AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (6 page)

Alicia

Miami Beach, Florida

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

12:25 PM

T
HE CROYDON
TAVERN
is an agreeable casual dining kind of place, with a
well-appointed indoor area. Set inside a restored seven-story hotel, it
promises — and delivers — a pleasant experience. Black and white
tiles cover the floor, each tile carrying a different geometric design for a
unique visual effect. These tiles continue to a shaded outdoor dining area,
bistro-style, with a satisfactory view of Collins Avenue.
 
Alicia always liked to come here. It
wasn't ultra-fancy, and she certainly could afford to dine at far more
expensive eateries, but the food here was good, the service was excellent, and
they gave her the "A" treatment. What was not to like?

She arrived at twenty-five after twelve, time
enough to select the table. She didn't want to leave that to Desi, who would
probably choose to sit indoors. There was this one outdoor table she liked, and
whenever they saw her coming, they set it up for her right away. She held up
two fingers, and busboys hustled to arrange the table for
Doña Alicia
and her guest.

Desi came walking up right at twelve-thirty.
Alicia caught his attention with a wave and he approached the table. Desi
looked good, but of course, he wasn't good-looking. He never was, unlike
Alicia, who had been charming people with her looks all her life, all the way
from girlhood. Desi had kept his shape, though. Still built like a boxer, big
chest, heavy biceps, solid thighs, a tree stump of a guy. Someone you wanted to
have on your side in a brawl. Decked pretty good today, too, sporting Calvin
Kleins and what looked like a designer shirt, or at least a decent knockoff.
Nice loafers.
Desi cleans up nicely,
she
thought. Then she thought,
I shouldn't
say that, not even to myself. We go back too far and he's really a great guy. El
es como mi hermano.

A hug, a few pleasantries, and they sat down with
beaming smiles. Alicia had taken the liberty to order a bottle of wine, which
was produced immediately. Following the opening and pouring ritual, they
clicked their glasses together and sipped at the wine. Collins Avenue hummed
with traffic and a nice ocean breeze managed its way around the buildings to
wash over the two of them.

Alicia could tell Desi was uncomfortable with the
wine, being more of a beer drinker to the best of her recollection. She
patiently waited for him while he fumbled with the glass and took too big of a
gulp. Finally, she said, "Desi, my brother, I gotta tell you, you look
great."

"You too, Alicia. It's been so long since
I've seen you. Like a couple of years now. Maybe a little longer?"

"I know, I know. It's my fault. I haven't
called you as often as I should have. We're too close not to see each other
more often. Will you forgive me?"

"Aw, no forgiving necessary,
hermana
," Desi said. "I know
you're very busy. It's okay."

"Well, still, I feel … you know,
guilty."

Desi waved it off. "Forget it, Alicia."
The waitress appeared. "Hey, what's good here?" He looked the menu
over.

"Everything," she said. She turned her
winning ways on the waitress. "Sweetheart, could you give us a couple of
minutes, please?"

The waitress said of course she could, smiling
back
 
at Alicia and moving to
another table.

Alicia said, "Hey, you know I've got a
daughter now?"

A wide grin spread across Desi's face. "Wow,
a daughter! That's dope! What's her name?"

"Francesca. She just turned two last month.
Es la sonrisa de mi corazón.
" Now
Alicia smiled the big smile of the proud mama.

Desi said, "Francesca.
¡Qué nombre más bonito!
"

"Aahh, you should see her, Desi. She looks
just like her father. Got the same big eyes and square chin. She's … she's just
everything to me, you know?"

"Before you know it," Desi said with a
chuckle, "she's gonna come up to you one evening and say, 'Mama, there's a
boy outside'."

"Ha!" Alicia said. "And that's
where that little prick's gonna stay!"

Desi laughed. "Oh, I bet she'll be a real
heartbreaker. Just like her mother."

The waitress soon returned. They ordered and
finally settled down into each other's presence. Alicia caught the look in
Desi's eyes wondering what this lunch was all about. She didn't keep him
waiting.

"You know, Desi," she said, "I
think you should know this." She paused as Desi picked up his wineglass
and looked across the table at her. She stared back at him under heavy lids and
said, "Bebop is back in town."

That caught Desi mid-sip of his wine. He froze
with the glass to his mouth, the wine sloshing up against closed lips. His
teeth started to clench and Alicia noticed he very nearly bit off the rim of
the glass.

He set the wine down very slowly.
"When?"

Alicia modulated her voice downward. "I just
found out last week, but word is he's been back about two months now. He was
gone for a long time. Did a ten-year bit up at Starke. Attempted murder. Just
got out."

"I never could find that motherfucker,"
Desi said through gritted teeth.

