Pavement

by Andrew Davie

  He returned to the car. He could hear the guy in the trunk shifting around. Must be on some sort of amphetamine or something. Gropper put the car in gear and pulled out.

  Larry’s stomach felt like it was on fire.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been in the trunk. He started flailing when he came to, but realized he needed to keep his strength. The guy was probably the girl’s pimp out for some revenge. The car finally came to a stop. Larry heard the guy get out of the car, and the trunk opened. A beat. Then the guy spoke.

  “You’re going to get a series of instructions, one at a time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Larry’s voice croaked out from between cracked and dried lips.

  He felt pressure on his ankles, and the duct tape gave way.

  “Climb out.”

  Larry hesitated for a moment, then felt for the edge with his leg. He sat back on his butt and swung both legs out. He angled to the left and stood up. Early morning sounds drifted through the silence.

  “Forget about this place. Forget about these girls.”

  “I know, I will. I promise.”

  Larry was desperate. The man had kept the hood on him, which could only mean something truly awful. But the guy contradicted that thought with his warning. It was about the girls. Sure, he could stay away. There were plenty of them he could visit.

  “Whatever you want,” Larry added.

  Silence.

  “What?” Larry asked. He had trouble keeping his voice level.

  “They thought you should have a reminder.”

  Gropper saw the man shake. He hit the guy twice in the chest with the Maglite, breaking both of his collarbones. The guy grunted and buckled a few times, then Gropper pushed him to the ground. He took the Maglite to the guy’s hip bones. He wasn’t sure he’d broken them, but there was a hell of a crunch upon impact. The guy was hyperventilating. The hood was inflating and deflating rapidly. Gropper used the razor on his window punch to cut the rest of the duct tape around the guy’s wrists. He rolled the guy on his stomach, removed the hood, got in the car, and drove away.

  They were in the parking lot of a hospital. At some point, someone would find the trucker. Either that, or he’d drag himself to the emergency room. Gropper didn’t care what happened.

  His message had been received, loud and clear.

  Gropper pulled into his spot. The sun had just crept out, and rays covered the quiet neighborhood. He got out and surveyed the block. John wasn’t there, but he never worried about this time of day. Gropper crossed the street, got to his door, undid the police lock, and stepped inside.

  He was still jazzed with adrenaline, so he opened the inner door to head to the kitchen. Ms. Bradley kept a fifth of Evan Williams in the pantry. Gropper poured himself half a glass with ice. It was quiet. A stillness always on the verge of being shattered. Gropper heard a creaking noise that kept repeating. He walked toward the front door and found it open, but the screen door closed. Peering out the threshold, he found Ms. Bradley sitting in her rocking chair on the front porch.

  Slowly, she rocked back and forth, a peaceful look upon her face.

  Gropper opened the screen door, and she looked toward him. She smiled, and he moved to join her on a neighboring chair. They sat together in silence while Gropper sipped his drink.

  “I do love to see the sunrise,” Ms. Bradley said.

  She was cocooned in a blanket and spoke with the eloquence of a woman with a proper education. She glanced over at Gropper, her eyes glazed from sleep and whichever combination of prescription drugs she’d been taking. Gropper wondered how many sunrises she would have in the future. She’d buried her husband years ago, but unlike many who can’t cope with the loss of a spouse, she stayed active and part of the community. Now age had finally caught up.

  She shut her eyes.

  They sat together for a little while longer, until the humidity set in and sweat beaded on her forehead. She started to rise from her chair with difficulty. Gropper was already up and standing next to her.

  “Let me help you,” he said.

  He could sense that in years gone by, she would have turned down the courtesy, but now, in her condition, she welcomed the help. Gropper slid his arm under the bend of her knees and the other around her back. He lifted her as if she was nothing.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  Gropper turned and walked to the screen door and opened it with his heel. He carried her up the stairs and placed her back in her bed. He returned downstairs, poured her a glass of milk, and left it on her end table.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Gropper nodded and returned to the porch. He killed his drink, went back inside, and secured the front door. He got into his own bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to decipher if there were any patterns in the chipping paint.

  Maurice sat across from McGill and wondered if the man ever left the diner. Did they charge him rent? Did they give him everything on the house in exchange for his services? Did McGill actually own the joint? More importantly, how the hell had he not had a heart attack?

  He watched McGill shovel in a fistful of fries with gravy, and his own stomach turned.

  Maurice had looked over the laminated menu, but he didn’t have an appetite. McGill finished his food, wiped his hands on his napkin, and signaled the waiter for more coffee.

  “So,” McGill said, “problem solved.”

  Maurice felt the weight lift off his shoulders.

  “Thank God.”

  “This guy won’t be bothering anyone for a while. Shit, this guy’s not going to be doing much of anything for a while.” McGill laughed and dipped some more fries in a pool of ketchup and then mayonnaise.

