Setup on Front Street (16 page)

SHIMMY
expertly maneuvered the big deuce through the narrow streets of the city, then
finally out to Key Haven. On the way out there, I laid it out for him and Doc,
including the Whitney-Russian connection.

I emphasized that the Russians were the
baddest of the badasses, but if everything went according to plan, Ryder would
nail them, along with Whitney and BK, at the airport. In the event any of them
eluded capture, they might well head for Key Haven.

"Any way you cut it," I said to
them, "this is really my affair. There
is
a risk, and you guys
don't have to chance it."

"That BK's an A-1 asshole,"
Shimmy said. "I've never liked him or any of those Whitneys. They've
ruined this island. Anything I can do to fuck them up, I'm in."

I looked
at Doc. He couldn't wait to weigh in.

"Hey,
man, you know I got to be in. You cats couldn't get in that house without me,
not even if you had the keys."

I smiled, mostly inside.

"Okay. We're going to go in and crack
Whitney's safe. If we get what I think is in there, you're both getting a fat
bonus. And I mean fat."

≈≈≈

The other night, when Doc and I were out here, the whole street
was deserted. No lights, no activity, no nothing. Just your typical slumbering
suburb with everybody tucked away in their nice, secure beds.

Tonight it looked like the crossroads of
the fucking world.

Traffic everywhere, cars parked all up and
down both sides of the street, as well as on the side streets, too. Those cars
that were moving were jostling for parking spots, but not finding many. They
were mostly high-end jobs — Caddies, Mercedes, Jags, that kind of thing.
We saw lots of happy people walking from their cars, all in one direction.

Toward a gigantic house at the end of the
street.

We rumbled past Whitney's place in the
thick traffic. No cars were in the driveway. As we neared the big house at the
end, we could see there was some kind of party going on.

Tall, wrought iron security gates opened
into a wide, yawning welcome. Fast-moving valets crammed all those ritzy cars
next to one another at all angles, even dumping them into a couple of
neighboring yards.

The place throbbed with music and people,
and the grounds were all lit up. From the looks of things, this was the party
of the year, one you wouldn't want to miss if you gave a shit about that kind
of thing. I got to wondering if Whitney had been invited.

Shimmy attempted a U-turn into the heaviest
traffic. After a minute or two of trying to bring the big car around, a couple
of people started honking, but finally we were facing the way we came in. He
slowed way down as we headed back, passing Whitney's house.

"What now?" he asked.

"Turn down there."

I pointed at a nearby side street and he
made the turn.

It, too, was packed with cars, so we didn't
find a spot until we'd turned another corner to go around the block. By now
we'd gone nearly three blocks from Whitney's house, and we couldn't see it from
here. We circled the block again, but there were no convenient spots to be had.

Just before coming back out onto Whitney's
street, Shimmy stopped at the stop sign around the corner from his house and
shrugged.

"Why don't we just park in the
driveway?"

"Because if they do come back and see
a car in the driveway, their guns come out, and whoever's in the car won't
stand a chance."

I told Doc to get the door to the house
open for us. He slipped out, becoming one with the night as he crossed the
street toward Whitney's lawn.

We drove around the block once more.

No luck.

Pausing again at the stop sign, we could
see that both sides of the street were still lined with parked cars. The big
V-8 idled on the corner, its full-throated hum hinting at its hidden power.

My eyes moved to Shimmy. The overhead
street light cast a whitish film across the side of his face. The line of his
jaw was tight and grim, and his clear eyes stared straight ahead. Beyond the
windshield, all the coconut palms along the street waved in the warm evening
breeze.

"You know," I said, "if they
get back while we're still in there, there's going to be trouble, and it could
be real bad. Two of the Russians will be holding for sure, probably Whitney's
boys, too."

Shimmy remained silent, his gaze fixed on
the windshield.

"We're probably gonna have to take out
all four guns," I said softly.

His eyes narrowed.

"I know."

"If it comes to that, and they draw
down on us, you take Whitney's two boys. They're the ones with the long hair.
I'll do the Russians."

He turned toward me.

"I've got a sawed-off in the trunk.
You want to use it? It'll do a lot more business than that popgun you're
holding."

"Go ahead and get it."

He got out and went to the back, looked
around to make sure no one was watching, and retrieved the shotgun. Easing the
trunk shut, he got back in the car.

"Here it is. Modified Remington
twelve-gauge."

I could tell by the way it sat in his grip
that it was a well-balanced weapon. He started to give it to me. I pushed it
back at him.

"You keep it. Let me use your
automatic."

He pulled the pistol, then handed it my
way, butt first, along with a couple of loaded magazines. I put one in each of
the top pockets of my guayabera.

