The Barbarossa announced its existence in indigo neon, a ten-year-old update that did nothing to distinguish it from a half-dozen other restaurants within walking distance. The place was usually empty, though on occasion the overfed Cubans who ran the joint would be forced to set down their cigarettes and coffee, or beer, depending on the time of day, and actually maneuver their fat asses around the tables. A waitress wiping the counter moved toward the window that opened onto the sidewalk, where somebody was signaling for something to go.
The tables were fitted with lilac-shaded linen, and glass tops with cracks and chips that cost the owners zero credibility with their budget-minded clientele. Each one was adorned with a plastic vase that held a single paper flower, and every chair had a laminated placemat in front of it, fun facts over a map of Florida, Spanish on one side, English on the other.
Negrito’s name was Ramon Santiago, and he wasn’t Cuban or even Colombian as Leo first suspected, but was born in a banana republic down that way, Ecuador or Venezuela, something like that. Leo never asked and Negrito did not offer extra specifics about himself. He was a nephew of Miguel Santiago, better known as El Negro, which was how he got his nickname. Leo didn’t know where they came up with this Big Black-Little Black business. Negrito and his uncle were both medium-toned Latin guys.
Negrito was hogging a booth that probably fit eight. The table was clear except for that paper posy, a small saucer, and an espresso cup he was drinking from. He was alone. Leo wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not, whether Negrito’s uncle or one of his thugs weren’t going to slip up behind him and strangle him with a piano wire, like in
Negrito was about thirty. He wasn’t more than 5’6”, a rock-solid fat guy who never touched a weight but would bury the biggest Body Tech blockhead in the sand and cut off his head if he was in a bad mood, and Negrito was never in a good one. He looked like he’d gained a few pounds since the last time Leo saw him.
He had a head like Rex the Rottweiler, and his eyes were set way apart like Rex’s, but the animal he most resembled was a hyena, no neck, the head sprung straight from shoulders knotted tight with muscle. His fat cheeks made his thin-lipped mouth look smaller. Handsome, no. But his strong chin saved him from being homely.
He sipped his coffee. He looked Leo up and down. He set the cup on the saucer. After what seemed like a long time, Leo just standing there, he said, “I suppose you think you’re pretty slick.”
Leo could hear him breathing through his nostrils, snuffling like he had a cold. He said, “Why would I think that?”
“Shut up, Leo. Shut up and sit down. You arranged a delivery. That delivery was made. Then they guy who took the delivery got smoked in his hotel room.” His English had no accent. “You gonna tell me you don’t know anything about this?”
“Well, no. I saw the papers. And it was on TV. They said it was, I knew it was Manfred.” He waited for Negrito to say something, but Negrito kept quiet, so he added, “The guy I arranged the delivery for.”
“You thought this would be good for my business? My uncle’s business? Using us as the set-up men in your peabrained scam?” He smoothed the corners of his mustache.
“You know I, I mean I...”
“We’ve got friends, Leo, all kinds of friends, and you know what our friends told us? They told us none of our product was found in the man’s room. Now that’s odd. What happened to our delivery? That’s what I don’t understand. Maybe the guy was able to flip the whole kilo between the time our people left and the time the murderer arrived. Hey, maybe the cops stole it. Maybe the package grew wings and flew across the street into the ocean. What do you think?”
He wasn’t waiting for answers, Negrito getting downright rhetorical.
“Or maybe, just maybe, somebody who had inside information on this deal let his friends in on his secret, and they got themselves an idea. Let’s steal it. C’mon, who’s gonna know? Negrito’s too stupid to figure it out, so let’s tie his operation to the murder of a man who was no trouble to anybody. Bring a blast furnace of heat right down on Negrito. Let’s make an asshole of Negrito. Fuck El Negrito.”
“I swear to Christ and on my mother’s grave I did not rob that guy and I had nothing to do with his murder.”
