Florida Heatwave (18 page)

McKool called me Wednesday morning. Lefty Louie had been mugged at his home after the game and Lilith wasn’t answering her phone. He told me to call in sick, drop Abuelita someplace safe and come meet him at the warehouse. I told him I had no sick time left, but he said it was important and that he would have one of his players, Doc Rajah, write me a doctor’s note. I called the station and left a message for Eddie, knowing there would be hell to pay later.

I took Abuelita to the home of Jorge Navarro near
Calle Ocho.
Jorge’s little sister came over on Pedro Pan with Abuelita; he was one of the exile wannabe-commandoes who had spent most of the ‘60s training in the Everglades with weapons provided by the CIA for the invasion of Cuba that never came. Jorge undoubtedly had a cache of something under his floorboards, lethal if old, not unlike himself.

When I arrived at the river around eleven, McKool, Cartouche, and two guys stood in the parking lot poring over papers on the hood of a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. I recognized one of them—Long Jack Lawless, a friend from McKool’s Army days who dropped by the game once in a while. About six foot four of bony angles, he had straight, silver-streaked chestnut brown hair that hung to the top of his shoulders. Long Jack always dressed the same—black tee, black jeans, black denim jacket, scuffed black Dingo boots, black-framed aviator shades. I didn’t know the other guy, a thick, squat man in camo pants and olive green tee with olive lace-up boots. Long Jack nodded hello. The thick guy looked right through me. They both wore Bluetooth earpieces.

The four of them were examining a set of architectural plans and Google images of a wooded neighborhood. One of the properties, with a long gated driveway and a backyard of at least a couple acres, was highlighted in yellow. McKool pointed out the front and back entrance, ground floor windows, a pool cabana in the back. No dogs, he said, but two guards patrolling. It felt like some kind of wartime Special Ops briefing. I recognized the address printed on the corner from the sheaf of papers McKool had showed me the day before—Big Tiny’s place. Nobody told me what was going on, but I suspected somebody would get hurt this morning.

“You carrying?” McKool asked.

“Service and drop piece,” I said.

He walked around to the back of the Suburban, opened it up and handed me a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on. Lose your service piece.” He reached under a black tarp and handed me a SIG P226, the semi-automatic handgun of choice for the Navy Seals, and two fifteen-round clips.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked McKool.

“Hopefully nothing,” McKool said “But better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

“I’m a cop.”

“Exactly.”

I shook my head “I’d do almost anything for you, man, but …”

“How’d you like to come to Vegas with me next month, during the World Series? I’ll pay your expenses and entry into a satellite, give you a shot at the Big One.”

Satellites are qualifying tourneys. McKool was offering me a shot at my dream. I pictured myself on ESPN in the final nine at the Rio, having bested thousands. Mountains of cash on the table, millions of dollars. Across from Jesus Ferguson.

These guys had come after Abuelita. Still, I didn’t like it. Eddie Figueroa would like it less.

“Blue, I need you here. I’ll owe you one.” McKool collects favors. He doesn’t owe almost anybody.

“Okay,” I said.

McKool dug under the tarp again and pulled out two bolt-action M40 A3 rifles with five-round clips and sniper scopes and handed them with an extra clip each to Long Jack and his friend. “Got the plan?” he asked Long Jack. The A3 has an effective range of about fifteen hundred yards and is the standard sniper rifle of the US Marine Corps.

Long Jack grinned. “Like old times. Let’s saddle up.”

I shoved the SIG into my waistband under my shirt, put the extra clips in my pocket, and locked my Smith & Wesson in the glovebox of my car. Cartouche drove the Suburban southeast to Old Cutler Road, McKool riding shotgun, the rest of us in the back. Not far from the Deering Estate Cartouche turned south onto Old Cutler, the street completely canopied by live oaks and weeping figs and banyans. He took the first left and cruised towards Big Tiny’s. A couple of houses away deep in the shade of thick, towering bushes he slowed almost to a stop. Long Jack and his friend hopped out, then disappeared instantly into the shadows.

Cartouche waited a moment then drove up the street to a wide scroll-worked gate flanked by an unmanned guardhouse. He pressed a button over a speakerbox, and a security camera hanging from the eave of the guardhouse whirred, swiveled and focused on the Chevy. The big gate squeaked and then rolled back. As we drove through, the gate rolled closed behind us. Cartouche drove up the long driveway through an unbroken green lawn leading to the house—a three-story white-roofed coral-pink British colonial with a wide portico and second-floor balcony and six massive classical-looking columns.