"I know, Desi. I know how hard you looked for
him, for any fucking trace of him. When I heard he was back, I looked into it.
I found out that after he — uh, right after your Dad's passing, he moved
up to Fort Lauderdale. Hardly ever came back down here. Stayed a few years up
there and then, you know, got busted and went away."

"But he's out now?"

"And back in Miami."

Desi's breathing picked up steam. "Where is
he?"

Alicia put a hand on Desi's forearm. "Let me
do it,
carnal
."

"L-let you … let you …"

"
Sí. Tú
me has conocido mucho tiempo.
You know I will do it right. And you will
never be suspected."

"No," Desi said. "I can't … I … I
have to do it myself."

"Don't. Don't. I'm begging you. Let me do it.
I have the means, I know the right guys, it will be done any way you say. I
promise you. We will make that fucker pay in blood for what he took from you so
long ago."

Desi squirmed. The waitress brought the food.

"I — I —"

Alicia said, "He's a tough guy, Desi. A very
tough guy. He's not easy to get to, not easy to take him clean."

"I don't give a fuck! I have to do it. You
must understand,
hermana
."

"
Sí,
sí. Te entiendo.
But I'm telling you, man, if you try, you might fail. Or
he might get you first. I don't want to see that, see you go down. Or, shit,
you might even get caught! But if
I
arrange it, he's one dead nigger. After he goes through a lot of pain, of
course."

"I don't care about any of that," Desi
said. "If I fail, if he gets me, that's the way it goes. But I have to do
this myself. Now, where is he?"

 
She
sighed, long and loud. "He's back in the coke business. Just got himself
set up. I heard this from one of my clients. Bebop's buying from him so he can
sell to his retail customers."

"When is his next buy?"

Alicia picked at her salad, not sure if she wanted
to give up that detail. She knew Desi would be facing long odds if he tried to
take Bebop out during the deal.

She said, "Do you remember from years ago
when we did that deal with him? He had two guys backing him up. He might have
more now. I'm telling you, you can't go in there alone. You won't stand a
chance."

"I'm not going to take him during the deal.
Just tell me when and where it's going to be. Let me worry about the
rest."

"I really don't want to do this," Alicia
sighed. She sipped her wine again, picked some more at her salad, anything to
avoid opening the door to the location of Bebop's coke deal, a door Desi would
walk through and maybe never return. Then she said, "State Road 7 in North
Miami. Corner of Northwest 127th Street. There's this big lumber yard. Turn on
127th and go behind the lumber yard. That's where my clients are meeting
him."

"When?"

"Friday night. Eleven PM. But listen, don't
go back there and start shooting up the place. I'm not telling those boys
anything about this and I don't want them getting hurt, understand?"

"I understand," Desi said. "One
more thing. What kind of car will your guys be driving?"

"Land Rover. Dark blue."

He took a final sip of wine and got up from the
table. "Thanks for the lunch.
Y por
la información
,
hermana
.
Lo agradezco mucho.
"

Alicia

Miami, Florida

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

2:20 PM

T
HE BENTLEY
TURNED OFF
the MacArthur Causeway onto Bridge Road. There was a
fender-bender at the entry ramp to the Causeway and traffic was backed up on
both sides. It took forever to get here.
Fucking
rubberneckers will slow down for anything
, Alicia thought.
I swear those idiots don't have any fucking idea
how to move along in traffic.
She lounged in the sumptuous back seat,
exhaling and trying to forget about bad Miami drivers.

Bridge Road was clear all the way to the Star
Island gate. Berto waved at the guard, who smiled back, and the gate arm
lifted. A minute later, Berto backed the great, gleaming automobile expertly
into Alicia's driveway.

The island was meticulously landscaped and
imposing, deliberately so, just what you might expect for one of the ritziest
neighborhoods in all of South Florida. A couple of Alicia's Miami clients lived
there. Gloria and Emilio Estefan had a home right down the street. All the
houses were knockouts and Alicia's was no exception. Ten thousand square feet
parked on more than an acre of land facing open water, it always drew gasps
from first-time visitors. Hell, Alicia and Nick gasped when the realtor first
showed it to them three years ago. They were planning on starting a family soon
and they wanted the kids to have a decent place to live, to play, and above
all, to be safe. The property was so spread out, it was the kind of place where
you referred to the land surrounding the house as "the grounds".

Berto guided the Bentley into its spot in the
massive five-car garage. When Alicia opened the door from the garage, she stepped
into the game room and saw Francesca making her way around the room in her
two-year-old waddle-walk. Nick was sitting in a nearby chair, Francesca
flapping her arms up and down in delight at this game she was playing with
Daddy. Nick saw Alicia and got up. He immediately gathered her into his open
arms.

A couple of long kisses and big hugs, then he
said, "How was Tampa?"

