,” Hickok muttered. “The whole blamed city is full of cow chips.”

  The Warriors continued walking.

  “We have company,” Rikki stated, nodding to their right.

  Blade glanced around.

  Seven men, ranging in age from their twenties to the late thirties, were standing in a compact group 15 yards away. All seven were eyeing the Warriors with intense interest. And all seven were armed, four with revolvers, two with rifles over their shoulders, and one with a pump shotgun. Their attire was a mix of jeans, boots, and leather shirts and jackets. One of them, a man about six feet tall with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, motioned with his left arm. The seven strolled toward the Warriors.

  Hickok sighed. “Here we go again.”

  “I’ll handle this,” Blade said.

  The seven approached to within three yards and stopped. Their apparent leader, the man with the beard, grinned. “Buenas tardes, señor,” he said to Blade.

  “Hello,” the Warrior responded.

  “¿Habla español?”

  “What?”

  “Do you speak Spanish, señor?”

  “No,” Blade admitted.

  The man nodded slowly. “English then. I am Pedro.”

  “What can we do for you?”

  Pedro tilted his head, inspecting the portion of the Paratrooper visible above the giant’s right shoulder. “We couldn’t help but notice, eh? Your guns.”

  “What about them?”

  “They are nice guns, no?”

  “They get the job done,” Blade replied.

  Pedro patted the Smith and Wesson on his right hip. “Our guns are not so new as yours. Ours are old guns.”

  “Ours were manufactured before the war,” Blade said. “We take good care of them.”

  Pedro nodded. “So I see, eh? Real good care.”

  Blade waited for the man to come to the point.

  “Would you like to sell them?” Pedro asked.

  “No.”

  “Just one or two.”

  “No.”

  The corners of Pedro’s mouth curled downward slightly. “Please, señor. You don’t understand. We will buy some of your guns. We won’t cheat you on the price. You name it.”

  “Our guns are not for sale,” Blade stated firmly.

  Pedro sighed and gazed at his companions, then back at the three strangers. “Por favor, señor. Guns like yours are important to us. Good guns are hard to come by. They can mean life or death. You see?”

  “I see. But the guns are not for sale.”

  Pedro surveyed the park, his lips pursed.

  Blade tensed. He realized the man was checking for Narcs. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  “One last time, señor,” Pedro said. “Will you sell us some of your guns?”

  “No.”

  “Then we will take them.”

  The seven sprang forward.

  Chapter Six

  Blade was about to whip the Bowies from their sheaths when he perceived that the seven gang members were not relying on their weapons; not one was reaching for a revolver or bringing a rifle into play. Before he could reflect on this, Pedro was on him.

  The gang leader aimed a vicious kick at the giant’s genitals.

  Blade twisted to the right, dodging the blow, and grabbed Pedros’ leg in midair. Gripping the ankle with his left hand and thigh with his right, Blade rammed his right knee into the underside of Pedro’s leg directly below the kneecap.

  There was a distinct popping noise.

  Pedro screeched and fell as the giant released his leg.

  The tough with the shotgun swung the stock at the giant’s head.

  Blade ducked under the swing, then slammed his right fist onto the tip of the man’s jaw. There was no time to gauge the effect of the punch, because another gang member was already hurtling toward him. Blade sidestepped to the left, then lashed out with his right leg, catching the charging man in the gut and doubling him over. As the man gurgled and wheezed, Blade swept his left knee into the gang member’s face.

  The remaining four had separated, two going for the man in black, and two attacking the man in buckskins. Neither pair succeeded.

  Blade spun in time to see Rikki-Tikki-Tavi leap into the air, a piercing kiai bursting from the martial artist’s lips. Rikki’s legs flicked outward, each foot connecting with the head of one of the men asaulting him. Both gang members went down.

  Which left the two rushing Hickok. They were both within a stride of the gunman, who had not moved a muscle, when his hands became a literal blur. Both gang members drew up short, gawking, as each one found himself staring down the barrel of a Colt Python .357.

  “You boys are being a mite inhospitable,” the gunfighter remarked. His voice hardened. “It’s not nice to be inhospitable.”