“Nice firing field,” McKool said. “Good lines of sight. Too bad the back’s not as clear.” Three cars were parked near the front door. Cartouche did a three-point turn over the grass and pointed the truck in a straight line toward the gate. The three of us climbed out. “Blue. You need to keep your head,” McKool said. “Keep your weapon in your pants. You’re not in action unless you see Cartouche or me move. Got that?”

I nodded. “Got it.”

“You lost your cool at Joey’s. Do that today and people will die needlessly.” He smiled. “Won’t help you make detective, either.”

“I got it, McKool,” I said, a bit peevishly.

“Go knock on the door.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Yeah. Feeling things out. We want their attention on us—Long Jack needs time to get in position.”

I knocked on the front door. It opened. Jimmy Pizza stood there with two stocky men, both wearing silver and black running suits, each holding a Mini Uzi with thirty-round clip.

“How’s my friend Joey? Can he come out to play?”

“He’ll come play with you when he gets out of the hospital,” Jimmy said.

“McKool wants to see Big Tiny.”

“So tell him to come in,” Jimmy said.

“We getting in and out of here with no problem?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

I smiled bravely. “Waste a cop at Big Tiny’s front door? Very risky.” I was ready to crap my pants right there on the doorstep.

“When Big Tiny lets me.”

“Then when the time is right one of us is a favorite to die,” I said. “I like my odds.” He went to pat me down and I shook him off. “You’re carrying. We’re carrying. No traps, no surprises,” I said.

“Wait,” Jimmy said. He shut the door. He was back in just a moment. “Come.”

I waved toward the Chevy; McKool and Cartouche joined me on the porch. We followed Jimmy down a white corridor the height of the house and roofed by an arched skylight leading from the grand foyer. Running Suit One and Running Suit Two trailed at close quarters. Off to one side of the hall was a salon, to the other a room with a baby grand. At the end of the corridor Jimmy threw open double blonde oak doors to a room bigger than my condo, with cathedral ceilings.

Two enormous Persian rugs covered the hardwood floor. In the center of the room stood a long wooden table with eight chairs lining each side and one at the head, one at the foot, a crystal chandelier hanging over its center. Soft late-morning light from the southern exposure flowed into the room through six double sets of French doors framed by luxurious drapes. On the east wall was a huge fireplace with a pile of animal hide rugs before it and a dozen pillows. Two antique Winchester shotguns hung above the mantelpiece. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the west wall. Here and there on the bookshelves stood some two dozen vases and statues and small marble sculptures that reeked of antiquity, each with its own tiny spotlight.

Big Tiny sat at the far end of the table, his meaty fists folded in front of him. “McKool,” he said. “Nice of you to visit. A drink?”

Next to his chair stood Lilith, arms crossed, head bowed, hair atangle, shoulders hunched, hugging herself tight.

The French doors opened out to acres of sprawling lawns and bushes with little groves of trees, a pond far to the back and an Olympic pool with a cabana big enough to house two families of boat refugees. A pair of peacocks strutted on the pool deck.

“Thanks, but we don’t plan on staying long,” McKool said.

The Running Suits took position, one in the southeast corner of the room, one in the southwest, by the French doors. Jimmy Pizza stood to the right of the oak doors through which we’d come. I took position to the doors’ left, Cartouche to my left. I felt I’d wandered into the estate of some pre-Castro Cuban plantation or casino boss.

“So,” McKool said.

“So,” Big Tiny said.

McKool walked over to Lilith and gave her a small kiss on the cheek, took her by the hand. She looked up into his face, and I could see that she had been crying. “How about I just take Lilith and we’ll be on our way?”

“We have business to discuss.”

McKool pulled a chair back from the table a few feet and held it for Lilith. “Sit here, Lil,” he said. Then he settled into the chair catty-corner from Big Tiny.

“Twenty-five percent,” Big Tiny said.

“The business isn’t worth running if I give that up,” McKool said. “I’d just as soon close the doors.”

“Fine. I’ll take the whole game. Give me the keys.” Big Tiny held out his hand.

“I am the game. Running it’s harder than it looks.”