Negrito raised his fist and swung it down in an arc, slamming the table top. The cup jumped off the saucer and tipped, spreading espresso out on the glass. That earlier nausea Leo was feeling crept further down his intestinal tract. He was struck with the overwhelming urge to shit.
Negrito took a breath and collected himself, letting the red go out of his face. “This is a complicated situation, Leo, but all life is situations. Some you can get around, and some,” he paused, and Leo wasn’t liking the sound of this silence, “you can’t.”
“Man, that is so weird,” Leo interrupted. “I was just thinking that exact same thing —” He was about to say “on the way over” but Negrito cut him off with a ringing slap that made his eyes water up again.
“I’m responsible for this particular situation. That’s lucky for you.” He was totally calm, not a note of emotion in his voice. “Because if it was up to my uncle” — he shrugged to show Leo there’d be nothing he could do — “or the Quiet Man, forget about it.” He shook his head. Slowly. “You hear me?”
“I think I do,” Leo said.
“You might never be completely forgiven,” Negrito said, “but I’m gonna give you the chance to right this wrong. And if I were you, I’d be hoping Negrito was pleased with my solution. Understand what I’m saying?”
Leo understood. He was getting a reprieve, but it wouldn’t last long. He wondered if the solution Negrito was referring to meant he was supposed to kill Fernandez, too, but his voice got smothered with fear, and he didn’t want to seem so stupid he had to ask. This was the difference between Negrito, a genuine tough guy that people were afraid of if people were smart, and that shit bucket JP Beaumond, always fronting how tough he was. Negrito didn’t need to act crazy or dangerous because he
It wasn’t that long ago, two, three days, Leo’s luck was running hot. He thought about it, walking back to where his car was parked. He was calling the shots, sketching the plan for Beaumond and Fernandez, finding out when Harry would be getting out, sending him to Manfred. Admittedly, meeting Harry in the first place had been pure, unconscious providence, but figuring out how to take advantage of it — that had all been Leo, and he’d been on fire. So when had it all gone to shit?
Then he thought of something else. What if Negrito was using him to take care of Beaumond, or Beaumond and Fernandez, he hadn’t decided yet, and then planned to kill Leo anyway? He started feeling sick again.
This was a situation that had taken a dark, dark turn. It was like getting shelled in the ninth when you’d been cruising through the line-up all day. There was definitely something to this, his baseball-situations theory. Once this whole mess was finished and his mind wasn’t cluttered with so many other things, Leo was going to start carrying a pen and a pad. He got a lot of ideas. He’d write them down. Work them out.
When operating under an alias, Harry felt it was best to hang on to your own first name. For example, if you switched to George or Bill, that’s what people would call you, all the people who had no idea your name was Harry, and after thirty-five years of answering to Harry, you might ignore a George or a Bill aimed your way. That’d make people suspicious, or it could lead them to believe you were a moron who didn’t even know his own name. Either way, potentially embarrassing. So Harry lopped off the Healy and substituted his middle name for his surname, becoming Harry James, like the bandleader his old man named him for.
First order of business was finding a place to stay. Fort Lauderdale worked hard to shake its image as a municipal frat party, but the Fiorella-type fleabags that warehoused whatever college kids still showed up in spring were legion. Harry had lots of choices.
The Wind N’ Sand, set close to the street at the top of a shallow horseshoe driveway, was eighteen rooms laid out in a row, wedged between a Muffler Man and a Pancake Palace. Breakfast All Day. It lacked the least hint of anything resembling glory, past or present. A sign promised prospective lodgers TV and air-conditioning. In red and blue block letters it said SPRING BREAKERS WELCOME. The torn screen curling from one of its windows looked very encouraging.
The office was a Formica counter and an empty mail grid, an ice machine, a soda machine, and a glass box that vended pretzels and orange crackers stuffed with imitation peanut butter paste.
A woman in her late twenties was working a word search puzzle in the same newspaper that brought Harry
