Done Deal Read online

  Done Deal

  Done Deal

  Les Standiford

  www.les-standiford.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 1993 by Les Standiford

  First Trade Paperback Edition 2002

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001098501

  ISBN-10: 1-59058-002-8 Trade Paperback

  ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-61595-304-2

  Cover photographs by Tom Corcoran © 2002

  Cover design by Tom Corcoran

  Cover design © 2002 Poisoned Pen Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave. Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This is for Doug Fairbairn and Bart Swapp,

  craftsmen without peer.

  And, as always, for Kimberly, JR, Hannah, and Alexander.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Note

  Prologue: Little Havana

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Acknowledgments

  Deal and I would like to extend heartfelt thanks to Robert D. Orshan, Esq., Nat Sobel, Georgia Newman, Rhoda Kurzweil, and Jim Hall for their invaluable advice, assistance, and encouragement throughout the process.

  Epigraph

  …thirty miles of dusty road, there is no other life.

  —Gary Snyder, “Why Log Truck Drivers Rise

  Earlier Than Student of Zen”

  Note

  While I love South Florida just as it really and truly is, this is a work of fiction, and I have taken occasional liberties with the landscape and place-names involved. May they please the innocent and guilty alike.

  Prologue: Little Havana

  Manolo Reyes glanced at his watch, a digital model with Drakkar printed across its face, then looked out the office window, across the deserted service bays of the station. The afternoon thunderheads had passed over, but the sun was dying, sinking into the Everglades a few miles west.

  It was time to go home, but he hesitated, watching a scrawny street cat worry something flattened on the pavement.

  There were no longer any gasoline pumps out there. Sinclair had pulled out of Little Havana a decade or more ago, certain the neighborhood was a lost cause. That was okay by Manolo. He’d come over from Cuba twenty years ago in a sailboat stolen from a tourist hotel. Bankrolled by two cousins who’d been running a restaurant in the States since Castro seized power, he’d been able to buy the property, keep up the payments on what he made repairing automobiles in the converted gas station.

  He had found a doting wife, Angela. It was she who’d given him the watch, along with a bottle of the cologne it was named for, on last Father’s Day. He had two sons, Carlos and Manolo Jr., sixth and seventh graders speaking perfect English, doing well in the Shenandoah Middle School. He’d been able to buy a modest bungalow a few miles west in the suburbs.

  Indeed he had achieved a good life, and he mumbled a vague prayer of thanks as he stood up from his desk. Outside, the cat pricked its ears up and dashed across the street into the shadows. Manolo stared back down at the papers in front of him and shrugged. So what if he’d never get rich.

  “Raymundo,” he called, closing the ledger book he’d been doing his figures on. Raymond was his new helper, a dark-skinned Dominican of indeterminate age. He’d come in off the street a few days before in response to a sign Manolo had placed in the window. He couldn’t pay much and his helpers rarely stayed around long.

  Raymond stuck his head in from the garage that adjoined the office. His doleful eyes, yellowed, spidered with tiny veins, questioned Manolo silently. He hadn’t spoken a dozen words in the week he’d worked, but he knew how to change a tire and pull a battery, had shown up every morning, did everything asked of him without complaint.

  Manolo hadn’t bothered Raymundo for a phone number, or even an address. He suspected the man slept under an overpass somewhere. He paid him in cash each evening and hoped he’d reappear the next day. Often, when he looked at Raymundo, Manolo thought sadly of how his own life might have turned out.

  “Go ahead, close the gate. We’re through for today,” Manolo said. Raymond nodded and slunk out across the bays toward the heavy chain-link fence that surrounded the property. Even topped with razor wire, it couldn’t dispel the thieves. Hardly a week went by that someone didn’t come in to help themselves to a carburetor, a wheel or tire, a car radio. Manolo had kept a dog for a while, but someone tossed it poisoned meat seasoned with clock springs one night and he’d lacked the heart to get a replacement.

  “Let them take a little,” Manolo told Angela. “It costs too much to stop them.” So he rarely kept customers’ cars overnight, and when he did, he locked them behind the heavy metal doors of the garage where they’d be safe. Let the night people pick the bones of the wrecks in the yard.

  Manolo locked his ledger book away, straightened the desktop, and stepped outside, suppressing a shudder despite the summer heat. He could still envision himself clambering over the wire in the darkness, a man who’d do anything to survive.

  As he came out under the canopy, Manolo stopped short, frowning. The gates were still open and Raymundo had disappeared. A faded sedan, some kind of bargelike Oldsmobile or Buick from the 1970s, sat idling beneath the canopy, its windows darkened to an impenetrable slate, blue smoke wafting from under the engine compartment. It was as if the driver were waiting for an attendant to scurry out and fill the tank from one of the nonexistent pumps.

  A ghost car, Manolo found himself thinking. He shook his head and moved around the snout of the big car. They could bring this beast back tomorrow.