  Maurice just nodded. He didn’t press McGill for the details. He sat back and opened the menu. Stacy’s wounds were mostly superficial, and she would recover quickly. If McGill’s guy hadn’t gotten there, the trucker might have killed her.

  Stacy called him after she’d been assaulted, and Maurice met her at the hospital. He pulled up, and she was already waiting for him outside. She had a butterfly bandage on her eyebrow, and one eye was closed from the swelling. Purple and yellow blotches decorated her cheek.

  “Are you okay?” he asked when she slid into the passenger seat.

  “I’m fine. Can we go?”

  Maurice stared at her for a moment, then put the car in gear. They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride home. Maurice started to say something a few times, but when he looked at her, he could tell she didn’t want to hear anything.

  The car came to a stop outside of their apartment, and she finally spoke.

  “This is what happens, okay? If you want me to release you of any guilt or blame, consider it done.”

  Maurice remained silent.

  When they went inside, he spent some time looking through his finances. He told her that as soon as he’d made enough money to cover his outstanding debts, he would dissolve their partnership.

  She had agreed.

  Now he sat in the booth more relieved than anything else. They would be out of business for a little while until the girls healed up, but soon enough, though, they would be operational, and he could wash his hands of this entire thing.

  His appetite returned.

  He ordered pancakes and a side of bacon.

  McGill watched Maurice leave. His schedule was clear for the rest of the day, but he wouldn’t leave the diner for another few hours. Business always had a way of finding him, and he made it easy to be found. McGill never liked to carry a phone on him. He was still old school. He used a beeper and the pay phone in back near the toilets.

  At one point, the owner had planned to get rid of it and put in a gumball machine or something, but McGill persuaded him to keep it. For his favorite customer, the owner acquiesced. The staff had been instructed to find McGill if that phone rang. No one ever questioned the owner about the man who rarely left the back
booth.

  That morning, McGill’s pager had buzzed. The coded message from Gropper: Everything went off without a hitch. McGill could always count on Gropper to deliver. He was McGill’s best asset. Once, as a test, he put a few guys on Gropper to see what they’d come up with. All three of them were made within the first hour.

  McGill finished his coffee and began on the pecan pie.

  Another day, another dollar.

  Gropper was sitting in the living room listening to “Blue in Green.” He’d been able to escape to the far reaches of solace when a buzzing sound broke him from his trance. He couldn’t place it at first, but felt the familiar vibration of the pager.

  Gropper lifted the needle off the record.

  He drove to a strip mall nearby, went to the bank of pay phones, and dialed McGill. The man picked up on the first ring—not a good sign. In all the time they had done business together, even if things were important, McGill always had to be summoned from his booth.

  “Yeah,” Gropper said.

  “We have a problem,” McGill said. “See you soon.”

  McGill hung up.

  Gropper was in the booth within fifteen minutes. McGill hadn’t eaten anything.

  “The trucker you laid out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is there any way he can ID you or your car?”

  “Not possible.”

  “I didn’t think so.” McGill paused. “The guy’s on the mend right now at MUSC, but the cops will be headed there soon.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’ll hit the news tonight. I got it from one of my guys. They seized a hundred and fifty kilos of uncut cocaine from the trunk of one of the cars your guy was hauling.”

  McGill relayed the rest of what he knew.

  The truck had stayed there for an entire day. When no one claimed it the day after that, the owner of the burger jointed had it towed. The truck went to the police impound and was inspected. They found a legitimate bill of lading for the car, as well as registration for the company. The trunk of the car was the last thing they opened.

  It was the biggest single narcotics seizure in the last ten years. Eventually, it would become lore, the punchline of jokes. There was mass speculation about the true owners.

  “It’ll make the national in an hour.”

  Gropper nodded.

  The news report would be the least of their problems. The cops would find the trucker pretty quickly, but again, it would be a dead end. They would sniff around for a little while, but the bust would satisfy any pressure the department may have been facing. They would be happy enough to let it go.

  The true owners of the cocaine, however, would not.

  “What’s the play?” McGill took a huge bite of a burger with bacon, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and avocado.

  Gropper thought about it. If this thing came down, it might not ever get to them. He’d taken out the trucker clean. No one knew who he was. But McGill had more dealings in play.

  “How far are you willing to go?” Gropper said.

  He watched McGill decide, take another bite of his burger, slowly chew, and then swallow.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

  “All right. The trucker.”

  Hector sat in a terry cloth robe now in a chair on the balcony of his high-rise apartment overlooking Miami Beach. The sun was still an hour or two from setting, painting the beach in alternating shades of orange and purple. He took a sip of his wine. The bottle cost more than most people made in six months.

  He didn’t immediately worry about his safety. He had made himself too important to the organization. Be value added, he had learned. No matter what, make people think you’re worth more with them than against.

  Hector was a logistics man.

  Others before him built the empire. Miami had been a hotbed of activity for drugs. A major importing hub, first marijuana, then cocaine. More than half of the infrastructure, roads, buildings, all built from the revenue of the drug trade. However, the desire to abuse drugs never went away.

