Castro Directive (3 page)

He propped open his droopy lids. He let go and they fell. When he was in his twenties, women used to tell him he had bedroom eyes. Now as he approached forty, he worried that he looked as if he had a perpetual hangover, or allergies, or insomnia, or a lack of iron in his diet. Eyelids like his, someone had once told him, were an advantage; they protected his eyes from pollution. Except there wasn't much air pollution in South Florida, not with the sea winds sweeping across the peninsula the way they did.

He walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where he picked up the envelope Loften had given him and took out the cash. He folded the stack of bills in half and stuffed it into his pocket. Then picking up his sunglasses from the dresser, he headed out of the apartment.

Outside, the air was warm, humid, clean. The sun glinted off a window in the apartment building across the street. The front of the four-story building was a mirror image of his own, its Art Deco facade displaying the same checkerboard pattern of glossy tiles surrounding a porthole window in the center.

He had to think a moment before he remembered where he'd parked, and wondered if Carver had someone watching him. He wouldn't put it past the cop. He'd no sooner contemplated the idea when a figure careened between two cars. Pierce jerked his head and saw a wino staggering into the sun. He watched him a moment, then moved on.

When he reached the Saab and slid onto the soft leather seat, he noticed two elderly men on the curb. They were Hassids dressed in black and white; cotton-candy beards fell over their chests. They hobbled across the street, one leaning on a cane, the other clinging to the arm of his companion. He eyed the pair closely, imagining that their outfits were only disguises.

Nothing like a little paranoia to keep a man on his toes. Jesus, if he was going to worry about Miami Beach retirees and winos spying on him, he should've stayed in bed. Driving away, he nevertheless gazed through the rearview mirror, watching for one of the old men to turn around. Neither of them did.

It seemed there were fewer and fewer old folks wandering the streets, even in the early hours. South Beach, the heart and guts of Miami Beach, was no longer the secure bastion for retirees that it had been in years gone by. There were plenty of them still living here, but their numbers diminished each year. Muggers on the streets kept them at home; rising rents and "yuppification" drove them out of their homes.

Buildings once housing the elderly were renovated, and their tenants were given walking papers as they were displaced by yuppies and yuccas—Young Upward Climbing Cuban Americans. Nightclubs and art galleries sprung up overnight with the exuberance of mushrooms, and hotels were refurbished. Meanwhile, the international tourist trade was growing as South Beach became Florida's SoHo, returning to its polychromatic, Art Deco roots.

Pierce had moved to South Beach primarily for convenience, when he and Tina had called it quits. She'd kept their house in Kendall and he'd moved to the apartment just four blocks from his office.

He crossed Collins Avenue and turned into the alley behind the Edison Hotel. "Aw, shit," he grumbled as he saw a rental car parked in his reserved space. Tourists were once his livelihood. Now they simply were in his way. He backed out of the drive and pointed Swedie toward the beach.

He waited at the corner for a break in traffic. Across the street, the wide, pale strip of sand stretched toward the shimmering ocean. Palm trees rose straight from the sand along the border of the beach. The best damn beach in Florida, a hundred feet from the door of his office. He turned onto Ocean Drive and tried to remember how long it had been since he'd taken one of his early morning walks as the sun lifted from the sea, or even gone for a swim. Months, he thought.

He drove slowly along an unbroken line of parked cars. He hated parking at a meter all day, but there wasn't much choice. Finally, on his second swing by the Edison, he saw a woman opening her car door and claimed her space. He fed the meter and glanced at his watch. Walking would have been faster, but he needed to keep his car handy. He rarely spent more than a half day in his office; sometimes he spent only a few hours there over the span of a week.

He stepped into the Edison's restaurant, where he ate breakfast on most mornings. He was about to sit down at his usual table by the window when he heard someone call his name. He looked around and spotted Fuego Ferraro seated in a booth, signaling to him.

"Morning, Nick. I thought I'd find you here," he said as Pierce slid in across from him. "Heard you took in some culture yesterday."

