Setup on Front Street (3 page)

CITY
Hall was in the same building as the police station, on Angela Street, just a
few doors up from my rooming house. Even though I'd stashed the hardware back
in my room where no one could find it, I was plenty nervous going in there. It
crawled with cops. I had to thread my way through all of them to get to the
mayor's office on the second floor.

There it was at the end of the hall. The
sign on the door said "Wilson J Whitney Jr, Mayor".

Wilson J Whitney, Junior.

Boy King.

It was lunchtime, so no receptionist. I
walked in without knocking.

He was on the phone, relaxed, leaning back
in his swivel chair. When he saw me, he jolted into a straight-up facing-front
position.

"Yeah, that's right," he said
into the telephone, in a let's-get-this-over-with kind of tone. "Boston
for a nickel. Right … right. Okay … later."

He came out from behind his desk. He'd
always been short, a little on the slim side, but he'd gained weight since I'd
last seen him. He'd kept most of his good looks along with most of his sandy
hair, a thatch of which perpetually dangled over his forehead.

As he pasted on his best campaign grin, he
stuck out his hand.

"Well, as I live and breathe. Don Roy
Doyle! Welcome home, bubba."

He pulled me into a phony embrace, patting
me across the shoulders.

"I heard you were back. When'd you get
in town?"

He heard I was back. You can see what a job
it is to keep a low profile in this burg.

"Yesterday."

I pulled away before he could.

"Care for a little refreshment?"
He gestured toward the small wet bar in the corner.

"No thanks."

"Well, I'm gonna have one." He
patted his stomach. "I just had an early lunch at El Siboney, and every
time I have Cuban food, I need a little taste to help with my digestion."

He poured a healthy shot of Bacardi over
rocks, then splashed it with Coke. I had a strong hunch that he took this
digestive aid after every meal, regardless of its ethnic origin.

He took a pretty good pull on the drink. I
tried a little small talk.

"So you finally made mayor."

"Well, when you left for Las Vegas,
let's see, it was what, seven or eight years ago? I'd just come back from up in
Tallahassee as Senator Roberts' assistant. Not long after that, I was elected
to the City Commission. Then mayor in eighty-nine. My first of what I hope will
be several terms."

I was sure it would be. Everyone in town
was sure.

He was just one of those people, you know,
predestined for all this, starting with his student council election when we
were at Key West High. That's where he picked up the Boy King handle.

His father had been mayor since before I
could remember, and everyone just knew that BK would follow the same trail. He
went away to college — Florida State, I think. That's where they all go.
Then he got his first cushy political job.

Now he's right where everyone knew he would
be. Where he belonged, you might say.

"Did I hear you say Boston just
now?" I asked. "As in Celtics?"

He chuckled.

"Just a friendly wager on tonight's
game."

I chuckled back.

BK'd been making these "friendly
wagers" since I ran my football pool back in high school. He couldn't pick
any winners then, either.

"Five hundred dollars sounds pretty
friendly. Who else you got?"

He turned coy. "It's not who else do I
have, but what else is on your mind, Don Roy?"

"Norma."

He clasped his hands together as he rocked
back in his chair.

"Yeah, Norma. Well, you, uh, came to
the wrong place. I don't have any idea where she is."

"When I left for Vegas, you had a
pretty good idea."

"It was all over between you two
before you left. You know that, don't you? You'd run out of hustles here on the
island so you went where the money was. You couldn't afford to take her with
you and she knew it. Before you could cut her loose, she came to me. What can I
say?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

His youthful look hadn't yet left him, even
though he was around my age. That was one of his tools he used to get what he
wanted. The wide eyes, the raised brows, the whole innocent choirboy routine.
He had it down cold, and it made a lot of people cozy up to him.

Of course, they were always unaware of the
knife that he was usually plunging into their backs.

Politics. You can have it.

So here he was, running his game on me, as
though he'd had nothing to do with Norma's dumping me, as though she'd
conveniently fallen out of the sky into his lap. Headfirst, no doubt.

All without his wife knowing about it.

He took another swallow of rum and Coke,
then swayed the glass from side to side, clinking the ice.

I wanted to reach over and slap him upside
the head. Him and his fucking drink.

But I knew better.

You don't muscle the mayor in this town.
Especially when you're fresh out of the joint.

I looked around the office for a few
seconds, as though I'd accepted his line. Then I turned back to him, locking my
eyes onto his.

