Black Collar Beginnings: Cuba (Black Collar Syndicate) (2 page)

He holsters his gun, and peels the t-shirt over his head as he follows Miguel. The splashes of blood make for a dramatic contrast to the otherwise purity and simplicity of the white. If he had had any inkling about today's test, God knows he would have worn any other color. He blinks, glances at his hands. Yes, of course, they too are bloody. Such a close range, was that part of the test? Is he supposed to know the feel of the blood from someone he'll never know, blood he spilled? It's better to believe that he'll learn something from this rather than consider that he feels no remorse. Better that death come to the commoners. No, he's just thankful for those other guys, because he's not the one who has to clean up the mess.

Miguel motions to a bank of dirty sinks, then slips out of his shirt, as well. The pipes are antiquated, but they chug to life when Seth turns them, and the two spend the next several minutes silently scrubbing blood from their skin.

Seth catches his reflection in the splintered mirror before him, sees the darkening red against his perfect tan. For a moment's breath, he pauses. This is an image he will never forget, the face of a ghost, with a hand of death. The memory of the emptiness in his gut might haunt him tomorrow, forever, and yet maybe not. Perhaps he'll care less and less each day. He lets his hands fill with water, and buries his face in it.

This is the nature of our way.  You know that, but it's always bothered you.
His father's dying words.
It must always bother you, Seth.

“Hey.” Miguel's voice cuts into Seth's stormy thoughts, and the Morgan wipes the water from his eyes to make contact. His friend and boss' features have softened considerably. “You ok?”

A question lingers on the tip of Seth's tongue; how old was Miguel when he had to do what Seth just did? He bites it back, and cocks his devilish smirk. “Yeah, man, I'm good. Swear. I do wish I had worn different pants. These are my favorite jeans.”

Miguel's eyebrows lift. Then he shakes his head and chuckles. He looks back to his own reflection in the mostly in tact mirror above his sink, and his smile fades as he wipes at some blood on his cheek with his shirt. He says, “I doubt we'll be here very long.”

“Another big job?” Seth asks. He notices the somber change to Miguel's tone.

“I have a feeling
Papa
wants to see you.”

Papa, one of several names they use for the boss. Seth stills, and his eyes snap to Miguel's reflection. Seth says, “Why do you think that?”

“Because I think you have finally made your way into his good graces.”

Seth frowns. What the fuck does that mean? He can't bring himself to ask. Maybe to ask would be to undo those graces, if there are any of those left in his hot and lonely world. He looks back at the broken image of himself. His face is clean now. “What do we do in the meantime?”

“You know the boss,” says Miguel, “there's a private party organized for us tonight.”

“He is . . . kind in that way.”

Miguel laughs again, an easy sound like the sea at calm. “He does it to keep us off the radar while we're here. He is a brilliant man.”

Seth's lips hook at one corner. He says, “I've never met him. I figured at this point, the only reason I would meet him is if he wants to kill me.”

“He still might,” Miguel says with a shrug. He waits long enough to watch Seth's expression drop, then laughs.

“
Gilipollas
,” Seth mutters. The water feels good as it runs down his slender chest, but it's drying too fast. Miguel laughs harder.

“Relax, little brother, our part is played in this. Tonight we get rewarded.”

Little brother, a nickname Miguel had picked up for Seth, not as an indication of age, but of status. There's a snag in Seth's chest when he thinks of his real brother, so far away, neck-deep in syndicate responsibility. Of everyone, even the woman he loves, he misses his brother the most. He never imagined it would hurt so much to be cut off from his best friend. He never admitted then that his brother is his best friend.

Just as quickly, he buries that issue. Now is not the time. And he smiles when he says, “Yeah, you're right.”

Straits of Florida, August 4, 2012

The plans have changed for the second time in one day. Seth and Miguel, and most of the other guys, had slept the majority of the day in an air conditioned safe house, and about an hour before dusk, Miguel had received the call that they were to depart again when the sun set. They were not to return to base, however, they are going to Havana's villa.

Now, their yacht is somewhere between the half way point, super quiet engines churning them closer to the god of this world. The crowd – the guys and the women the boss sent - has chosen to convene inside, on the lower deck, where they can make a little more noise. Even at play, they know that loud drunks and open water are a sure combination for trouble.

Seth is on the upper deck, sprawled out on a chaise lounge with a bottle of white wine in one hand, wearing only a pair of shorts. The shades are drawn on all the windows, and outside lights are off. He's not sure how long he's been here, letting the boat rock him by the rhythm of the sea, watching the endless map of stars blinking at him from the beyond. Maybe his dad is there, with his mother who died when he was so young.
Childish thoughts from a heartless thug.
The moon is huge, not quite full. The wine is almost gone.

Usually, if there's a party, Seth can be found directly at its center, but not tonight. He has been quiet, reserved, and battling the jitters that rise at random whenever his thoughts jump back to Miguel's words; that Havana would want to meet him. Good graces? If the kingpin doesn't want to kill him, then doesn't it have to be the opposite. Has he finally ascended the ranks to true ally? That possibility fires just as many panic triggers as death in Seth's synapses. When Uncle Mikie sent him on this mission – it was like a mission then, anyway – he told Seth it was for a few months, a year at most. The days and weeks of his tenure have rolled on and on, past that and with no explanation, and Seth has had so much time to wonder if it is somehow his failure that keeps him here. Sometimes it feels just like a prison, too. Yes, a prison fit only for royalty of his elite stature, with all the drugs, booze, women, exotic food, and stunning locations any prisoner could possibly handle. He scoffs at the sky and turns up the wine bottle. A prison where behind every tropical flower is Mac11, and the consequence of every action is bound by code.

