Florida Heatwave (8 page)

Golden asked, “How many units total?”

Randy smiled. He had him. He stepped over to the glossy poster showing six stylish condos rising on the edge of the vast Everglades. Palm trees scattered around the pools at the base of each tower and deer feeding near the closest tower. Randy said, “Six towers with twenty eight floors and two penthouses.” He pretended to do some rough calculations in his head and then said, “Five hundred and sixty units with twelve premiums that take an entire floor.”

“What will those go for?”

“Two million apiece to start.”

Golden nodded and then stepped to the bay window to stare out at the Atlantic. Randy gave him some space and remained at the poster display. Dale looked torn about whom to crowd. He stayed at the posters.

Randy winked at his partner. He had to admit he was a little nervous too. This businessman from New York, the center of all smart people according to them, seemed to have taken his bait and he had a lot of room to negotiate. He could throw in a condo since they’d never even be built. He almost chuckled when he thought how he often heard New Yorkers refer to South Florida like it was a foreign country. They called it an “emerging market.” Did they not expect that some of the indigenous people of this emerging market wouldn’t be smart enough to attract capitol on such a far-fetched scheme? One thing Randy knew for sure was that if you offered to make someone rich, or at least richer, greed clouded judgment, experience, and ethics. He’d seen it over and over.

Now Gerald Golden of Manhattan turned and listened to the phones still ringing off the hook. He smiled and said, “Would I be the first investor?”

This was a hard question. Say he was and he might get worried about why no one was risking money yet. Say he wasn’t and he might not like being behind the curve. Randy risked the more conservative approach. “We already have several major investors but there is room for several more.”

Golden nodded and said, “I’m in.”

Randy let out his breath and stepped across the room to shake hands. Dale trailed like he was on a tether.

Golden said, “Let me do some juggling and move some cash, then I’ll have a million transferred into your business account after we sign the contract.”

“I have a standard contract if you’d like to see it.”

“My lawyer has to look it over.”

Randy froze. A fucking lawyer. He might see a chance to make points and gouge Golden at the same time by doing some independent research and recommending against the investment. Randy tried to think of something. Some high-pressure tactic to move it along when Golden offered, “He just looks at the contract—he has no sense for business. Should only take a day or two. By Friday we can be partners.”

Randy considered this as he smiled, hiding his fear. Then he noticed that all at once the phones stopped ringing. He checked his watch absently. Two thirty. Shit, he should’ve sprung an extra thirty bucks to make the calls keep coming. His mind started to race as he considered what Golden had said, how close to a deal they were, the phone issue, and fucking Dale breathing on his neck. Fuck!

He took a breath, cleared his head, elbowed Dale and said, “No problem, Mr. Golden, whatever you want. We have others coming in during the week so we’re in good shape.” It was a ground ball. Just something for the old guy to think about. If he didn’t act, someone might beat him to this easy money.

Golden nodded and said, “Good, we’ll get this show on the road.” He turned toward the door.

Randy followed, then stepped ahead to help him ease outside. He needed a few minutes to recharge and gather his wits. These types of sales were hard. Cars were easy. At least you had a product. This was harder when the product was just dreams of wealth.

They paused at the door and shook hands with Dale right between them. They both looked at the chubby, sweaty, smelly stockbroker.

Randy turned the knob and opened the door, saying, “This was a real pleasure, Mr. Golden.” Then he froze as he saw three men in casual clothes standing directly in front of the door in the hallway.

Randy said, “Can I help you?”

The tallest one in the front calmly held out his hand and let his wallet fall open to reveal a badge and Ft. Lauderdale police identification. “Randy Hubbard?”

Randy felt his face flush. “Yeah.”

“I’m Tom Lester, Fort Lauderdale PD. These gentlemen are with the Defense Investigative Service. We need to talk.”

“About?”

“About Computer Parts International.”

Randy swallowed, thinking about his bust-out that had financed his lifestyle and this venture. “What about it?”

“Were you the original owner?”

“The president was …”

The man stepped inside. “Cut the shit. We know who’s who and what you’re doing here.”

Randy was afraid to look at Golden. He knew this deal was done.