"So where is she, BK?"

"I told you, I don't know. We split up
around a year ago."

He knew. I just didn't dare pound it out of
him.

"Where is she? Still in town?"

He shifted in his chair. "I don't
know. I just don't know where you can find her. She might've left the
island."

He downed the last of his drink, then got
up from his chair.

"Now, you're gonna have to excuse me,
Don Roy. I've got a meeting in a couple of minutes."

"Yeah, well, if you can manage to
remember where she might be, or if by some long shot, you just happen to
remember her phone number, tell her to find me. I'll be around."

I took a pen off his desk, then wrote the
number of my rooming house on a piece of note paper. I tossed the number back
on his desk along with the pen.

He looked at it. "Where are you
staying now? What about your mother's house up there on — where was it —
Packer Street?"

"It went for taxes after she
died."

He started walking me to the door.

"That's a goddamn shame, bubba. You
grow up in a nice little house in a friendly neighborhood, live there all your
life, and then they snatch it up for taxes. That's happened to a lot of good
people here. They wind up moving way up to Ocala where they can afford a decent
place to live. You know, we've actually lowered property taxes here since I've
been in office. Trying to prevent just that kind of thing from happening."

His arm snaked around my shoulder as we got
to the door. Right on cue.

"If I'm re-elected, I'm gonna lower
'em again, or die trying, I swear. And pretty soon, when Cuba opens up, there's
gonna be plenty of money to go around, so it'll be easier to lower the
taxes."

Ever notice how these politicians are all
alike? You know, how they'll do anything, anything at all, to get your vote.
It's like they're all the same person, just with different skins.

I didn't want to remind him that I couldn't
vote. And that if I could, I wouldn't.

≈≈≈

As I made my way to the front of the building, a hand grabbed my
shoulder hard from behind. Without looking, I slapped it away, wheeling around
instinctively in an attack posture.

I didn't like what I saw.

"Whoa-ho, big man. Better not try it.
You're in civilization now."

"You could've fooled me, Ortega."

"I heard you got back in town. Things
are a little different around here now."

I looked straight at him. He was about ten
years younger than me, in pretty good shape, but not quite as big. The only thing
different-looking was that he was in street clothes. I hoped he'd been fired.
No police force needs an asshole like him.

I turned away, heading for the door.

He followed me outside and when we reached
the top of the steps, he grabbed me again, this time by the arm. When he spun
me around, it was all I could do to contain myself.

"I said things are different
now." Attitude dripped out of his wiseass smirk.

"I heard you the first time."

My narrowed eyes told him to back off.

"As you can see, I'm no longer in
uniform. I made detective."

"When are they gonna put your statue out front?"

"Very funny. Look, dickhead, you
better walk right from
now
on. You make even one tiny slipup and I'll violate your ass right back to the
joint. And when I do, they may not put up a statue, but they'll probably give
me a fucking commendation. And a gold watch to go with it."

"Listen, Ortega —"

"
Detective
Ortega to you,
scumbag."

"Detective Ortega …"

I really shouldn't've had to endure all
this so soon after getting out. It was hard to hold it in. I mean, if anyone
had done this to me just a few days ago, while I was still inside, they'd be
lying on the floor right now, swallowing their own blood.

But standing there on the top step of the
City Hall building, with people coming and going all around me, and with the
entire city police force just a few feet inside the door, I just gritted my
teeth.

"I haven't done anything and you know
it."

"Yeah, not yet, maybe. But sooner or
later you will. And when you do …"

He ground his fist hard into his palm in an
attempt to scare me to death.

"I can't believe you've still got this
hair up your ass," I told him. "All because I beat the shit out of
your big brother ten years ago and ruined your hero worship. I don't suppose
you'd want to know what really happened. Like him coming at me with a broken
bottle."

"Shut the fuck up!"

He poked my chest with a stiff index
finger.

That's when I really had to suck it up. You
see, according to prison protocol, when another inmate does that to you,
they're telling you that the all-out attack is on its way, coming right now. At
that point, your job is to get in the first blow right then and there, no
matter how big the guy is.

All my reflexes told me to unload on him
right then, and I came real close.

Instead, I slowly reached into my pants
pocket for a pair of red dice.

I began grinding them together in my closed
fist to relieve the tension. Otherwise I was going to explode. I'd seen
Humphrey Bogart do the same thing once in a movie, only he had these little round
steel balls. It looked like it worked for him, so I tried it a couple of years
ago. It felt good since it usually relieved the tension all right, but when
violence became unavoidable, the dice in my fist added authority to my punch.