  As he passed in front of the grill, he could hear the throb of music from heavy speakers inside the car and incongruously, the muffled barking of dogs. The engine gave a sudden roar, and Manolo dance-stepped backward. He approached the driver’s side, angry now. Kids. Always messing around.

  He was still a step away when the door opened and a massive black man got up from behind the wheel. The man wore a suit, a very expensive suit, not right for the car he was driving, Manolo was thinking. The man smiled at Manolo and said something. With the door open, the music was thunderous, drowning out the man’s words.

&
nbsp; “What?” Manolo said, shaking his head.

  As he bent closer, the big man snatched him by his collar. Manolo had opened his mouth to protest when the base of the man’s palm slammed against his temple. Manolo’s legs went limp and he felt himself being slung into the front seat of the sedan, the big man sliding in after him, squeezing him up against someone else. Manolo’s head lolled back and he saw a Latin man with an acne-scarred face staring impassively down at him. The man shook his head and turned away.

  Manolo fought to keep his eyes open, but he was dizzy and thought he might vomit. The big man rammed the sedan in gear and backed it, tires squalling, into one of the empty bays in the garage.

  The Latin jumped out and pulled down the heavy doors while the big man dragged Manolo out of the car and propped him against the open door of the sedan. The music echoed off the concrete walls and the vapors from the engine were thick now. Manolo felt his stomach heave. The black man held him upright by his hair while he vomited.

  When he finished, he felt a little better. Tears leaked from his eyes, but at least he could see again. The Latin with the pock-marked face approached the car, reaching into the pocket of his sports coat for something. The black man still held him by his hair. Two other Latins stood in a corner by a work bench, holding Raymond’s face down in a welter of tools and grease. Again, Manolo heard the muffled barking above the music, which seemed to rock the car with its beat.

  “There is no much money,” Manolo gasped. “Take it. Leave us alone.”

  The black man laughed. “Shit, man, we’re not robbers.” He bent to yell into Manolo’s ear. “We came to negotiate.” Manolo’s ear rang. “Show him, Alejandro,” the black man was saying. “This man’s in a hurry.”

  The Latin with the scarred face cut a sharp glance at the big man, then took a thick document out of his coat. He spread it out on the hood of the sedan, was flipping through the pages.

  The big man jerked Manolo’s head up. “Man made you an offer. Made you plenty of very good offers. You keep turning him down.”

  So that was what it had come to, Manolo thought. The fresh-faced Anglo woman from a Kendall office with her offer. Then another Anglo in a suit, from an agency in Coral Gables. And finally some oily men from an unnamed agency who’d called again and again, pressuring him.

  “Buy some other corner,” he’d told them. “For cheaper.” But they’d needed his corner too, they said. Too bad, said Manolo. Too bad. This was his land.

  “I don’t sell,” he said. His lips felt puffy, twice their normal size.

  “Um-hmm,” the big man said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it.”

  The man jerked him along toward the back of the sedan, kicked the rear quarter panel so hard that a metal “Le Sabre” tag clattered to the floor. He pressed Manolo’s head against the top of the trunk. The barking was unmistakable now, savage, mixed with slobbering growls and moans, as if whatever was in there was feeding on itself.

  The man banged Manolo’s head against the trunk a few times. “Man says today’s the last day. Say he’s through fucking around with you. You want to be reasonable or no?”

  Manolo squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. He felt tears leaking out as he shook his head.

  The big man jerked him upright and nodded to the two who were holding Raymond. They dragged Raymond forward.

  Raymond stared at Manolo, his eyes with the same questioning glance. Maybe just a bit wider. One more ration of misery in an already miserable life. What are you going to do about it, jefe? What in the names of the saints are you going to do?

  The big man snapped open the lid of the trunk. Manolo caught a glimpse of fur, teeth. Something…no, two somethings colliding in a frenzy, frantic for the light. On chains, jaws snapping, spit flying, an awful smell of shit and animal stink…

  …and then Raymond was flung inside and the lid slammed down. Snarls. Rap Steady. Raymond’s screams. The man with the ruined face leaned in to turn the music higher.

  The car bucked and heaved until Manolo felt his stomach give way once more. When the big man jerked his head up again, the growls had subsided beneath the steady beat of the music.

  “Now,” the black man said, dragging Manolo through a puddle that ran from under the car. He slapped the papers down on the hood. “You sign the mother fucker or go to work in the trunk.”

  A tremor coursed the metal of the hood, then another. Manolo nodded. Still weeping, he took the pen.

  ***

  Leon Straight was tucking the papers into his pocket, was about to go check on what Alejandro was doing in the office, when he heard one of Alejandro’s helpers shouting.

  “Cuidado,” the guy was saying. Whatever that meant, he didn’t sound happy. Leon turned.