  Soon, the empire was resurrected, albeit with different leaders, and business went on as usual.

  Hector got up and walked over to the balcony railing. The phone call had ruined what he hoped would be a great day. Now, of course, it had been soured, and he was tasked with repairing the situation.

  Hector closed his eyes and smelled the sea air.

  He grew up in Miami, went to school and college there. He studied accounting. He approached some connected men, through a college contact, and was brought in to handle some of the books. One of his innovative ideas: Pack the shipment in the trunk of a car, then have the car towed. The driver wouldn’t know anything about it, and if he got pulled over or busted, he would have plausible deniability.

  He had explained the risks, of course, as nothing was foolproof.

  The key was to limit their exposure as well as diversify their method of transportation. They would have an air-drop coming up from Colombia, mule things in by commercial flight and boat, with multiple cars towed coming from up north. No one would suspect anything from up north. Hector had listened to his predecessors mention these tactics, and he didn’t forget.

  He’d receive the car, and the product, and safe house them until one of the distributors showed up. It had been a good system.

  Hector had been called yesterday by the foreman at the garage. One of the deliveries was still outstanding. This in and of itself was nothing to be worried about. Many factors could delay the truck’s arrival. Hector learned over the years to keep his reactions measured and his anxiety under control. It all fell under his precept of being value added. Someone who acted out, couldn’t maintain his composure, this was someone who would not last long in a business where death was the answer to problems without hesitation.

  The most recent phone call, though—that was troublesome.

  The police in South Carolina had their product. Again, this did not worry Hector’s superiors. While they were upset at their misfortune, they understood this was the price of doing business. Dealers would lose counts, money would be siphoned, drugs would be consumed by people working for them. These were all agreed-upon aspects of the game. It would be suspect if these things didn’t happen. However, what concerned Hector’s bosses was whether this was the work of their enemies, or even worse, an inside job.

  The instructions had been brief but thorough.

  Since the seizure of their drugs had happened under Hector’s watch, he had to make it right. He needed to investigate and report back to them.

  He opened the sliding door and walked back into the air-conditioned living room. It was almost entirely see-through glass, giving a panoramic view of downtown Miami. He sat down at the table.

  Luz was on the couch in a bikini, watching a reality television program about fixing old houses.

  “Are you finally ready?” she asked.

  She had been pestering him to go to the beach for the last forty minutes. He told her he needed to clear his mind for a little.

  “That’s what the beach is for,” she told him.

  He smiled.

  “I just need to think some things through, alone.”

  She turned over on the couch allowing him to see her full figure.

  “Okay, half an hour,” he said.

  “Fine.” She fell back onto the couch and began channel surfing.

  He turned and looked at her. She lay on her side. She easily could have been a swimsuit model for any of the catalogs. He had picked her up a few weeks ago on South Beach, spotted her with a few friends. He told the man with the earpiece to round them all up and part the velvet ropes. That’s all it took. She never asked what he did for a living, as long as she had the trappings of luxury.

  “A few more minutes, I promise.” He tried to sound sincere.

  He turned on his computer and heard the shifting on the couch, then the soft footfalls as she
approached him. Luz put her hands on his shoulders and began massaging them.

  “That’s nice,” he said.

  She slid her hands across his chest and down to his stomach.

  “Or, we could stay here for a while longer.”

  The best bistec de palomilla in Miami wasn’t found in a five-star restaurant. It was in a small, family-owned place in Little Havana. Ermano had discovered it by accident. He tore into the meat as an animal would after starving for a few days. He leaned back in his chair to take a breath and listened half-heartedly to the two men at a nearby table talk about politics. They were discussing everything from gun control to censorship.

  He laughed.

  They knew nothing of how things really worked. It was impossible to know unless you had been chewed up and spit out by the machine.

  Ermano grew up in Cuba. He’d gotten into trouble as soon as he could walk. He was already imprisoned by the time he was sixteen. Prison sharpened him like a knife. After his first year on the inside, he was already carrying out hits. People feared him, and he acquired the nickname La Espada, The Blade, since his weapon of choice was a machete. Eventually, he got a job in the prison infirmary and learned how to be a more effective and subtle killer. Ermano left a trail of bodies during his tenure in prison. Then, in 1980, Castro opened the prisons and sent most of the hardened criminals to the United States during the Mariel Harbor boatlift.

  It was easy for him to find work in the US.

  People needed labor. Syndicates needed assassins. Though his best years were behind him, it also gave him the perfect cover. No one suspected that a man of advanced age would be the one to take his life. Ermano kept himself in good shape. He could do five hundred push-ups without stopping, and he could crush an apple with his bare hand. During the day, he performed landscaping duties and kept a low profile.

  He disposed of people when needed. Thoughts of retirement crossed his mind from time to time, spending more time with his grandchildren. But he always pushed them aside. Taking the life of another, the feeling of being judge, jury, executioner—he couldn’t pass it up.