"Gloves?" I asked.

He produced two pair. We snapped them on.

He had about a dozen extra shells for the
shotgun, which he loaded into his pockets.

"You know, Don Roy, I'm glad we're
doing this. Like I said, I've always hated BK. Always trying to weasel out of
paying Mambo on his sports bets whenever I went to collect. And then, what he
did to Norma. Just to pay off his fucking debts! Now it's his turn to pay. And
it's about goddamn time."

I put a hand on Shimmy's tense forearm.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves,
bubba. If it comes to that, we only take out the guns. BK's probably not gonna
have one. Well … let me put it another way. If he finds one, okay, let him have
it. But we're not murderers. We don't do that shit."

He ground his teeth together. As he paused
to look down at the shells in his hand, he sent me a single reluctant nod.

Right then, my thoughts drifted to Norma.

I recalled the pledges I'd made to her, the
bond between us, the life we'd have together when this was all over. I thought
of walking with her, hand-in-hand, to … to meet our future, whatever the hell
it was, to meet it head on.

All I needed was my share of the money, and
I felt we could pull it off. I really did.

The way it looked to me, as long as it was
the two of us — Norma and me — sticking together, we could face any
goddamn thing the world threw down in front of us.

From out of nowhere: "You boys
ready?"

It was Doc, back in the car. I had no idea
how he'd gotten there.

I snapped out of my thoughts.

"What've we got?" I asked him.

"Same way I got in before. There's one
of them doggie doors in the back. You know, a panel on the back door to the
house that swings in and out to let the dog out whenever he wants. Judging from
the size of it, I'd say it's a pretty big mutt, too."

I said to Doc, "I didn't think Whitney
had a dog."

"He don't. At least, there wasn't one
there on the two occasions I've visited him. My guess is it was prob'ly there
from the last owner of the house."

"Doc," I said, "that's not
gonna do me any good. I'm too big to get through one of those things."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I slipped
through it myself and unlocked the kitchen door for you. All you apes got to do
is just walk right in."

Shimmy and I both chuckled pretty good.

A minute later, a spot finally opened up on
Whitney's side of the street, about fifty feet from his driveway. Shimmy moved
the car over to it, muscling his way in, while pissing off some other sap in a
Lexus who had his eye on it at the same time. The Lexus was a hair too late, so
he backed away from Shimmy's aggressive maneuvering.

Before I got out of the car, I turned
toward the back seat to look at Doc.

"The safe in here is similar to the
one we just saw," I told him. "You open it up and then get the hell
out of there. Come back out here and start the car. You're gonna have to be our
substitute driver."

"No problem, man. I can handle
it."

"Wait for us with the motor running.
While we're inside, work the front wheels into a position where you can pull
straight out of this parking spot. We won't close the doors all the way. If you
see us running out of the house, get ready to move fast."

"I got it, man. You just make sure you
get your white asses outta there in one piece, awright?"

I looked straight at him. "If the Land
Rover and the Mercedes show up while we're inside … say a prayer."

Shimmy slid the pump on his shotgun, moving
the first shell into the chamber. The deadly sound froze us for a moment,
reminding all of us of what we were about to do.

As if on cue, Shimmy and I took a deep
breath at the same time. We got out of the car, pushing the doors almost
closed.

Then we moved silently toward the back of
the house.

THE
unlocked door awaited us.

We slipped inside, across the big, unlit
kitchen and into the dining room. Beyond that was the main hallway.

The huge living room sat off to one side,
with the office right next to it. The hallway led to Whitney's bedroom. Just
like Rita said, in the corner of his closet was a piece of carpeting that
lifted up to reveal the safe. Doc took a look at it.

"It's a different model than the other
one," he said.

"Can you get inside?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. Just gonna take me a little
bit longer, is all."

I looked at my watch. Eight-thirty.

Time for Whitney's plane to arrive. Ryder
should be waiting for him.

A little drop of sweat broke out of my
hairline, beginning a slow roll down the side of my face. I let it go.

Shimmy stood guard outside the closet
doorway. The darkened bedroom was illuminated only by the slender shaft of dim
closet light, as well as whatever light could slink in from the street. Long
shadows fell across his taut figure, clad in a black tank top and black pants.
His twelve gauge was at the ready.

Doc fiddled a few minutes more with the
safe, cursing it under his breath.

"Should we forget it?" I asked.

"Naw, naw, I'll get it."

Nervously, I glimpsed my watch again.
Eight-thirty-six.

Then I heard a little click. The door to
the safe jerked open.

"There you go," Doc said with a
smile.

