The Consummata

Thanks to Charles Ardai of Hard Case Crime, that day is here.

The story is set in the late ’60s, when Mickey began it.

CHAPTER ONE

They were closing in.

There were two up ahead, another pair behind me, and when I reached the corner the trap would snap shut...and only open again inside a maximum security prison where every contrivance devised by experts knowledgeable in the science of incarceration would be utilized to keep me there the rest of my life.

At least I had given them a run for the taxpayers’ money. Still, it was a damn shame this melodrama had to wind up on a side street in Miami with the federal boys having all the advantage, and me with the job I had to do so far from over.

In the reflection of an angled window, I saw a black sedan round the corner behind me and cruise at a walking pace. Modern technology was raising hell with being a fugitive—each two-man team carried an attache case packed with a communications rig. That kept the pairs fore and aft in touch with the rolling forces as well as other teams that would be blocking off any remaining escape avenues.

It was my own damn fault, but part of the odds I had to face. When you come out into the open, knowing your photo is in every post office, representing a forty-million dollar haul every hood would like to hijack—and that any stool pigeon would like to cash in for big-league brownie points—well, you are really bucking the odds.

I had one thing going for me, anyway—this was a capture operation, not a hit. They’d have orders to go all out bringing me back alive, even risking taking on fire themselves. Your life carries a high premium when they think you’re the only guy who knows where a forty-mil payday got buried.

Just the same, they had minimized any chance of defeat. Federal suits hit the streets with local fuzz playing backup—a power play from the second they’d made me.

When exactly they got me in their sights, I didn’t know—sometime during the last four days—but now all I could do was lead them down a blind alley as far away as possible from those who had covered for me.

My trackers kept their suitcoats unbuttoned to make for easy access under government threads designed to disguise the artillery beneath their arms. But they weren’t as smart as they thought they were. Suits in stifling weather like this? And dark colors, not even going pastel for the season and the locale. Picking out these feds in a Florida crowd was like spotting a turd in a punch bowl.

But all their man- and firepower was unnecessary because I wasn’t even packing a rod. They sure were going all out to get their forty million bucks back.

Forty million I never had in the first place.

Overhead, the summer sun had started to snuggle down into its pocket in the west, leaving the heat of day shimmering off the buildings of a neighborhood where white guys in suits didn’t belong in the first place. Little cream-in-the-coffee Cuban kids ran around like mice, shrieking and yelling in two languages, bare feet slapping the hot pavement.

The little ones were lucky. One way or another, they had made it off Castro’s island with their families and they had freedom now. They were even free to run on the damn sidewalks.

Another half-block and I wouldn’t be free at all.

Behind me, the pair closed the gap and the car had picked up the pace. With their blank pale faces and black sunglasses, they were like robots on a programmed course of action. And they were timing it very nicely. There was a surety about their movements that reflected absolute confidence in their maneuver.

Until I had walked them into Little Havana, they probably figured I hadn’t smelled them out, and that when they took me, the surprise would be complete. Only now they had to know that I knew, and that was not a good thing.

In fact, it put me in a worse place. But when they took me down—and they would take me down, all right—I’d at least have the fun of sitting in an interrogation room chair and letting them know how fast I’d got on to them.

“Glad to help you boys out,” I’d say. “Maybe you can be more on the ball next time. Might want to skip the Brooks Brothers in tropical climes.”

And I would have the small pleasure of making them squirm, while they would have the big pleasure of slamming my ass in solitary confinement.

If I had wanted to throw Penny and Lee to the wolves, I could’ve broken loose; but you don’t do that to friends. I had to put distance between myself and those who’d risked everything to shelter me, and play it out with the odds against me, and if I lost, I lost.

It was as simple as that.

Up ahead a pack of little muchachos let out a howl of bird squeals as they came tumbling around the side of a building, racing toward me with another pack in pursuit, playing one of their crazy kid games. I paused while they flowed around me, then edged myself toward the wall so the second bunch of brats wouldn’t have to use me for an obstacle course.

But suddenly I had become part of their game.

They had me surrounded, with half of the pack pushing and the other half pulling, and somehow under the yelling I could make out a tiny voice whispering, “Go in, senor...go inside, rapidamente!”

I had time for one quick look around and spotted the first bunch of kids piled up in front of the pair of tails who were trying to pick and claw their way through the mini-mob hanging onto their legs and arms when an adult hand grabbed my shoulder, hauled me through the doorway beside a grocery store, and shoved me into the gloom of a corridor.

The sun outside had been so blinding that the transition threw me into total darkness for a second, but I followed the hand that tugged at my coat, stumbled twice, recovered, then felt myself being guided into a recession in a wall. To call it a closet would be generous.

The voice said, “Stay there. Be quiet, senor.”

Then something was slammed in place—not a door, more like a panel—and I had just enough room to feel like I was in an upright coffin.

Out there somewhere, a woman was screaming in anger, her lung power fantastic. She was the lead instrument in a raucous symphony that included babies bawling, kids yelling, feet pounding, furious voices barking orders in English, and only getting in return a chorus of excited Spanish.

A husky male voice said, “Damnit, you people—shut up! You, lady...cut that yelling, now! Jesus Christ. Lou, will you tell them to speak English, goddamnit!”

A younger, higher-pitched voice rattled out commands in fluent Spanish and answers came from a dozen mouths. The screaming woman took over after a few seconds, demanding in her shrill, distinctive fashion to know who these invaders were.

In the momentary lull, I knew the feds must be flashing their fancy credentials.

In Spanish the woman intoned in a mix of sarcasm and resignation, “So—the militia. Your type, they are here only two ways—when they are not needed, or when they are too late. Where were you, when that crazy gringo came running in here and knocked everybody and everything over? The children, too! Did you see what your madman did to our little ones? Knocking them over like dolls? But, no—of course you don’t see!”

“Ma’am....”

“No, you stop in the street to play games with them. Should we thank you for such attention? You play games, then finally you come pushing in here and make all the noise, and now the bambinos, they will never get to sleep. The customers, they will stay away today because of the crazy white one running through, knocking over things and people! You militia, you are of such great help...”

“Take it easy, senora. Take a breath, and tell us what happened.”

She took the breath. “He ran out through the back. What do you think? If you had been here, you would see!” She paused, perhaps to point the way. “And that is what happened while you were playing games with our children.