Before she could answer, Francesca grabbed her
thigh. "Mommy! You're home!"

She bent down and picked the little girl up.
"Yes I am! And I'm ready to give my little princess lots and lots of hugs
and kisses!" The three of them hugged and kissed and laughed.

Francesca did have her father's eyes, like Alicia
said, and square chin. But she had her mother's outgoing personality, one of
her biggest weapons in winning friends and influencing people. When you met
Alicia López and she turned her charm on you, it didn't matter who you were
— how jaded, how important, how dangerous — you gave in, even if
only a little or if only briefly. You cut her just enough slack to let her get
one up, if just for a few seconds. In Alicia's line of work, a few seconds is
very often all she needs.

"You hungry?" Nick said. They all walked
into the kitchen, Francesca still tugging at her mother's pant leg.

"No. I just had lunch with Desi Ramos. You
remember him? You met him a few years ago, and then a couple of times after
that. We grew up together. I told you all about him."

"Oh yeah," he said. "I think I
remember him." But it was clear to Alicia he did not.

"How about you? Make any headway on your
novel while I was gone?" Alicia opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle
of water. They took seats around the dinette table. Francesca remained
standing, hugging her mother's leg.

"In fact, I did," Nick said. "You
know that little quagmire I was trapped in? You know, I couldn't get my central
character to do what I wanted. I couldn't get him into that undercover meeting
with the drug kingpin. But then an idea came to me and I tried it out and guess
what? It worked. I have now officially broken through my writer's block."

This was typical for Nick. He'd have a fantastic
idea for a novel and jump into it headfirst. The characters all fell into
place, the plot took off, everything was working. Then, invariably, somewhere
around page 120, he would run straight into a concrete wall. A thick concrete
wall. He'd thrash around a little, get disgusted, and talk about putting the
book aside. But eventually, he always found a way out. He would finish the book
and it would go on to be another in his lengthening shelf of crime fiction
bestsellers.

Of course, he had no idea how Alicia really earned
her money. He thought she was involved in the exporting of computers and other
electronic gear. Which, in a manner of speaking, she was. Just not the way he
thought.

He took her hand and held it on the tabletop. He
said, "So how'd it go in Tampa?"

"Well, it's Tampa. What can I say? Where the
fun never starts." They had a good chuckle, then she said,
"Seriously, though. For an investment banking firm, the company's not bad.
They've been around a long time, they've got knowledgeable people working
there, and the guy who would be specifically assigned to our account is pretty
bright, seems to be on top of things."

"Why do I feel you're not thrilled?"

"Well," she said, as if she were about
to reveal nuclear secrets, "their approach is too conservative, too
trapped in a single philosophy. They were talking about heavily entering the
bond market, which would mean not much growth for our money, but it would yield
a steady income and less in taxes when we cash out. I'm looking for a little
more growth. I want our money to grow, to accumulate, you know? To be able to
take care of Francesca."

"So …"

She took a long, cold pull at her water. "So
I think we look for someone else. I only went to Tampa because I heard about
these guys over there and how they do a great job. But there are a lot of the
right people here in Miami. I know a few of them. We should find someone here.
Someone who can meet our objectives better."

Of course, this was all bullshit. Alicia spent
yesterday and last night not in Tampa, but in her downtown Miami condo that
Nick didn't know anything about, with the dazzling Brazilian hooker that he
also didn't know anything about, thank God.

She made these "overnight business
trips" periodically, to satisfy her bisexual urges, and they were always
supposedly to nearby cities. That was her perennial excuse for not taking their
jet, which would "cost way too much" for such a short trip. Instead,
she would tell him she was going by car. This attention to financial detail
always pleased Nick, whose own skill in handling money was questionable. That
was one reason he married her, her ability to organize money and make it grow.

His own upbringing was very different from hers.
He hailed from a prominent family in West Palm Beach who were very disappointed
he became a writer after college instead of going for his MBA. Writing,
however, was his true calling and it lit fires within him, had always done so. Alicia
knew he couldn't betray himself, so he tackled writing with every ounce of his
energy. And he made a good accounting of himself, racking up a chain of
bestsellers and becoming an acclaimed, award-winning crime fiction author.

They met in college, Alicia having secured a
scholarship to the University of Miami. This was no small feat for a former
drug dealer coming out of East Hialeah. But she liked learning, and as middle
school segued into high school, she gradually drifted away from street dealing
and the hopeless life it represented. She knew most of her girlhood friends
would likely meet death at a relatively young age by one of only three ways:
drug overdose, dying in prison, or from a bullet with their name on it. There
was another way, a way out, and she knew education was the path.

Due to her strong family ethics and discipline,
she learned the value of a dollar and, growing up in poverty, it was hammered
home that dollars were not to be wasted or thrown around like garbage. Nick
shared this feeling, only she had proven herself far more adept at protecting
their fortune. Even though he was a consistent best-selling author, her income
exceeded his many times over.