I looked inside. There were no closed
compartments, only a ton of cash.

I turned to Doc. "Okay, man, scram.
Get the car going. We'll take care of this. And leave the satchel."

Doc hustled through the hallway, out into
the night while Shimmy and I loaded up the satchel with lots and lots of those
10K banded wads. Beneath the cash, there was a lot of paperwork, some of it in
Russian.

I left it, while leaving the safe open, as
well.

As we headed into the hallway, we were
stopped cold by the sound of the front door opening. We ducked back into the
bedroom.

They talked in low tones as they entered
the house. Whitney's voice sailed above the others. From what I could tell,
they were all here. Whitney, the Russians, everybody.

What
the fuck is this? Why didn't Ryder bust them?

More sweat dripped down my face. I ran my
arm across it, wiping it with my sleeve.

In a moment, their voices faded as they
went into another room, probably the office.

We crept into the hallway toward the front
of the house. As we neared the dining room, we realized we couldn't go back
through it to the kitchen door without being seen by everyone in the office.

I thought about making a run for it, but it
might well get us both shot in the back. Just a couple of low-class burglars
who got what was coming to them. Whitney would probably get a medal.

I whispered to Shimmy, "Let's take
them now."

He nodded, tightening his grip on his big
weapon.

Whitney was talking, but when I stepped
into the room, all heads jerked around in my direction. Shimmy moved in behind
me.

I took a quick count.

Straight ahead, Whitney sat at the power
desk in the corner, BK in one of the big leather chairs in front and a little
to the left of it, and an older guy wearing a sportcoat in the other chair.
Standing behind the chairs way over to the left were my old pal Alexei from
Norma's place, and Yuri Vasiliev, looking even colder than his photo. Milton
and Bradley sat on the sofa on the right by the far wall.

Everybody jerked around in our direction,
stunned by the intrusion.

Alexei's hand instinctively moved toward
his waistband.

"Don't even think about it,
Alexei," I said, pointing the nine millimeter directly at his midsection.

"Now, everybody put your hands where
we can see them."

Whitney stood up.

"What the hell is this, Doyle? What are you
after?"

"Sit down!" I said. "BK. Get
up and get all the guns in the room. Start with Alexei here."

The older Russian spoke.

"Wilson. Who is this...this
thug
?"
he said in accented English.

"You'll never get away with this,
Doyle," Whitney said. "You're a fucking dead man."

"You think about this," I told
him. "You might get there before I do. BK, get moving!"

BK got up from his chair, easing over to a
spot behind Alexei, reaching under the front of the Russian's tropical shirt.

"Slowly, BK," I warned him.
"And use only your thumb and forefinger. Drop it on the floor."

He pulled Alexei's heater out and let it
drop.

"Nice and easy. Kick it over to
me," I said. He did, and then did the same with Yuri.

"All right, BK. Now Milton and
Bradley."

He went over to the sofa. Bradley tried to
stare me down.

"Easy, Bradley. Don't get any big
ideas."

Once all the guns were in the center of the
floor, I kicked them one by one underneath the big couch next to the end table
that held the secret file cabinet.

I turned to Whitney.

"Now, Mr Whitney, somebody in this
room is going to have to answer for Frankie Sullivan."

I tossed a glance at Vasiliev. He caught
it.

"I want the full story of his killing.
And you can start at the point where he gave you my money to, quote-unquote,
invest."

"You're out of your fucking mind,
Doyle," he growled. "If you think for a minute that I —"

I swung my right arm hard. The .22 in my
hand caught BK flush in the face, sending his head snapping over the back of
the chair. He yelped twice, a couple of high-pitched barks. A cut opened along
his cheekbone, then blood flowed onto his nice linen shirt.

"The next one breaks a few teeth, Mr
Whitney. Now, how much do you care for your son's well-being?"

"Doyle, you have no idea how dead you
are!"

"Tell
me what I want to know!"

"How about I tell you this? You and
this street trash punk you brought with you can both go
fuck
yourselves!"

I took another swipe at BK's face. I heard
cracking.

He howled again, then spit two teeth out,
along with a good deal of his own blood.

"See what he thinks of you, BK?"
I said softly. "Think he gives a shit what happens to you?"

I turned back to Whitney.

"The next one's gonna be even worse.
You want to tell me about Sullivan's murder now?"

His right hand slid down off the desktop,
obviously toward the top drawer. He was trying to be cool about it, but you
could spot it a mile away.

"
Hands on the desk!"

He put his hands back, palms down on the
desk.

"Let's have it, Whitney. I'm running
out of patience."

"You know what you can do," he
replied.

