Part 35 (2/2)
”Come on, Martine. This heavy s.h.i.+t that's going down with Mako and Eddie.”
The Cuban's hazel eyes narrowed. ”What the f.u.c.k do you know about it? And what the f.u.c.k are you doing here, anyway?”
”Quarry sent me down,” Simbal said. There was no point in bringing the DEA into it at this stage. ”There was a diqui hit in Chinatown last month. Big one. Their main man, Alan Thune, got blown away by party or parties unknown. Then one of the DEA hounds by the name of Peter Curran gets his limbs separated from his torso in Paraguay and the n.a.z.i subculture is blameless. Diqui again. Now I'minterested. So's my boss, the head honcho. The Big Kahuna. So here I am.”
”Why here?”
”Let's go somewhere nice and quiet and discuss this like men. Over a stiff drink.”
The Cuban lifted the .357 so that the muzzle was aimed straight at Simbal's face. ”Why here?”
Simbal sighed. ”Because this is where Edward Martin Bennett is. Isn't that right?”
The Cuban directed them to a little place on Key Biscayne with a spectacular view of downtown Miami, if one was fond of watching the decay that follows greed setting in. Great granite, marble and smoked-gla.s.s towers rose up in the same profusion that hen's teeth sowed into the ground produced an invincible army. Hotels built almost overnight during the feverish years when it was thought gambling would be legalized in Miami. Multimillions sunk into lumbering leviathans that now stood nearly empty, silence filling up their cavernous interiors, all in receivers.h.i.+p, functioning like limping men old before their time.
But beneath the shade of a faded striped umbrella, the bay was bright and sparkling, the powerboats streaking its surface like water spiders, setting a low background rumble.
The Cuban sipping at his rum and c.o.ke and saying, ”You know, I think they were insane, man, to change this thing, this great American thing.”
”What thing?”
”Coca-Cola, dude.” The Cuban looked at Simbal as if he were an idiot. ”An American tradition, uh? What the f.u.c.k they have to go and mess with that, tell me? Now none of that s.h.i.+t tastes right, no matter what they call it. I mean, what's tradition for, anyway?”
Simbal went at his vodka tonic judiciously. ”Murder has a habit of making me a little testy, Martine,” he said. They both wore dark gla.s.ses because of the sun and the glare off the bay. That was bad for a negotiation but, thought Simbal, it was a d.a.m.n sight better than having a Magnum . 357 pressed against the side of your head. He counted his blessings and was grateful for progress.
”Murder happens every day in our line of work, don't give me any bulls.h.i.+t here, uh.”
”It doesn't always trace itself back to a SNIT,” Simbal said. ”A member of one agency wiping out a member of another is very likelyto get me bent.” Simbal leaned forward. ”See, Martine, Curran's demise has gotten me a little p.i.s.sed off.”
”So go kick a trashcan around the block.”
”I tried that with your sister.”
The Cuban got red in the face. ”You f.u.c.king piece of worms.h.i.+t, I should've smeared you all over the highway while I had the chance.”
”Maybe you should've,” Simbal said, ”but that's all over and done with, I'm sitting here with you now and we've got some business to get done.
”Anyway, killing me's not going to do you a whole h.e.l.luva lot of good. I'm not with DEA anymore. The Quarry's got its teeth into the diqui. Right now I'm the rabid dog that's chomping away but there's plenty more where I came from. My Kahuna answers to only one man and that's the President of the United States, buddy. The Quarry's got power the SNITs only dream of. I don't think it's to your advantage to get your bowels in an uproar with me. Not when I could be your friend.”
The Cuban said nothing for some time. The maitre d' led a family of three past their table and nothing was said until there was empty s.p.a.ce around them.
”Then you'd best tell me more about it, dude. I don't think I'm ready to believe you're down here because of a murder. Got the Fat Boys Inst.i.tute for that, man.”
”The FBI couldn't solve this one if I handed them a map and said Professor Peac.o.c.k in the drawing room with the knife.”
But the Cuban was already shaking his head. ”You a heavy hitter, dude. You get sent in when things is all fallin' to s.h.i.+t.” He had ceased to drink, Simbal noticed; merely rolled his gla.s.s around on the table. ”That what's happening here?”
”You and Mako,” Simbal said.
The Cuban shrugged. ”He and Bennett've hooked up together. That's what I'd heard, so I needed to get it firsthand.”
”And?”
”What did Mako tell you?”
The Cuban turned his attention back to Simbal. ”He and I, we moving boatloads of s.h.i.+t in and outta coves all around Miami. What more d'you want?”
”I want to know what he and Bennett are up to.”
The Cuban grunted. ”Why don't you ask him right out then? I'm sure he'd oblige you.” He shook his head.
Simbal took a conversation pace backward. ”What do you suggest?”
The Cuban feigned astonishment. ”You askin' me?” His eyes got big around. ”Madre de Dios! What could us po' folk stuck in the trenches with our noses in the mud these guys rake up tell you, the Great White Hunter?”
”Cut the comedy, Martine.”
”Jesus, you really got a nice pair of cojones on you, dude.”
Simbal ignored him.
”What're Bennett and Mako up to?”
The Cuban shrugged. ”I don't know. You tell me.”
”You'd better let me in on it,' Simbal said.
After a time the Cuban said, ”s.h.i.+t,” took a swallow of his drink. ”He's got a party going later tonight, after midnight. Real exclusive bash. I'm supposed to hook up with the two of them there. Dealing with Mako's been strictly dust city.”
”Bennett,” Simbal said reflectively, ”I suppose if you're in I'd better brief you,” the Cuban said a bit sourly.
”I've already read Eddie's file,” Simbal told him.
”That means there's a lot about Eddie Bennett you don't know.”
”Oh?”
”You don't know this hombre personally, you don't know s.h.i.+t about him.”
”Meaning?”
”Edward Martin Bennett's one mean motherf.u.c.ker.”
”Tell me something I don't know.”
”I'm tryin' to, dude.” The Cuban reached for his drink, took another healthy swallow before he said, ”It was this way: Eddie and Peter Curran had a falling out.”
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