“Look, you have no evidence on this or any other company. Now I’m gonna ask you to get your ass out of here so I can go back to work. Unless you have something that might convince me I should talk to you.”

The Lauderdale cop smiled.

That unnerved Randy but he stayed tough.

The cop reached across Randy to Dale who was shaking at the encounter. The cop grabbed a handful of Dale’s shirt and yanked it up, revealing an electronic device, wire, and a tiny microphone taped onto his chest. Patches of his thick hair had been crudely shaved away.

Randy thought he might vomit.

Golden said, “I got no part of this,” and started to walk away.

The Lauderdale cop said, “There’s a man from the SEC interested in speaking with you, Mr. Golden. We’ll escort you down to the little office he’s waiting in.” The cop turned his attention back to Randy. “You have thirty seconds to decide if you’re on the bus or under it.”

Randy looked at Dale who shrugged, fighting back tears and saying, “They were going to take my Series 63 license.”

Randy looked back at the cop, who was now smiling broadly, and said, “You don’t understand, I’m trying to save the state.”

The cop nodded. “So am I.”

BY ALICE JACKSON

Police Detective Dan Hawkins
imagined the bulging veins in Captain Johnny Casano’s neck comprised a roadmap. The blueish outline headed southwest from the older man’s fleshy earlobes, then made a sharp turn due south before disappearing beneath the loosened knot of his necktie. Hawkins visualized the lines ending at his ribcage, somewhere south of Key West. The image helped Hawkins ignore his brother-in-law’s rant about the professional risk he had assumed in finagling a spot for him inside the detective division. Hawkins considered telling Casano he could have gotten the promotion on his own, but if he kept quiet, chances were good Casano would run out of steam or pass out from a lack of blood flow to the brain. Hawkins didn’t want to engage him in debate. He just wanted him to shut up.

The black ceiling fan failed to cool the heat of a Florida fall pouring through the open window. Briefly, the wail of a siren from the parking lot two stories below the Tampa Police Department’s Fourteenth Precinct blotted out Casano’s rant.

The big man yanked off his plaid sports coat and threw it across his cluttered desk before he stooped in front of Hawkins’s face and yelled, “You’re small potatoes in this department, but the chief’s heard that Bobby Kennedy may be sending his G-Men to snoop around. It’s all speculatin’, of course, but something like what you did could cause a lot of problems! Do you understand what I’m tellin’ you here, Jughead?”

Hawkins waited a few seconds, pretending to ponder Casano’s question. “I would think if the attorney general were bustin’ up anything in Tampa, it would be Santos Trafficante’s network.”

Casano ran his hands through his greasy flat-top and wiped the Vitalis onto his trousers. “You don’t understand anything, do you, boy?” he muttered.

What Hawkins understood more than anything else was the fact that he loved his wife Jeanette. Loved her enough to exchange the Florida Keys where he had grown up and the deputy sheriff’s job he had adored for the life of a big city cop he hated. Loved her enough to take constant shit from this idiot.

Loved her enough to hide information about Trafficante, the reputed mob boss of Florida, from Casano.

Casano dropped into the chair next to Hawkins. “Tampa ain’t Key West, ya know? Down there, you have small-town law and order. Sure, where I learned to police in Jersey we did things the same small-town way you fellows did down in Key West. But, hey, up in New York City that wouldn’t have shook it. New York was the big city where they did big-city law. Now, I ain’t meaning to imply that Tampa is New York, ya know, but in comparison to itty bitty Key West, it could be. Big cities do things that could result in a whole different interpretation of the facts. Are you following me here?”

Hawkins clenched his teeth. “Johnny, if I’d known Mort Goldstein was your source I’d never have gone to his place without telling ya. I told you that. I told you several times.”

Casano sighed, whipped out a white hankerchief to wipe the sweat from his face, then carefully refolded it. “Danny Boy, Mort told you, didn’t he? When you and that big galoot buddy of yours from Key West waltzed in? Before the guns blazed? He mentioned my name, didn’t he?”