“There you are,
yuma
.”

It's Miguel with his customary “white boy” greeting, carrying a pitcher of margarita in one hand, and a fat spliff in the other. He slides the glass door closed with his toe, then takes the chaise beside Seth without waiting for an invitation. Back home, anyone but his brother would be afraid to invade his space, especially if he were being quiet. Miguel sets the pitcher on a glass table, and says, “There was a gift just for us,” and holds up the joint.

Seth waves the now-empty wine bottle at his boss, and says, “Man, I quit smoking that shit in high school.”

“Oh bullshit,” Miguel answers and sets a flame to end of the spliff. He puffs a couple times, and adds, “Come on, it's laced. I know you're a speeder.”

Seth groans in reply, so Miguel tries another angle. “Don't make me tell the boss you didn't accept his gift. You know that would be very rude.”

“You know, you really are a dick,” Seth says, abandoning the empty bottle on the table in favor of the full pitcher. Even though he knows he's not drinking wine anymore, his brain still revolts when he takes a gulp of the tequila. The first shot of tequila is always a rough one for him, the only liquor that he can't drain like water. He chokes it down without spitting it all over himself, but just barely. Of course Miguel would mix strong.

Miguel laughs, soft like nighttime clouds across the moon's face. He passes the smoke to Seth without a word. Seth narrows his eyes, but takes the joint. In these moments Seth both loves to hate Miguel for flaunting his authority, and hates to value their bonds of friendship. More than anything, it's that Seth still finds himself hard wired to be the one cleverly asserting his status. Seth takes a hit, the smoke acrid as the coke and weed burn together. Blast off. Seth's thoughts scatter, and his body buzzes.

On the next pass, Miguel takes a thoughtful sip from the pitcher, a heavy hit, then says, “We are too much the same.”

“What do you mean?” Seth asks, and he can feel his voice, gruff, as it vibrates from his body, and off to somewhere over the waves.

Miguel frames the moon with his hand, his smile wide in the silver light. He says, “If we were not on the same side, we would be great enemies. There is no middle ground for us, and failure is unacceptable.”

Seth lets the silence ring, lets the words resonate with all the other frequencies in his brain. The short term euphoria grips him by the vocal cords and forces him to feel everything. His anxiety melts into the rest of it, and he hears himself sigh his relief, as if from very far away. Miguel is the perfect example of the inherent spirituality that Seth has found in the Latin soul. They are far more spiritual than the gutted plasticity of the states, far more than the steel and subways of New York. Yet Seth wants more than anything to return to that. Why?

Another pass, another hit. Miguel stretches his long frame back onto the chaise, and adds, “You are more like us than like your Americans. You have honor, and loyalty. Mostly, you know respect, and you've got a lot of soul.”

Still, Seth is quiet. His turn for a hit, it's almost gone. Miguel's gentle tone and rolling accent swirl around in Seth's reaction center, but for the moment, the stimuli are too many, and he can only watch the stars flashing, like they're talking to him, whispering secrets he can almost hear.

“At least, that is the report I gave Havana about you,” says Miguel. Seth is vaguely aware of himself reaching the remnant of the joint back to Miguel, and of Miguel tossing the burning roach into the wind with easy comfort. He says, “For the ocean gods.”

Yes, the ocean gods. Then Seth's train of thought crashes back to a sounder track, and he says, “Wait, you what? You gave a report on me? You talk directly to Havana?”

The Cuban smiles, drinks some more booze. He extracts a slim phone from his shirt pocket and sets it on the table between them. He says, “All of the heads of divisions talk directly to him. To him, or to
Riza.
I must be honest, I have led you to believe I'm relatively small time, but I am a blood relative of the boss. It's been my job to watch your progress.”

Seth's thoughts whirl again with too many directions in which to travel at once. The mention of
Riza
– the Reaper, Havana's second in command who is just as elusive as he is. The name sends thrills through Seth's gut, streaks of familiar fear that if it's not Havana who kills him, it will be the Reaper. The fact that his success has hinged on someone he calls friend all this time floors his confidence. He wonders about every time they've ever talked, has he said anything offensive? The reality that Miguel has spoken praise in the same breath is much slower to sink into Seth's fractured focus, and lastly, the sight of the phone just sitting there, taunting him, is like glass under his fingernails. It would be so easy to pick it up, dial New York, hear a familiar voice – maybe someone saying, “I love you.” Maybe Nicolette.

He winces, realizes he is staring at the phone, and that Miguel is staring at him. Seth mutters, “You knew all along that
Papa
would want to see me. You knew that test was coming.” But he doesn't look away from the phone. He hasn't had his own phone since he stepped off the plane from New York. He hasn't typed an email, talked into a web cam, or looked at social media. He has lived completely immersed in a foreign culture, and language, getting what news he can from television and newspapers. The brat prince stirs, preens, claws at the temptation to pick up the phone. The ever-presence of death haunts his thoughts. If he dies, for any reason, no one who cares about him will ever know. He could just let them know he still thinks of them, that he's not just a ghost, but it would end it all, undo everything he has earned.

“Yes, and I knew you would pass. You will make a fine ally for us.”

Seth settles back against the chaise, ripping his gaze away from Miguel's phone. He looks back to the stars. They have become a tiny bit of serenity to him that he never knew at home. No one can see the stars in Manhattan. His anxiety has run its course for the moment, and weed high lingers to lure his muscles into relaxation. The tequila has also hit his blood stream, and realizes that the familiar rage that usually waits just beneath the surface has also cooled.