Powder Burn (20 page)

His universe, Meadows recognized with despair, had dwindled to two stark choices: to run or to retaliate. Running made more sense. Meadows could disappear anywhere: Chicago, New York or—more ambitiously—Europe. He had a few good friends in Brussels. Good friends would ask few questions and smooth the way. But then what? Tend bar, drive a taxi, sell encyclopedias for the rest of his life? Say it was only a few years until Mono was forgotten, until Nelson was gone, or dead, or in jail himself. Returning to Miami would be difficult. Getting back into architecture would be impossible. A career loses momentum and fades. Meadows had seen it happen to friends. Five years out of the mainstream, and they ended up designing elementary schools and post offices.

To run was sensible, but it was not appealing.

Meadows stood before a wall mirror in Terry’s bedroom. His sandy hair was ragged around the ears. His eyes were like radishes. The facial lines, incipient and vaguely distinguished in the best of circumstances, seemed now like sharp cracks in cement. He looked like hell.

The telephone rang. Meadows eyed it nervously. It seemed to quiver on the nightstand. He grabbed the receiver on the fifth ring.

“If you are sleeping in my bed, it had better be alone,
querido.”

“Terry!” Meadows fought back tears. He wanted to tell her everything, beg her to fly home so he could curl up in her arms and sleep for a month until the nightmare ended.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

“Good,” she said, “but speak louder—this is a terrible connection.”

“Where are you, and when are you coming back?”

“I am in Honduras, in San Pedro Sula. And I have bad news. The mechanics have made a stew of the Convair. There is cargo stranded everywhere. I am afraid it will be at least two weeks before I can get back.”

“Oh.” Some of the disappointment was counterfeit. He needed time to get away, and he wanted her safely out of the line of fire.

“Please hurry,” he said softly.

“I will,” she said. A burst of static came over the line. “Listen, I must go. Take care of yourself. I’ll call again if I can. OK?”

“OK”

“Bye.”

God, he missed her, Meadows thought, prowling the empty apartment.

He settled down to reread the Bermúdez clippings. Meadows’s life was in shreds and this man, one greedy son of a bitch, was to blame. A slick politician with a politician’s perfect smile. The chamber of commerce, sweet Jesus, the Statesman’s Award.

He
was
the one.

Meadows replayed the scene in the funeral home.

The Peasant, Cauliflower Ear. And him. What had he said? “That business down in the Grove was stupid.”

Stupid.

Christopher Meadows decided he would end it himself. How, he didn’t know. It would be done in his own way and, God willing, in his own time. It would not make things right again, he knew, but it would make things just.

He moved swiftly through Terry’s apartment, searching, making a special effort at stealth as if someone could ever have heard his spongy footsteps on the carpet. He checked the double mattress, the cluttered and sweet-smelling drawers of her mahogany bedroom chest, even the glass bookcase. Finally he opened the nightstand and there it was, right next to her goddamned birth control pills: the gun.

Meadows lifted it as if it were nitroglycerine. The blue steel of the barrel was cold to his touch; the grip was coarse, almost corrugated. Meadows noted the name etched above the cylinder. Smith & Wesson. At least he’d heard of it, but whether it was a .38 or a .45 or a .357 he had no idea.

It was a gun, and it worked. At least that’s what Terry said. Meadows was sure she knew how to use it. She carried a sidearm on most of her flights to Latin America, an extra shotgun when she flew into Bogotá.

But Terry wasn’t here to make the introduction.

Meadows fumbled with a small lever until the cylinder flopped open and six bullets spilled onto the pink satin bedsheets. He gathered them in one hand and dropped them back in the drawer. Only because he remembered it from a television cop show, Meadows held the gun up to the light from the bedroom window and checked the chambers. All empty. He snapped the cylinder and walked to the living room.

The pistol was oily. Meadows set it on a table and wiped his hands on his cutoffs. He turned on the television set and flipped through the stations, settling on one of those raucous afternoon game shows. He turned up the volume, gauging how much would shut out noise without annoying the neighbors.

Then Meadows sat himself down in front of the television and fondled the gun until his hands knew every curve, every notch, every shaft, every possible angle. For two hours he practiced raising his right arm stiff and straight, bracing his left hand under the right and pulling the stubborn trigger. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. The hammer moved more slowly than Meadows imagined it would. Would it be the same when the gun was full of bullets?