  Blade stared at Pedro. The gang leader was clutching his knee and groaning, his face contorted in agony.

  “What should we do with these turnips?” Hickok asked. “Turn ’em over to the Narcs?”

  Blade scanned their vicinity. Many people were standing and watching, but none seemed inclined to interfere. There was no sign of any Narcs.

  “No,” he replied. “They might want us to fill out an official report, or take us to their headquarters. Let’s get out of here.”

  Hickok winked at the pair in front of him. “Don’t so much as twitch until we’re out of sight, or I’ll ventilate your noggins. Savvy?”

  Neither man responded or moved a muscle.

  The Warriors slowly backed off.

  “They didn’t go for their hardware,” Hickok remarked.

  “They probably didn’t want to get the Narcs after them,” Blade deduced. “Carrying firearms may be legal, but I doubt that the Narcs allow random gunplay.”

  Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “What now?”

  For an answer, Blade turned and jogged in the direction of a nearby avenue.

  “I’ve been thinkin’,” Hickok commented as he kept pace with Blade.

  “Uh-oh,” Rikki said.

  Hickok ignored the martial artist. “I’m serious. Let’s suppose we find these Masters. Let’s suppose we terminate them.”

  “If they’re a threat to the Family, they’ll be terminated,” Blade guaranteed. He spotted a row of buses parked near a monument and angled toward it.

  “Will killin’ the Masters stop the drugs?” Hickok queried.

  Blade glanced at his friend. “Stop the drugs?”

  “Yeah. Do you think blowin’ the Masters away will put an end to the drug use?”

  “I doubt it,” Blade said. “Someone, or some group, will take over the operation.”

  Hickok frowned. “That’s what I figured. Pity.”

  “This drug business has you upset, doesn’t it?” Rikki interjected.

  “Yep,” Hickok acknowledged. “I keep thinkin’ of what drugs could do to Ringo.”

  “Your son is safe,” Rikki assured him. “The Home is drug free.”

  “Only because we keep it that way,” Hickok mentioned. “The Elders teach us to enjoy life naturally, to value our healt
h. As parents, we’re expected to set an example for our young’uns. We have to show ’em that pollutin’ their bodies is the worst thing they could possibly do.”

  Rikki nodded. “Any type of addiction hampers our spiritual communion. Chemical poisons prevent us from enjoying a fuller contact with the Spirit.”

  “We know that,” Hickok said. “And we try to pass on our values to our young’uns. But what about that boy we saw earlier? The one who asked Blade for some money?” He paused. “That kid is learnin’ to use drugs from his own parents. He’ll be hooked before he’s ten. What kind of life is that?”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” Blade said.

  “I know,” Hickok reluctantly agreed. “I was just thinkin’, is all.”

  Blade studied the gunman for a moment. Hickok was genuinely perturbed, and rarely did the Family’s preeminent gunfighter become disturbed over anything. “You don’t need to worry about Ringo,” he assured him.

  “I pray I don’t,” Hickok said.

  Blade slowed to a casual walk, heading for the buses.

  He stared at the monument, a curved wall with the words THE TORCH OF FRIENDSHIP near the top. In front of the wall was a solitary pillar. A man was playing a guitar a few yards from the pillar, a metal cup at his feet. Five people were listening to him, and one of them deposited several coins in the cup.

  Blade halted.

  The guitarist finished his song and the five listeners dispersed, two of them adding coins to the cup.

  “What’s up, pard?” Hickok asked.

  “We need money,” Blade noted.

  Hickok looked at the musician. “Got you.” He marched toward the guitarist ten feet away.

  “Wait—” Blade began, but the gunman kept going.

  Hickok stepped up to the musician with his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Howdy.”

  The guitarist, in the act of tuning his instrument by ear, glanced up.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

  “Just dandy,” Hickok said.

  “Do you have a request?” the guitarist inquired.

  “Do you use drugs?”

  The man’s green eyes narrowed and he ran his right hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. “Say what?”

  “Do you use drugs?”

  “What kind of question is that?”