He nodded to the sinewy, pocked-faced Cuban. "How fast word travels. What do you know about it?"

"Just that you were the lucky guy, and a crystal skull got ripped off."

Fuego's downy mustache twitched. He had a tic in his left cheek, a facial stutter—the work of a bullet he'd taken in the back of his neck during a shoot-out. Six years on the front lines for the Miami P.D. had turned Fuego into a police burn-out at age twenty-nine. Now, several years later, he lived on the pension he received for wounded officers, and on the work-for-cash jobs he picked up from Pierce and others who needed information. Lately, though, Pierce hadn't offered him any work. He'd barely had enough to keep himself occupied.

"How's the cabeza, amigo?"

"Better than yesterday."

Pierce looked up as the waitress arrived with coffee. "Morning, Mr. Pierce. Let's see—two poached, home fries, whole wheat."

"You got it, Dolly." He smiled at the aging blonde whose swirling bouffant hairstyle was as reminiscent of the past as the Edison itself.

"Did I ever tell you guys how many eggs Jackie Gleason used to eat for breakfast when he stayed at the Fontainbleau?"

"I think you told me a couple of weeks ago," Pierce said softly but firmly. Dolly liked to recall her glory days as a waitress at the once famous Miami Beach hotel.

"I did? Guess my mind's going."

"If you can still remember how many eggs someone ate twenty-five years go, I think your mind's fine," Fuego said. "But don't tell me. I don't want to know."

Dolly was about to leave when she noticed the swelling on Pierce's head. "My God, Mr. Pierce, what happened to you?"

"Bumped into a wall."

She didn't look like she believed a word of it. "You had a safer job when you owned the travel agency," she remarked, and left.

Fuego's cheek twitched. He jerked his shoulders uneasily. "You should rest. Can I help you with anything?"

"I don't think so."

Fuego stirred his coffee. "Listen, Nick. I took a beating at jai alai last night. I really could use some—"

He stopped as he saw Pierce pull a roll of cash from his pocket and peel off two hundred-dollar bills. He slid them across the table.

Fuego made no move to take the money. "Amigo. I don't want no welfare. Give me something to do."

Pierce considered the request a moment. "Okay. William Redington. The dead man mentioned his name. See what you can find on him. He lives in the Gables."

Fuego nodded, slipped the bills in his shirt pocket. "I'll get right on it." He leaned forward, cheek twitching. "Where'd you get the wad?"

"From the dead guy. He hired me just before he was killed."

"Keeping it?"

Pierce shook his head. "Returning it. Soon as I find the sponsor."

"You deserve at least a day's pay."

"Agreed. That's why I didn't turn it over to the cops." Fuego smiled slyly. "Smart move. You don't want to give it to those guys."

Pierce laughed. "You don't trust them any more than I do, and you were one of them."

"All the more reason."

Fuego took a final swallow of his coffee, dropped some change on the table, and rose to his feet. "Why don't you meet me at the Jack of Clubs around seven? I'll tell you what I've got. By the way, you seen my cousin?"

"Talked to her last night."

"Good. She keeps asking me about you like I see you every day."

Pierce shrugged. "Sometimes I think she forgets we're divorced."

"I know. She's un poco loco."

Pierce watched his friend walk away. Of the half dozen or so investigators he worked with on a case-by-case basis, Fuego was the most reliable. A couple of months ago he'd hired him to follow a woman who was divorcing her wealthy husband. Fuego had found a live-in boyfriend, damaging evidence for her case. But the boyfriend, a charter member of the Colombian mafia, had also found Fuego. Instead of saying he was working for a P.I.—and endangering Pierce's life as well as his own—Fuego had confessed he was secretly in love with the woman, but had never approached her because he feared she would reject him. The woman was a looker, and the Colombian bought it, but not until Fuego had been beaten by two of the man's buddies. The evidence Fuego had gathered had saved the ex-husband seventy-five thousand a year, and Pierce had received a healthy bonus from the man. He'd offered it to Fuego, but he'd taken only half of it.