“No, he didn’t. There wasn’t time. It all happened so fast, Johnny. We didn’t have no conversation with Mort, ya know. He pulled a gun on us the minute we walked through the door. If we hadn’t shot ‘em, he would’ve killed one or both of us. I told ya it was self-defense for me and Tom. Either shoot him or get killed, pure and simple. Ain’t nothing small town ‘bout that.”

Casano’s nostrils flared like he was about to rev up for more ranting and raving, but instead, he folded his arms, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, looking for all the world like he was napping. Several minutes passed before he leaned forward and slapped his hands. “This may not be as bad as I had previously anticipated. If Mort didn’t say nothing about me or the fact that he was my snitch, then it all may just be so much water under the bridge.”

Surprised by Casano’s change of mood, Hawkins waited for the other shoe to drop.

Casano rubbed his callused hands together. “In fact, Danny Boy, this may have actually created an opportunity for me and for you.”

Hawkins relaxed. He might make it out of this jam okay, depending on what Casano had in mind.

“Now, I don’t want you to think I’m condoning the fact that you and your friend out there in the hall blew away a gold-plated snitch of the Tampa PD without so much as a howdy do, but this thing may not be as bad as I first thought.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and squinted at some notes in his handwriting. “You know I got a little action on the side?”

Hawkins shrugged. “I’ve heard some talk. You and some other captains have a detective agency, or some such. I’ve heard it mentioned, but I don’t ask no questions ‘cause it ain’t none of my business.”

“Yeah, keep it quiet. Chief understands because he knows a police salary don’t go far. One day when you and Jeanette have a houseful of kids, you’ll be needing extra money too.” Johnny picked up a paperclip from the clutter atop his desk, bent it open and cleaned his fingernails. “In fact, one day when you get to be my age, you’ll be needing more money and something else that’s about as important.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny, I don’t follow you …” Hawkins began.

Casano chuckled as he dug deeper at his nails. “A man has needs, Danny.” He stopped digging to wave a finger towards his crotch. “The little woman gets older, and the guy down there needs more attention.”

Hawkins felt the blood rising in his face as he stood. “I love Jeanette. If you and Viv are having problems, maybe …”

Casano threw back his head to cackle. “We ain’t got no problems, Danny. It’s a fact of life that if—and with you this could be a big if—you get to be my age, you keep problems out of your marriage by taking your problems someplace else.” He shook his head in exasperation as he handed the piece of paper to Hawkins. “That’s my girl’s name and telephone number. She’s a dancer at Golden Palms. She’s got a girlfriend, another dancer, whose boyfriend is threatening her. See what you can do ‘bout helping her.”

Hawkins looked at the paper and wondered if Betsy Snow was a real name. What kind of woman would voluntarily run around with the hulking Casano? People cheated on their wives, but Judith’s sister, Viv, was a great woman. Something about this didn’t smell right.

“I really don’t need any extra money …”

Casano slammed a hand down on his desk. “Who said a damned thing about extra dough? You’re doing this, boy, because you’re in a jam. You shot someone you shoulda let live, even if he was gonna blast your ass first! You owe me! You either do this for me, or you’re gonna have to go home and tell Jeanette you’re reassigned to walkin’ a beat on the streets in Ybor City!”

Jeanette had been so proud when he’d made detective, Hawkins knew there was no way he could lose his shield. The fat ape had him either way, so he might as well do the job and get it over with. “All I’ve gotta do is meet with the girl and see if I can help her out? That’s it?”

Casano leaned back in his chair, flashing a shit-eating grin. “Well, there is one more little thing you oughta know ‘bout. The guy who’s threatening her. It’s Julio Marchese. Ever heard of ‘im?”

“The same Julio Marchese who’s a city councilman?”

Casano pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and dangled it from his lips as he flicked a lighter with one hand. “One and the same. I knew you were a bright boy, Danny. Now, git outta here!”

Outside in the hallway, Hawkins motioned for his partner, Nick Goenflo, to follow him to the break room.

“How’d it go? We still got jobs?”

Hawkins closed the break room door behind them. “We got jobs. I’ve just gotta do a little favor for the Fat Man.”

Goenflo made a wiping motion across his forehead to indicate his relief. “Mama and the babies can still eat! You should be relieved. Why you lookin’ so glum?”

“It all sounds strange,” Hawkins said.