Setup On Front Street Page 2

  He stayed cool. "Hey, my man! I don't have your money. I told you, it's all tied up. You can't get to it. And neither can I."

  He took a slow drag off his dwindling cigarette, examining the tip as he brought it down from his mouth.

  "I want you to think back, Don Roy. Remember, after you left Key West, you scrounged around Vegas for what — two or three years — working these nickel-dime mail order scams and other bullshit routines. You were nowhere till we pulled that diamond sting."

  My voice barely contained my rage. "And I was the one who took down the mark."

  "I'm the one who set that score up, and it took me, like, six or seven months. This was the take of a lifetime, boyo! What do you think, I'm gonna turn over two hundred dimes in cash to you in a brown paper bag so you can run around buying cars and shit? I'm protecting us, you understand? Now if you got a problem with that, take it up with the investment counselor."

  He went back to his cigarette.

  When it came to brass balls, I had to hand it to him. Here I was twice his size, plenty hot, and ready to tear him apart. But he was still jacking with me.

  I reached across the desk, grabbing him by his silk shirt.

  "Open the safe."

  "Hey, what —"

  "Open the fucking safe!"

  I poised a big fist in front of his face. I saw the beginnings of a quiver. About time.

  He got up. I led him by the shirt over to the safe. He opened it, revealing a wad of cash in there, what looked like about seven or eight grand, along with a couple of passports. I took the cash.

  "Hey, wait a second! That's —"

  "Let's call this the vig," I hissed, shoving him up against the wall. I got right in his face.

  "Today's Wednesday. You got one week to come up with my money, the full load. You better know I mean business, Sully. You don't deliver and a couple of Cubans are gonna come calling on you one night, and the next morning you're in the fucking breakfast sausage up in Little Havana. Got it?"

  He got it. His fear-filled eyes said so. No more of his cockiness.

  "Y-yeah, Don Roy. I got it. You'll get the money. You'll get it."

  I finally released his shirt with one final push. His back hit the wall.

  "Remember, the full load by next Wednesday, or else. And no bullshit stories."

  I headed downstairs, out the back door.

  The night was still warm but no longer hot. It felt good. Back here behind the building, the Duval Street racket was muffled.

  I reached under my guayabera, fingering the scar on my side. I thought about the nigger who shanked me two years ago because I turned the channel on the rec room TV. That's how they do it in there. No warning, no nothing. The minute I turned off his cartoons, he came up behind me and let me have it.

  I dropped him in secret last week, just a couple of days before I got processed out.

  I had one more stop to make. I decided I would make it, then go back to my nice cool room to watch TV.

  Whatever shows I wanted.

  THREE

  UP the street to Keys Tees, one of a few dozen T-shirt ripoff joints on Duval Street. These places were supposedly owned by various foreign businessmen, mostly Israelis. Keys Tees was no different.

  Avi Abraham ran it. I never knew his real name, but whatever it was, you can be sure it was near the top of Israel's Most Wanted list.

  Like all the rest of those places, the bright lights inside Keys Tees spilled out to the crowded sidewalk. Hip new music blared its way outside through speakers hanging in the doorway.

  The blasting AC dropped the temperature about fifteen degrees as I stepped through the wide-open door. Racks crammed with merchandise crowded the floor. T-shirts covered virtually every square inch of wall space, all of them sporting iron-on decals.

  There were no customers, as usual.

  Nine grand a month rent, with no business on a nice evening in high season? You tell me.

  Avi was back at the register, reading a magazine. He never saw me come in.

  I hid behind a rack of overpriced tank tops just inside the front door. The music was quieter inside than out on the street.

  "Immigration!" I shouted. "Freeze!"

  He dropped the magazine as he reflexively jumped off his stool. Quickly, he ducked behind the counter, half-expecting gunfire.

  I stepped out into the open, unable to hold back a laugh.

  "Hey, nothing to worry about, man. Just tell your Russian bosses you got deported."

  Avi slowly straightened up, breaking out into a wide grin as he saw me.

  "Donny! Donny! Ah, you're back!" he said in his familiar thick accent. He was the only guy who I let call me Donny.

  He came around the counter with open arms and we embraced. I was a little taller than he was, but he was bigger around in the middle. His hair, once jet-black, was now thinning a little, showing slim strips of gray. Dark, expressive eyes threw me a welcome look, and his smile was wide and genuine.

  After the hug, with my big shoulders in his small hands, he checked me out, up and down.

  "Ah, you look fine, my boy. When did you get out?"

  "Three days ago. I just got back in town."

  "Must feel good to be back home. Nevada so dry. I been there—Vegas, Reno. I don't like it. Is desert. Like Israel."