Big Tiny smiled. “Okay, then. I’ll give you twenty-five percent to run it for me.”

McKool shook his head. “I guess we have nothing to talk about.” McKool stood up. “Come, Lilith.” He walked over to Lilith’s chair, and she stood. He took her by the hand and they started toward the double doors.

Jimmy stepped into the doorway, blocking it. McKool stopped a couple of yards away, then moved slowly towards Cartouche and me keeping himself between Jimmy and Lilith. The goons with the Uzis closed in a few steps from their corners and then held their ground. Nobody moved. McKool turned to look at Big Tiny.

Tiny shrugged and smiled. “Twenty-five percent,” he said. “Be smart, McKool.”

McKool sighed and shook his head. “Jack. Two,” he said.

I heard the tinkle of glass breaking. Then again. Two panes of the French doors had been shot out. Just behind Running Suit Two a sand-colored statue on the bookcase exploded into bits. A bullet cracked into the oak door just inches from Jimmy Pizza’s ear, sending splinters flying—one gouged Jimmy’s cheek and blood trickled down. He started to reach into his jacket and I pulled my SIG, grabbed his right arm, twisted it up behind his back and shoved the handgun’s barrel into his neck.

The Running Suits turned toward the yard and let loose randomly through the French doors, emptying their clips, shattering the glass. A peacock squawked. They each slammed in a second clip and let loose again, spraying the pool deck. Then a third clip. At 950 rounds per minute, 16 per second, barely 30 seconds had passed, mostly reloading time, since Long Jack’s two shots had entered the room—the Running Suits had blown 180 rounds through the French doors and were out of ammo. One of the peacocks lay dead in a pool of blood on the deck; the other ran in circles, squawking. Smoke from the automatic weapons wisped at the end of the room, highlighted by yellow sunlight.

Cartouche’s eyes followed the Running Suits—they had sprinted outside and were frantically casting about the backyard looking for McKool’s gunmen. I sensed the tightness in Cartouche’s body. McKool and Big Tiny never moved.

“Blue, what did I tell you? Let him go,” McKool said.

I hesitated, then pushed Jimmy away from me into the center of the room. He whipped around to face me, his gravity knife suddenly in his hand.

“Jimmy! No!” Big Tiny barked.

Jimmy looked to Tiny then back to me. The dummy was actually making a move with a knife in a gunfight. I wasn’t sure what he’d do and held my wep at the ready. Then he pocketed his blade and took a step back. But his angry eyes stayed with me.

“Put it away, Blue,” McKool said.

I slipped the SIG back in my pants.

Big Tiny took a long look outside through the broken glass of the French doors. “I see,” he said to McKool. “One shooter?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

“I had two guards out back.”

“Nobody is dead.”

“Yet, you mean.”

McKool nodded. “Yes. Yet.”

“We’d have a whole different problem if anybody died,” Big Tiny said.

“That’s why we’re both still alive.”

Tiny laughed, a high-pitched guffaw that shook his whole body. “Well, I certainly don’t want to get blood on the carpets. Cost $85K each and are hell to clean.”

“Definitely wouldn’t want to get blood on the carpets,” McKool said.

Tiny picked at his fingernail. “Make me an offer.”

McKool walked over to Cartouche, who took Lilith by the hand and gently pushed her behind him. “I’ll give you twenty grand for the antique Winchesters.”

“They’re worth fifty,” Big Tiny said. “And not for sale.”

“What they’re worth matters?” McKool asked. “Some things aren’t for sale?”

Big Tiny laughed. “I see.”

McKool returned to the table. “You send me two players from start to finish every night. You guarantee their losses.” He took his seat again. “You don’t do any business with or bother my customers or employees without we discuss it first.” He leaned back in his chair. “If I have problems with credit, your boys help with collections.” He hesitated a long second. “If I lay off any of my sports action I’ll give it to you, but I get the same price you give your own guys.”

“That’s it?” Tiny asked.

“That’s it,” McKool said.

“And for this I get?

“Ten percent of net. Plus your piece of the sports.”

“I had in mind twenty-five percent of gross.”

“I had in mind nothing.”

“Fifteen percent of gross,” Big Tiny said.

“I don’t like percentage of gross deals—it’s net that matters,” McKool said.

“I don’t like percentage of net—too easy to fudge expenses,” Big Tiny replied.