  It was Reyes, the guy who owned the place—or had, that is—swinging a big pry bar, what you might use to strip a tire off a rim or jack an alternator snug against the belt while you tightened the nuts.

  In this case, Reyes was using it for body work. He had round-housed the thing toward—Leon had to stop and think—Kiki, Tati, some fucked-up name like that. Anyway, Kiki or Tati was reaching for his pistol with one hand, was raising his other for protection. He shouldn’t have bothered. The heavy bar cracked through his forearm like it was a twig, glanced off his collar bone, thudded into his neck, just below his ear. The guy went down without a sound, his arm flapping.

  Alejandro’s other helper stared out from behind the wheel of the old Buick, his mouth opening and closing like he was some kind of fish couldn’t get enough air or gill juice, however that worked. Alejandro was away in the office, leaving what had to be left.

  Which meant that Leon, as fucking usual, would have to deal with the matter.

  The force of his swing had pulled Reyes clear past the fallen Kiki or Tati, what did it matter because he was a dead little shit-head now, his eyes open and staring off into nowhere. The things you don’t expect to come up in the real estate business, Leon thought.

  Meantime, here comes Reyes toward him, running, or trying to, as if you could run across all the grease and crud caked since the beginning of time on the floor of the service bays. He had the sharp end of the crowbar pointing at Leon like it was some kind of a spear, which made Leon shake his head, it was so pathetic.

  Leon sidestepped, feeling some of the crud cake up on the side of his new Bally’s—$129.95, marked down—pissed him off, and flung the owner past him, into the wall that separated the service bays from the office. There were a couple of fifty-five-gallon barrels had been stored in that spot. The big pry bar plunged into one of them and lodged fast, oil spraying out around the hole the thing had made in the metal.

  Leon looked down at his slacks. Del Georgios. Nice camel-colored wool, doubled pleated, hung on him nice and soft, felt like a girl breathing up and down his legs, not to mention they seemed to take twenty pounds off his gut. Magic slacks. Same tailor as Alejandro. Two hundred scoots. Now they were two-toned. Beige and crankcase oil.

  Alejandro had made it to the doorway of the office, stood there staring. The other lame had his head poked over the top of the car, pretending he’d be on the case any second.

  The owner was spread overtop of the other barrel, groggy, maybe his head had banged the pump that stuck out of the top. Leon knew what it was inside there. Kerosene. You brought your can in, the man filled you up, you walked five miles back home through the piney woods and your old man slapped you upside the head for thanks, then lit the lantern so he could sit there and drink and stare at his boot tops till it got time to pass out. Mmmm-hmmm, Leon knew about kerosene.

  Reyes stirred, then came lunging at him with a screwdriver he’d found—all the dangerous items lying around a gas station, Leon thought. He caught the guy’s hand, grimaced when he felt the grease and grit, squeezed and shook, the screwdriver clattered to the floor behind the barrels. Never see that again, no sir.

  Leon slammed Reyes back over the kerosene barrel, pulled up
the pump handle, scooted the guy underneath it, shoved down, caught him there, the handle levered down tight, just under his chin. Kerosene gushing out of the spout in the other direction.

  “Fock, man!” That was Alejandro, dancing out of the way, worthless bastard worried about his own Del Georgios, fuck him.

  Leon held Reyes down for a long time, at least ten gallons’ worth, the guy staring up at him bug-eyed and pissed, his face going through a whole range of colors like some speeded up movie of the sun going down. Leon didn’t flinch. What did he expect, come at Leon with a pry bar. Could have been Leon instead of Kaki-wah-te over there with his head dumping out there in the oil slick. It is a tough life, my friend.

  Finally, Reyes stopped kicking. Leon glanced up at Alejandro, shaking his head. “You fucking want something done right,” he said to Alejandro, “you fucking got to do it yourself.”

  ***

  Some time later, Leon sat alone in his own car, a black BMW leased to a nonexistent exporter of optical instruments, waiting to be sure things were settled. He’d retrieved his cassette tape from the Buick, which Alejandro and his pal had on its way to the bottom of a canal in the Everglades somewhere.

  Alejandro wouldn’t miss the tape. He’d bitched about the music the whole afternoon. He’d be wheeling the Buick out the Trail, tuned in to some AM station that played Cuban doo-wop or whatever it was, everybody talking so fast it put your teeth on edge just thinking about it.

  Leon popped his tape on in the Beamer, at a more reasonable volume now, maybe the music would make him forget about his clothes. Dope clothes, the very best. And look what happened. Alejandro going on home, still looking like he just got dressed, Leon looking like he worked at the garage across the way. Nothing fair about it, so forget it, listen to the music.

  Luther and the Crew, he thought, moving idly to the rap. They talked some bad shit, but Leon wasn’t convinced. He’d been at a party one night, some enormous house on an otherwise white folks’ golf course, caught a look at the group members close up. Tell those boys his stories, Leon thought, they’d be singing soprano.