I swung my arm up again, only this was the
hand that held the big nine millimeter. BK saw serious damage coming.

He shrieked, "
No! No!
I'll tell you! I'll tell you, Doyle!"

My arm
stopped.

"Okay,
let's have it."

"
Will!"
his father
shouted. "Keep your mouth shut!"

BK
hesitated, then looked back up at me. Through his bloody face, his eyes were
desperate to talk. I knew he was going to tell it all.

Before he
started, I reached past him into the breast pocket of the older Russian's
sportcoat. I pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to BK.

"Here," I said. "Clean
yourself up a little."

He wiped his mouth as well as his open face
wound. The pain jabbed through him, I could tell. He was near tears.

"
Goddammit!"
Whitney
roared. "Don't say anything!"

"Sure,
don't say anything," BK moaned.

He tried
to stop the blood draining from his big gashes. It flowed out anyway.

Tears
finally made their way out. They were tears of physical pain, of course, but
they were mixed with tears of emotional hurt, too. I knew those very well.

"You'd like that!" he cried.
"I keep my mouth shut while they beat the shit out of me, maybe kill me!
You don't care about that, though,
do
you! Who the hell am I, anyway?
I'm only your son. Your
fucking
son!"

He doubled over in agony. His sobbing was
out of control.

After a minute, he got himself back
together, sort of.

"All I wanted was to be mayor! That's
all I ever fucking wanted. But you … you had to have … all this!" He
spanned the room with his arm, including all the people in it.

Whitney's head dropped a little. He knew
what was coming.

BK looked up at me through his tears.

He said, "It … it goes back before
Sullivan invested the money. A couple of years ago, not long after I was
elected mayor, we did a sister-city exchange with this town —"

"I know about that," I interrupted.

"Well, what you probably didn't hear
about was why we did it. It was so that the Russians could come and go from Key
West without attracting any attention. Every time they showed up here, we just
tied it to some made-up sister-city event."

Whitney leaped out of his chair.

"
Will!"
he bellowed.
"Shut the fuck up!"

Shimmy raised his sawed-off to eye level,
aiming it right at the old man.

"
You
shut the fuck up!"
he cried. "And sit your fucking ass down! Or you won't have an ass to sit
on!"

"Anyway," BK continued, "we
got the sister-city thing set up because they want to be fully operational here
when Cuba opens up."

He stopped and glanced around at the others
in the room. The old man's gaze sliced through him. BK knew, he absolutely
knew, that things would never be the same.

Everything he'd wanted his whole life long,
his name, his political career, everything, down the toilet.

The loser's look drew down over his bloody
face.

"I know about the Cuba thing," I
said. I pointed toward the older guy in the opposite chair.
 
"Who's this?"

He continued putting pressure on his
bleeding wound with the Russian's handkerchief. The blood kept coming.

"Mr Chernenko here is the
organization's man in Moscow. His father was the Secretary General of the whole
Soviet Union for about a year back around '84. Right before Gorbachev. He's
using his political contacts to make sure the organization is welcome in
Havana."

"When Castro goes."

"Right. Everything was coming
together. It really was. Key West was going to be their American link to the
new Cuba. Casinos, shipping, telephone service...shit, they're into all of
that. And they want to control it all in Cuba."

I didn't tell him that Mambo had other
plans.

Instead, I said, "So what's the
connection between all that and Sullivan?"

"The Russians wanted his building for
a strip joint."

"A strip joint?" I made like I
didn't already know it.

"Well, yeah. Sullivan agreed to go
along with it at first. He was going to be the quote, owner, unquote. But not
the real owner, if you know what I mean."

He winced again at his pain as he brought
the handkerchief back to his face.

"A front."

"That's right. He was well-liked
around town and everybody knew him, so if he switched from Irish pub to strip
club, people might think he'd lost a little common sense, but that'd be it. No
one would really ask any serious questions."

"Like they might if a bunch of
Russians suddenly and visibly took it over."

BK nodded. As he did, a steady flow of blood
dripped all over his shirt and beyond, to the arm of Whitney's expensive
leather chair.

"Plus," he said, "Sullivan
was leaning on us to help him get started with another Irish pub in Havana when
the tourists started pouring in."

"And let me guess," I said.
"The Russians didn't like that at all."

"Not at all."

He glared at Chernenko, then at Vasiliev.

Whitney almost jumped up from his chair
again, but I quick-flicked my gun at him to settle him back down.

At that moment, I heard a few horns honking
outside. It seemed like an intrusion into our private moment. They sounded like
they were close to the house. I prayed nothing had happened to Doc, but the
honking wouldn't stop.