As soon as he finished breakfast, Pierce crossed the restaurant to the hotel lobby and climbed the steps to the mezzanine. Halfway down the walkway, he opened the door to the Gibson Travel Agency. He walked rapidly past walls of travel posters, a few desks, and down a hallway. He sensed heads turning his way, but he kept his head down, not wanting to start any conversations that would lead to questions about his injury.

When he sold the agency to his former partner, Walter Gibson, he'd worked out a deal to keep his office. At first, his old employees had acted as if he were still their boss, asking him for advice and telling him the inside gossip. But gradually, as it became apparent that he was really a full-time private investigator, he heard less and less from them. As new travel agents joined the company and others left, he became a curiosity, a relic of the agency's past. Now, only his former partner ever talked at length to him about the travel business, and that was quite enough. Usually too much.

He reached a door labeled PIERCE AGENCY—INVESTIGATIONS, but as his key met the lock he heard a rush of words like a verbal waterfall, the unmistakable signature of Walter Gibson. "Jesus, Nick, I read about it in the paper, it sounded horrible. Are you okay?"

Pierce turned to see his loquacious former partner looking up at him from his wheelchair. His eyes bulged slightly under his head of dark, almost electrically curly hair; he looked perpetually astonished.

"I'm fine, Gibby. It was in the paper?"

Gibby held up a folded newspaper. The headline read: MAYAN EXHIBIT OPENING MARRED BY MURDER. Pierce took the paper, scanned the article. "I can't believe they put my name in here."

"Things certainly haven't been going your way lately."

"You could say that." He handed back the newspaper. "Here, I've got something else. I'm still getting your mail mixed in with mine. How long has it been, three years since you left the agency?"

Pierce saw that the envelope had already been opened. He stared a moment at the return address, then slipped out the enclosed letter. He scanned it, shaking his head. "These bastards."

"I know," Gibby said. "I couldn't help reading it. How many is that now?"

"Four. This is the last one."

"You've lost all your big clients." Gibby sounded disgusted. "Thanks to me."

"For Christ's sake, Gibby!" They'd discussed the matter too many times already, but Gibby kept bringing it up. "Stop blaming yourself. It was my decision to take your case. I should have known how they'd react."

"It's a damn shame. The faulty steering was a fact. You proved that. Besides, the car wasn't even made by any of your clients."

"Don't worry about it. Losing the business of a few carmakers is nothing compared to losing the use of your legs."

Gibby straightened in his wheelchair. "Well, I've made a decision. When the money comes through, I'm giving you a bonus—ten percent of my share. After the lawyer takes his chunk that still should be over a hundred and fifty grand."

"Just wait till it's over. They're appealing the decision, right?"

"Sure. But I'll get it. You watch."

Pierce gripped Gibby's shoulder. "That's the spirit." He turned, opened his door, and stepped inside his office before Gibby had a chance to start talking about the convention he'd just attended in Arizona.

Even though he was no longer involved in the travel business, his office walls were still decorated with his travel photos, mostly of South American destinations. There were landscape scenes from the Amazon, Machu Picchu, and the Gran Sabana of Venezuela, as well as colorful Indian market scenes from Colombia and Ecuador.

Still, the office felt empty. His secretary had quit a few weeks ago, and he hadn't seen much point in rushing to hire a new one. As a result, he relied on his phone recorder. He was glad to see it blinking now; a new prospect, maybe. He rewound it and played back the recording.

The first three messages were from reporters following up on the murder story. Then he heard a familiar voice. It was Tina, and she sounded frantic. "Nicky. My God, why did you not say something? Are you all right? Call me right away."

"Christ." She'd seen the newspaper story. Even when Tina was excited and talking fast, she still didn't use contractions. He'd tried many times to get her to relax her stilted English, but had finally given up.