Ortega's nostrils flared, his eyes burning
with fury.

"I've busted a thousand lowlife punks
like you! All thinking they're the baddest, downest motherfuckers on the block.
And you're no different. Pretty soon, you'll be back to your old ways, looking
for angles. And when you find one …" His voice lowered and his upper lip
raised into a sneer. "Well, guess who's gonna be right there with the
cuffs."

I felt I was going to crush the dice into
powder.

"Excuse me while I piss in my
pants."

He turned to go back in the building.
"Just remember. I'll be watching. And waiting." He pointed that index
finger at my face. "One slip and you're back inside."

THAT
night found me in Mambo's. My hangout long before I left town. The only place I
really ever felt comfortable.

It was a dim little spot with no sign out
front, nestled on one of the Old Town side streets, a block or so off Truman.
Most of its small clientele usually operated on the wrong side of the law. Its
chief activity was Mambo's bolita game and sports book run out of the back
room. Because he kept all the right palms greased, he did good business.

The food was by far the tastiest Cuban fare
in all of the Keys, but we were the only ones who could get it. Citizen
customers were discouraged from entering. Mambo didn't need any outsiders
hanging around. Those who did wander in were treated rudely by the Cuban
"waiter", if they got any service at all.

They never returned.

≈≈≈

I had polished off the last of my picadillo when he came to my
booth. I got up and we hugged.

"Don Roy.
¿Cómo estás, mi hermano?
" His upper body was still rock-solid,
even though I made him to be crowding sixty.

"
Bien,
bien
. Now that I'm back home, it's all great."

He was one of the few guys I looked forward
to seeing when I got out. Being from the DeLima family made him a pretty right
guy to have on your side.

The DeLimas weren't gangsters or anything,
not in the traditional sense, anyway. But it was well-known that you didn't do
anything to piss them off. They'd been on the island for over a hundred and
fifty years and their interests penetrated into every segment of Key West life.

He took the seat across from me, then
pulled out a fresh Cohiba and unwrapped it. He ran the length of it past his
nose for a moment, and from the slight smile that cracked his face, you'd think
he just entered heaven. Snipping off the tip, he reached for his lighter.

"How's the food?" he asked in
Spanish. "As good as you remember?" He took his time lighting the
cigar.

Fortunately, my Spanish chops were still
high. Growing up here, you have a choice. Learn Spanish or ignore it at your
own risk. I learned it, mostly on the streets. And since the Nevada prison held
a lot of Mexicans, I heard it every day while I was gone.

But it was different out there — the
Spanish, I mean. The accent, the rhythm and everything, it was all different,
and I didn't like the Mexicans at all.

They were a well-organized, pushy bunch who
controlled all the dope coming into the joint. They were always fighting with
the niggers over one thing or another, so I tried to stay out of their way.

Even still, I had a few run-ins with them —
I even had to ice one of them about a year ago — but I fell into the Spanish
pretty quick. You know what they say, use it or lose it.

"
La
mejor comida que he tenido en años
," I said.

I frankly surprised myself at how easily
the Cuban Spanish came back to me. My accent was nearly flawless, as it had
been before I left.

My eyes swept the room. A few guys sat at
the bar watching the basketball game. From what I could tell, the Celtics were
getting killed. A salsa tune poured out of the overhead speakers. A pool shark
I knew had apparently reeled someone into a game of nine-ball. Anxious
onlookers surrounded the table, changing money after every shot.

I looked into Mambo's warm eyes. "I've
really missed it here, brother."

"We've missed you too, man."

He twirled the cigar in his mouth, drawing
deep pleasure from it while slowly blowing a column of heavy smoke toward the
ceiling. Normally, I hate those fucking cigars — they're just so damned
nasty — but this one sweetened the air somehow. When you combined it with
the tangy aroma of Cuban food drifting out of the kitchen, it was sort of like
the warm breath of chocolate spreading itself over that dank joint.

He told me, "You know, you gained a
lot of respect around here standing up the way you did. Taking the rap for
Sullivan and keeping your mouth shut."

I shrugged.

He went on. "How are you fixed,
brother?"

I could see him reaching into his pocket. I
motioned palms down a couple of times, a forget-it gesture.

"
Todo
está bien
. I got a stake. And I'm expecting big things in about a
week."