“Can I have a minute of your time?” asked an unctuous face on the tube.

Christopher Meadows raised the pistol until the announcer’s nostrils were fixed squarely under the sight. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. Ssssnap.

Chapter 16

THE TWENTY-STORY OFFICE BUILDING
near the Miami River was like all its big brothers around the country. Promptly at 5:00 each afternoon it emptied as though someone had pulled a plug. The drones rushed from the air-conditioned lobby, braved brief assault by the sweltering afternoon sun and plunged into the air-conditioned boxes that would take them home. Machines reinforced the routine. At exactly 5:15 computers shut down the escalators and turned off the air-conditioning.

Lane Redbirt prided himself on his appearance. As he rode down on the elevator, he caught a refreshing glimpse of himself in the mirror. His light double knit was well cut, with flared pants and a tight,
de rigueur
vest. His blond hair was carefully sprayed; his blue eyes were alert. Redbirt knew he was the perfect image of a young lawyer on the make. He enjoyed that.

When the elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor to load more passengers, the girl edged closer to the young lawyer.

“I’ll bet it’s a scorcher out there, Mr. Redbirt,” she said.

“Near ninety, I think, Virginia,” he replied. She was his secretary, and she typed well enough.

On the ground floor the modish crowd from Redbirt’s office clustered for a moment to exchange Friday afternoon banalities.

“Have a nice weekend.”

“See you Monday, if I make it.”

“Bring me some fish.”

“I’ll have the Mitchell brief ready first thing Monday morning, Virginia.”

“Fine, Mr. Redbirt, I’ll be waiting for it. Have a nice weekend.”

“You, too.”

The secretaries and the paralegals scattered for the parking lot, and the law partners strolled with more measured pace to their own cars, which waited in covered executive parking.

Lane Redbirt lingered behind the rest. He stopped at the lobby newsstand to buy cigarettes and breath freshener. By the time he reached his Porsche it was 5:09 and the parking lot was nearly deserted.

The brown Toyota pulled up sharply alongside him. “Hurry, Lane, I’m so horny I can’t wait,” she called from the driver’s window.

“Ginny. I…”

“Do you know what I’d like to do tonight for a change?” She told him what.

Redbirt’s groin tingled. “Give me one hour. I have to make a stop.”

“An hour is too long, the way I feel right now.”

“Fifty minutes,” he lied.

“I’ll start without you,” she challenged.

“Wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Redbirt went back into the lobby, easily evading the gaze of the wizened security guard. He summoned the elevator and pushed 18. Virginia was as unimportant to him now as his wife.

“Morgan Jones” had called just after lunch. And as usual, he had caught Redbirt off guard.

“I have thought about what you said the last time,” said the voice named Jones, “and you are right. There is too much disorder.”

“It’s not disorder; it’s madness now,” Redbirt wailed. “Nobody understands what’s happening anymore; the whole thing’s crazy. You said it would get better. It’s worse. Deal me out. Whoever you are, deal me out.”

“Just now? When your patience is about to be rewarded?”

“What do you mean?”

“I will explain that when we meet.”

“When we meet?”

“Yes, my friend, I have concluded you were right about that, too. We will meet this afternoon.”

“Where?”

“In your office, after everyone has left. I will come precisely at five-forty, and I will leave at three minutes to six. Wait in your office, and leave the front door unlocked. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Lane Redbirt was impatient. He swiveled in his black leather chair to stare at the wall clock. It was 5:20. So he was being granted a seventeen-minute audience with the disembodied voice whose sporadic calls over the past two years had changed his whole life. Morgan Jones coming to announce peace in our time, was he? Well, Lane Redbirt would be ready for him. No more messenger boy-distributor. No more dealing by dead of night with spics who smelled of garlic. No more pussying around. No, sir, Your Honor. Whether Morgan Jones realized it or not, he was about to surrender his trump card: his identity. If he wanted Lane Redbirt selling his shit, from now on it would be on Redbirt’s terms.