  "Yeah, except no Israelis."

  He laughed. "Is good to see you! So good!"

  He finally released my shoulders. A couple of customers wandered in, checking out his selection of Hawaiian shirts. They stayed near the front of the store. He ignored them.

  "You know, Donny, things are changing here. Is different from when you left."

  "How so?"

  "Cuba is going to open up. Very soon. The Soviet Union has disappeared. I'm sure you heard about that." I nodded. "They do not send any more billions of dollars to Castro. He cannot survive without it." I could tell he was getting worked up over this prospect.

  He went on. "They say he will be gone by next year, ninety-three at the very latest."

  "I've heard about that. What do you care about it?"

  "Donny, Donny! We are so close to Cuba. Only ninety miles from Havana itself! When it opens up, we will be a big — how do you say it? Point of — of —"

  "Jumping-off point," I said.

  "Yes, that is it! Jumping-off point. The place where everyone will leave from. You know, everyone will want to go there, it is so beautiful. I have seen it myself. Two years ago, I was in Havana and Varadero. Beautiful beaches, great food, and ay! The women! You have never seen such women!"

  I tried to calm him down.

  "Avi, you forget I was born and raised here. I've been across. I know all about it."

  "Ah, yes. Of course. But anyway, the tourist business will multiply here. Double! Triple! Maybe more. Everybody is going to make a lot of money."

  "Well," I said, "I'm sure you'll get your share of it." I patted him on the shoulder. "And the Russians'll have to buy bigger gym bags."

  I knew the Russian mobsters were drowning in cash since the USSR folded up, and a certain percentage of it was being funneled through places like this one, transported weekly in gym bags from their outpost in Fort Lauderdale.

  A quick smile flashed across Avi's face. "So, what can I do for you?"

  I caught his eyes narrowing a little. Always the merchant. Getting straight to the point.

  I steered him back to the rear counter, away from the customers, lowering my voice to a murmur.

  "I need a piece."

  His face registered no reaction.

  "What kind?"

  "Something relatively small. Maybe a .22 semi-auto. With a muffler."

  "That is no problem, Donny. For you, anything. Now when do you need it?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? So soon. Could be difficult. What time you want it tomorrow?"

  He glanced toward the front to see the customers leaving.

  "Probably around noon."

  "Is very short
notice, I don't know …"

  Listen to this guy. "I don't know."

  I fucking knew. I knew he was setting me up. Ex-con out on parole, very risky transaction, very expensive. I could just hear him giving me his line of bullshit.

  "Avi, I need it tomorrow. Now can you help me or not?"

  "Is not much time, but …well …" Then he grinned again while grabbing my shoulders. "Donny, you come by here at noon tomorrow, I have it for you, okay?"

  My nod indicated that I appreciated the great effort and sacrifice he was about to make for me.

  Another hug and I was out the door.

  Duval Street foot traffic was brisk, with lots of cars cruising up and down. I had no doubt Avi would come through for me. I probably could've lined up a weapon somewhere else if I'd been willing to wait, but I wasn't. So I had to go through him.

  I don't like doing business with Israelis unless I have to.

  But I had a debt to collect, and in my position...well, you get the idea.

  FOUR

  MY bus lag kicked in. I knew I shouldn't've taken that nap, because I stayed up till way after two.

  Despite that, I woke up at seven, just like I'd been forced to do every morning in prison. But I realized I was in a double bed, not a lower bunk. Since I didn't hear any of the usual monkey calls or painful screams, I rolled right over, drifting back to sleep.

  By the time I woke up again, it was ten-thirty and I was fine.

  Breakfast was at a little egg joint I remembered over on Truman. It was a ways away, but I didn't mind the walk. I wanted to get back into the Key West pace of life.

  I took it nice and slow down Elizabeth, a residential street, looking at all the stuff I hadn't seen for so long. The solid houses of Key West's Old Town, each with their own long-held secrets, loomed along both sides of the street all the way to the end.

  Lush greenery covered the yards, while occasional splashes of red and peach bougainvillea got all the green up on its feet. People sat rocking on porch chairs beneath slow-turning ceiling fans, while soft radio music flowed here and there through a couple of open windows. A few bicycles gliding up and down the street were the only traffic. The sun promised a long, warm day, and because it was March, there was practically no chance of rain.

  My hometown looked good in the late morning. I didn't know how much I'd missed it.

  I stopped at a low-hanging frangipani tree, then tugged at one of the limbs, pulling the soft pink buds to my nose. The fragrance was overpowering, sending me back six or seven years, right before I left for Vegas. Back to Norma, back to all those promises we made to each other, back to when her perfumed hair would make me dizzy, when I kissed her for the last time …

  Norma … Norma …

  ≈≈≈

  After breakfast, I stepped out of the eatery into the heat. In only about one hour, the temperature had shot right up — it'll do that here. As I moved along Truman toward downtown, tiny rivulets of sweat broke out along the back of my neck.

