The Death Box(95)

thump

“Can you turn the phone off and turn it back on when you need to?”

thump

The phone box went as silent as death. I kept my foot deep in the accelerator as cars pulled to the side of the road. The radio crackled as we crossed Big Coppit Key, minutes from Key West. “Got it,” Gershwin said, putting the mic on speaker. Roy McDermott’s voice filled the Rover, hissing and popping with interference from the storm between us and Miami.

“Pinker’s spilling his guts,” Roy said through the static. “He’s sure Kazankis is behind it, but never had any direct contact. Communications went through a guy named Chaku Morales. They’d meet at a health club downtown, but main operations are centered in a titty bar called the Paraíso. Ownership is buried under a bunch of dummy corporations, but Orlando Orzibel is listed as the manager. We just put surveillance on the place.”

“Down the block from where Perlman got a couple tickets,” Gershwin said. “Friday mornings.”

I recalled the joint, a ghastly three-story building with silhouettes of naked female forms painted on the walls. “Probably picking up his paycheck,” I mumbled.

“Any input?” Roy asked.

“Just watch the joint for now,” I yelled toward the mic. “If Orzibel shows up, take it all down. Careful around Orzibel, he’s a cutter.”

“Bang,” Roy said. “What a happy sound.”

The Escalade slipped down the side street and pulled into the back entrance of the warehouse. The rain was still pouring and if they parked in the club’s lot Orzibel would have to splash through rain and puke from the Saturday-night conventioneers. He planned to hand Amili her cut, have a quick celebration fuck, then a late dinner at a fancy restaurant. To enter with a woman as beautiful as Amili Zelaya would pull every eye to Orzibel. She would be his whore queen. In a year, with planning and stored money, they could take over the operation. Kazankis would have to die, of course.

Orzibel’s heart was dancing as he started up the stairs, but Guzman waved him to stop. “Señor Orzibel … I have a message from Señorita Zelaya.”

“What has she said?”

Guzman nodded to a closed door. “She is behind here. Sleeping. She had the migraine.”

Orzibel frowned as he approached, boots echoing from the concrete floor. “Why here?”

“Her idea. A place to rest where I would be sure she had no way to communicate. She said sleep would restore her.”

“And what was this message she had for me?”

“When you returned you were to enter. And awaken her with a kiss.”

Orzibel beamed and pointed to the stairs. “Go upstairs, Guzman. Tell the barman you have earned a bottle of Dom Pérignon. In fact, I wish all the men to drink Dom tonight. A gift from me.”

The man grinned and started away. “Gracias, señor. You are muy generoso.”

“Close the door at the top of the stairs, por favor,” Orzibel winked. “I don’t wish the club’s music to be overwhelmed by the sounds of passion.”

The man disappeared up the stairs. Orzibel inserted his key in the lock. “Here comes your king, mi puta,” he said, pushing open the door. “Prepare for the night of your life.”

Amili Zelaya waited for him on the mattress, her arms outstretched and her long legs spread wide, the vomited froth of her overdose now dried on her chin and neck, the syringe still hanging from her cold arm.

Tomorrow had passed.





49





“It’s him,” Lonnie Canseco said to Roy McDermott, the phone clutched to his cheek. “The Orzibel guy.” Canseco was crouching beneath a soaked poncho on a rooftop across from the Paraíso and watching through binoculars. “I dunno how the fuck he got inside. Must be a hidden entrance.”

McDermott was smoking a cigar in a command vehicle parked in an alley a block away, Degan at the wheel, Valdez and Tatum in the rear. Canseco had drawn the short straw and was leading the reconnaissance team.

“How do you know it’s Orzi-doodle?” McDermott asked Canseco. “If he’s inside.”

“Because he just kicked open the front door and ran outside, Roy.”

“In the rain?”

“Hang on a sec, Roy, he’s uh … holy shit.”

“What?”

“Orzibel’s shaking his fist at the sky and screaming curses. Not a happy man, Roy. Wait a minute, I uh … this keeps getting weirder.”

“What now?”

“Some huge bald muthafuck just ran out. He picked up Orzibel like a baby and is carrying him back inside the club. What should we do?”

“Take the place down, Lonnie. That’s per instructions from our very own Detective Ryder.”