At 5:22 Redbirt could contain himself no longer. He had popped an upper about three o’clock. It was wearing off. From the bowels of a filing cabinet he withdrew a small plastic bag. One line, Redbirt thought. Just one line now to fire all the cylinders for the good Mr. Jones. Later, with hungry Virginia, he would really quench the thirst.

“Anybody home? Hello. Anybody home?”

The voice came from the reception area, shattering Redbirt’s musings. He looked again at the clock: 5:23. It could not be Jones. If a man announces he is coming for seventeen minutes, he comes on time. Redbirt hurried from his office.

“Thank God somebody’s here. I’ve been wandering all over the building, looking for a lawyer who doesn’t run home at five o’clock.”

The man wore an impeccable seersucker suit and carried a smart attaché case of brown leather. Redbirt knew him instantly.

“Oh, Mr. Bermúdez. Hello, I’m Lane Redbirt.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Redbirt, and I apologize for bursting in on you, but I need a legal opinion, and I need it urgently.”

“I was just leaving, Mr. Bermúdez, I’m sorry. If it can’t wait until Monday…”

“No, it can’t wait. That’s the point. I have people coming to my office upstairs in a few minutes to sign a contract, and there is one phrase I cannot understand. Our attorney has taken it into his head to go golfing. It is a game he will remember for a long time, I promise you.”

“I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Please, it will only take a minute. Look, three hundred dollars for three minutes’ work. I’ll pay cash.”

Redbirt looked at his watch. It was 5:24.

“It will have to be literally three minutes, I’m afraid. Come in, please.” It was a gamble, but a good gamble, Redbirt decided. The executive offices of José Bermúdez’s banking empire occupied the whole twentieth floor. Some people thought the man would be Miami’s next mayor. Lane Redbirt suddenly decided that he himself would make a fine city attorney.

Bermúdez sat in the chair before Redbirt’s desk and laid the attaché case on his lap.

“I can’t tell you how I appreciate this, Mr. Redbirt,” said Bermúdez, extracting a sheaf of papers. “Do you do much corporate work?”

“A fair amount,” Redbirt lied.

“Then this should be child’s play for you. Here, Clause Thirty-three. Does it mean we are protected in
all
cases?”

The clock said 5:26.

Plenty of time. Redbirt focused on the fine print of what seemed to be a fairly standard loan agreement. Bermúdez sat expectantly before him, hands crossed demurely athwart the attaché case.

“Mr. Bermúdez,” Redbirt said, “this couldn’t be simpler. Your protection is as ironclad as the law can make it.”

“I know.”

“If you know, then what is the question?”

“I have no question.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I said I would come at five-forty. I came early.”

“You?”

José Bermúdez smiled. “It is quite simple, really. I see a bright young lawyer in the elevator every now and then. I make some discreet inquiries, and I discover that he is an ambitious man who is already strapped for cash. So ‘Morgan Jones’ calls and offers a private little cocaine deal that is too good to refuse. That is the beginning. Simple. I could have worked it with any one of a hundred young and ambitious professionals in this city.”

Redbirt’s astonishment gave way to admiration. Bermúdez, of all people. What a scream! This would be easier than he thought.

“You’re the last person I would have guessed…”

“That is how I want it,” the banker said, nodding in satisfaction. “Now listen. I have solved all the problems. In another few weeks the merchandise will begin flowing at a standard quality and a fixed price. Only those who are authorized will deal.”

“Jesus, you’ve cornered the market!”

“Enough of it to make life comfortable.”

“My God, how?” The stakes would be tremendous. Lane Redbirt struggled to find a diplomatic way of asking how much was in it for him. No, he thought, I won’t ask. I’ll demand. He wondered in silent congratulation whether Bermúdez understood how fatally he had exposed himself now. He was at Redbirt’s mercy.

“I like your style, Lane,” Bermúdez said unexpectedly. “I want you as a full partner.”

Redbirt was speechless.

“The market will be orderly, and we will not be greedy. I believe it should be worth about three million a year. Each.”

Redbirt could only nod.

“From now on we work together. Let me see what records you have kept, and I will assimilate them into the overall plan. We will study it together.”

“They are hidden.”

“Of course, they are hidden. Get them.”

Numbly Redbirt stumbled to a filing cabinet and extracted a file marked
DeFalco v. DeFalco.