  Duval Street at noon. A regular fucking circus.

  The college crowd was in town for spring break, with the boys riding shirtless up and down the street on their rented mopeds, swerving, beeping, whooping. Behind them on the moped seats, girls in bikinis clung to their waists, probably looking forward to an afternoon of Jello shots.

  I was glad when I finally got to Keys Tees because I knew the AC would cool me down fast. It did, while I took note of the eight or ten customers browsing around different parts of the store.

  Cruise ship passenger types, all of them. A couple of Avi's relatives worked the floor: a foxy girl with flowing black hair and a slim young guy with the required beard stubble spoke to the suckers in accented English, pushing them to buy decals for their shirts, which would conveniently jack up the price by about triple.

  Whoever dreamed up this racket was a stone genius.

  A tall, rawboned guy with a yellow crewcut came out of the back, definitely not Israeli, but Avi followed him out as far as the counter. I made him as a Russian.

  He carried a gym bag which, by the way it swung in his grip, looked empty. He left without any goodbyes. Avi saw me, then beckoned me to the back.

  The back room was a hodgepodge of clutter. Clothing all over the place, on hangers, in boxes, on shelves, on the floor, even piled up on the folding picnic table along the side wall. The table served as a desk, while somewhere underneath all of the T-shirts was a telephone, along with other office-type shit.

  Avi pushed some of the clothes aside as we took seats in the plastic chairs at the table. Sidelong, I glimpsed the safe, thinking about the Russian and the empty gym bag. It must've been cash delivery day.

  A Burger King sack sat on the table behind a pile of T-shirts. Avi pulled it toward himself, simultaneously reaching inside. From under the french fries, he pulled a Browning .22 semiautomatic.

  "They don't get colder than this, Donny," he said under his breath. "Never been fired."

  He held it gingerly in both hands, like it was a jar of nitro about to go off, while his small, black eyes constantly darted over his shoulder.

  Taking it from him, I looked it over. It looked good. I jacked the slide, noting the smooth and easy feel. It had good balance, and was nice and light.

  "Ammo?"

  "Yes, of course."

  He reached back in the bag and pulled out two full magazines along with a box of shells and a silencer, all wrapped in a Burger King wrapper.

  I loaded the gun and put the extra mag in my pocket. I rewrapped the silencer and the shell box, returning it to the bag under the Whopper. The heater went into my rear waistband.

  "How much?"

  "Donny, you know is very hard to get a — a virgin piece like this one. And you want it so quickly. I had to call my —"

  "Skip the bullshit, Avi. How much?"

  "Normally, I would charge fifteen hundred, Donny, because you know is crime to sell gun to a convicted felon. But for you, I make it one thousand even."

  What a crock of shit. He could've gotten a surface-to-air missile launcher if I'd wanted one, and in half the time. As it was, he probably got the .22 for free from the Russian who just left, so now he wants me to pour on the gravy.

  Fuck it.

  The bazaar was now open.

  "Four hundred," I said. "That's all it's worth."

  "Four hundred? Donny, this is a fine weapon, never been fired. It cost me more than that. I can maybe go down to eight-fifty. But no lower."

  "Shit, for eight-fifty I could buy two of these anywhere else. Plus a couple of hundred rounds to go with them. I'll give you five because you got it for me overnight."

  "Donny, please. I take big chance selling you this gun. I could go to prison. My business would close! My family —"

  "Okay, okay, spare me the tears. Five-fifty and that's it. And before you say yes, I want you to remember who it was back in eighty-four who shook down the owner of that building in the next block. Remember? When he swore he'd never sell it to you people? And now you own it, right? And what do you suppose is in that building right now? One of your T-shirt operations! Can you say 'thank you'?"

  "All right, Donny," he sighed, looking downcast. "Five-fifty. But I paid you to do that job."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know."

  He did pay me for that job, all right. Ten thousand, in fact, so the owner would cave and sell him the building for three hundred big ones, about twice what it was worth. Everybody made out on the deal. Me, the owner, but especially Avi and the Russians, who are now running millions through that location.

  As I reached into my pocket, I carefully pulled out just a few of the C-notes I glommed off Sully last night. I didn't want Avi to know I was quite so flush. Once the mini-roll was in plain sight, I peeled off six while I fanned out the rest, making sure he saw I only had three or four left. He pulled fifty change out of his own pocket, mumbling some comment about being careful.

  I put the burger bag under my arm and split.

 
FIVE

  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.