 
Because she insisted on taking the car to
"Tampa" and other nearby cities for overnight "business
trips", transport would be available for her to area restaurants and
usually back to her downtown condo on the forty-third floor. Any local daytime
dalliances could be covered without elaborate explanation. She was just
"working". As long as she got home at a decent hour.

But even though her story was bullshit, and even
though she was ready with a far more detailed version had Nick pressed her to
go deeper — she always had people ready in those other cities to
corroborate her story — she truly was looking for a legitimate place to
put their money so it might grow and provide a nice annuity for Francesca, and
any other children they might have in the future. She had a battery of accounts
in offshore banks that held a lot of her money, but her economic nerve center
was Computer Superstore of the Americas.

Located in Hialeah, CSA served as her headquarters
from where she coordinated all her activities. Right now, she was placing her
laundering commissions in Panamanian and Caribbean banks, but she wanted to
start a trust for Francesca. That required a very visible, very legal financial
structure, so that meant some of that clean money would have to be diverted
from shell corporations into legitimate investments and not merely into foreign
bank accounts, where it would gather dust, remaining essentially out of reach.

This was not an unusual play for someone in
Alicia's position. Aboveboard investments, the formation of trusts, estate
planning — these were sometimes part of the playbook of a major money
launderer. But she was a different kind of animal. Possessed of a quick mind
and keen intuition, she was especially good at economics, so she'd given this a
lot of thought. This would be her legacy.

Legacy. Legacy.

She'd seen how legacy mattered very little in the
yang to her yin, the Miami drug trade. Hardly ever considered, truth be told.
She thought about it now, about how it's probably the same no matter where
you're doing that kind of business. Miami, Mexico, Colombia, wherever. There
was a series of priorities you go through on your way to the top of the drug
world. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized these
priorities were chiseled in granite.

For your average drug dealer, your first years in
the business were all about the drugs themselves, acquiring them at the right
price, knowing how to process them, building a clientele and ultimately, an
organization. This took time, because you often had to develop new customers
and Alicia knew from her clients' tribulations early in their careers how
all-consuming that could be.

When the drugs were firmly in place and the
organization was humming, it then became all about piling up cash in obscene
amounts. Counting it, banding it, protecting it, stashing it, laundering it,
figuring out what to do with it, distributing an enormous percentage of it to
your team, and another gigantic chunk to build a firewall of protection in the
corrupt, dual worlds of law enforcement and politics.

Then, once you had the cash, and it was
appropriately handled, it became all about what you could buy with the cash:
the mansion, the big cars, the jewelry, the Gulfstream, all the rest of it.
This stuff was not only nice to have, it sent a message. An unmistakable
message that you were to be taken very seriously. At that point, it seemed you
had everything you could possibly want or need. But once you were properly
tricked out, the cash and the goodies faded into the background, while power
took center stage.

The more money you made, the harder you found it
to resist the alluring siren song of power. To someone high up in the corporate
flow chart of the cocaine business, power was far more intoxicating than money.
Anybody could make money. Any dickhead could go out and start selling coke,
Alicia knew, and with a little get up and go, he could make a pretty good
living out of it, maybe even a spectacular living. But the power … ah, there's
the big leap.

 
Having
money all by itself doesn't give you power, regardless of what Tony Montana
said.

You have to use the money in the right way, know
how to turn it loose and in what quantities, exactly who to give it to.

You've got to speak the right words in juuuuust
the perfect, reassuring tone of voice to the recipient, bringing him or her
into the fold.

You have to be able to instill fear and respect in
people, all without trying, all without showing guns or talking tough.

It's like a
God-given talent
, Alicia thought.
Like
playing a musical instrument or being able to paint at a world-class level or
holding a huge crowd in the palm of your hand while you speak
.

But with the power comes that first hazy hint that
someone is out there who intends to take all this away from you. You're so
visible, so alone up there on the mountaintop, you're a big fucking target. A
difficult target maybe, with the sun at your back, but the bullseye is on your
chest.

And this is where the subtle shift is made. Where
it is no longer about the power, but all about rampant paranoia and revenge.
For most of the top dogs, it starts out small. One of your guys compliments you
on your new car, or tells you what a beautiful-looking watch you're wearing and
how great it looks on you. Yeah, right. What he's really saying is how much he
wants it. And wants everything else you have while he's at it. Maybe he's looking
at you funny … that might be a sign! Then, maybe another one of your guys gets
busted on some bullshit beef. You take care of it all right, but you can't help
thinking he was set up by someone in your organization, someone who was hoping
the cops would get your guy to start a snitch chain. And you know where that
would end.