As the waiter came by to scoop up my plate,
I saw my empty glass. "But I would like another beer."

"Eduardo," he said. "
¡Dos cervezas!
"

Within seconds, two fresh cold ones sat in
front of us. I slowly drank from mine to wash down the rib-sticking meal.

The basketball game ended on TV. The
Celtics went down by twenty-five points.

I said to Mambo through a chuckle,
"You know, I was in BK's office today and I heard him on the phone betting
a nickel on the Celtics."

"That stupid asshole. He bet it with
me. He had Portland, too. Another loser. A fast thousand in my pocket."

I laughed. Then out of curiosity, I asked
him, "Does he bet with you all the time?"

"Every day," he replied. "At
least seven, eight hundred a day."

I went for another cold pull from the beer.
"I remember when I had my football pool back in high school, he bet with
me every week and lost his ass for four years."

"Well, he's still losing his ass. He's
dumping about three grand a week now, sometimes more. You know, I have players
who want to know the teams he's betting on so they can take the opponents.
That's how much faith they have in him, picking winners."

We laughed and drank to it.

Mambo pushed a leathery hand through his
still-thick hair. Gray had taken it over, as it was about to do with mine. He'd
put on a little weight, although his shoulders were still hard. Black eyes
peered intensely over high cheekbones and a prominent mouth, giving him a
strong presence.

His smile slipped away. "So, did they
treat you okay out there?
¿Tuviste
problemas?
"

"I had a few problems. Nothing I
couldn't handle."

He didn't press me for the gory details. He
knew better.

Instead he changed the subject, which
brought his smile back.

"You know, Pepe Santiago made it to
the majors. He's playing for the Pirates right now. We're all so proud of
him."

I smiled, too. Pepe was a real badass kid —
quit school early, started pulling bullshit stickups, dealing drugs, the whole
stupid shot. When I left town, he was around seventeen. He hadn't been caught
yet, but believe me, he didn't have a prayer. He was on the big night train,
looking hard for that bullet with his name on it.

While he was still in school, however, he
was a great baseball player. Gifted with supple infielder's hands and all the
quick moves.

"That's terrific," I said.
"How'd that happen?"

"Coach García got to him. He couldn't
convince Pepe to come back to school and play for the Conchs, but one spring he
took him up to Miami to an open tryout the Pirates were having. Pepe got out
there and showed why he was the best shortstop ever to play for the Conchs. They
offered him a contract, and three or four years later, he was in the big show.
He's a starter now."

It didn't really surprise me. Before I
split town, I always followed the local team. Pepe was just coming into his own
before he quit school.

Baseball is big here. It's played every day
of the year in one form or another, but at the high school level — the
Key West Conchs — it becomes deadly serious. The team always ranks high
nationally, winning a lot of state championships. Big league scouts make routine
trips down here to check out the new talent. If you've got Coach García on your
side, you've got big juice. When he walks into a major league tryout touting
you as a prospect, they take a look.

I was glad to hear that Pepe got a break
because he deserved it. I knew his family. They were good people.

I digested that good news as Mambo and I
took a couple more sips of beer.

The nearby pool game ended abruptly with an
unlikely shot, the winner whooping in excitement, and money furiously changing
hands among the spectators.

Mambo puffed on his cigar again, then
brought it down to table level. He leaned slightly forward, softening his
posture.

"
Mi
hermano, tú sabes … que ella todavía está aquí en el cayo
."

I was right in the middle of swallowing.
The beer went down hard. Our eyes bonded.

He didn't wait for me to say anything. He
didn't speak her name. He didn't have to. All he had to do was tell me she was
still on the island. I knew who he meant.

He added, "She's working at the Fun
House."

"The Fun House?"

"That's a new place. Opened after you
left. It's a massage parlor up the other end of Duval Street."

"Massage parlor?" My fists
clenched.

"
Yo
sé, hombre, yo sé
. But I'm just telling you, you know? That's where she
works."

"What — how did she wind up
there?"

He reached across the table to put his
hands on mine.

"Man, I don't know the whole story. I
just know that she was working there for a while before BK dumped her." He
squeezed my hands. "I'm really sorry.
Lo
siento mucho
."

A new nine-ball game had started up,
complete with yammering bettors. The overhead speakers pushed out more salsa.
Over the music, frenzied TV announcers rehashed the blowout of the Celtics.

But all I could hear were Mambo's quiet
words.