She closed it and went inside Miller’s, where it was blissfully cool and noisy with a busy lunch crowd of local businessmen and blue collar workers drinking beer and watching one of the three dozen flat screen TVs mounted all over the place.
She quickly spotted Miguel Jado in his light blue U.S. Postal Service uniform sitting at the far end of the long horseshoe-shaped bar that easily accommodated 50 customers. Booths lined both walls peppered with sports memorabilia, with two dozen tables in the center of the main dining room beyond the large bar.
He saw her, too, she knew from the fidgety way he acted when she walked over to him and took the seat next to him. He’d purposefully sat at the end of the bar farthest away from the crowds so they would have a little privacy.
“Miguel,” she said with a big smile. “You’re looking good. How are you?”
He might have been better than he looked. Jado was about 55, but looked 65, with drooping shoulders and a threadbare mustache that needed trimming badly. He sat there glumly drinking an iced tea.
“Hola, Aricela,” he said.
“You look sad, Miguel. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got to get another advance from you, Aricela,” Jado said in a low voice. “It’s my bookie. He won’t wait any longer.”
Aricela shook her head and clicked her tongue.
“If you’d buy Powerball tickets instead of playing the horses, you’d do better, Miguel,” she said with a sigh.
Jado leaned closer.
“Aricela, I need $8,000.”
“I can give you $3,000, Miguel.”
“I need it, Aricela!” he said in an urgent whisper.
“I have $3,000, Miguel. That’s all.”
“When can I get more?”
“You’re already into me. What have you got for me today?”
Miguel was about to reach for his backpack when the barmaid came over.
A gringa, thought Aricela. All blonde and pert and chirpy.
“Hi, my name’s—”
But Aricela wasn’t having any of it.
“Diet Coke. In a can. That’s what I want.”
Aricela saw the girl draw back when she got a look at Aricela’s face, but her training was good and she recovered quickly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, we only have fountain Coke. Will that do?”
“No, but I’ll take it. You used to have Diet Coke in a can.”
“But we don’t anymore.”
“I know.”
“Would you like to order something?”
Aricela hated this girl. She just beamed cheerfulness. Aricela saw that Miguel hadn’t ordered anything.
“Miguel, you should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I like the Fiesta Nachos. We’ll have that. Miguel, you can share.”
Jado shrugged. He didn’t care one way or the other.
“Fine,” he mumbled.
Aricela liked the Fiesta Nachos at Miller’s—a huge mound of crispy tortilla chips layered with fresh ground beef simmered in ancho chili seasoning, pico de gallo, and Jalapeños smothered in Jack and cheddar cheeses, then melted until bubbling hot. All this was topped with sour cream and guacamole. $8.99, not to mention the zillion calories. She reminded herself to order a salad tonight when she went to dinner with Severo at La Casa Del Churrasco in Hialeah, his favorite place.
There was a Victoria’s Secret about half a mile from Miller’s Ale House and Aricela wanted to make a stop there for some sexy lingerie after she finished with Miguel Jado. It was an early Christmas present for Severo. Severo wasn’t the handsomest man in the world, but she was so thankful that he’d stood by her after the incident with the Doberman.
“And bring extra Jalapeños on the side, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After Blondie went away, Jado reached into his backpack and brought out a brown envelope about two inches thick.
“How many?”
“About 70 or 75 Social Security checks.”
“That’s pretty good,” said Aricela.
At an average of $1,500 to $2,000 each, you were looking at $120,000 to $135,000. A good haul.
Miguel averaged 60 checks a month on an annualized basis, which netted the Oyebanjo operation some $1,250,000. Aricela had seven other postal workers in her little network. All together, they did about $10,000,000 a year.
Easy.
She had several postal workers she’d been cultivating on the West Coast, but they were not operational yet.
“You’re getting a lot from me, Aricela. I’m not getting much from you.”
Blondie came back with the tall glass of Diet Coke and quickly went away to the busier end of the bar.
“I’m doing the best I can, Miguel. I don’t get to keep but a little bit of this money. You know it goes through five or six guys. Everybody gets a little bit of the action.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out $3,000, which she slipped to him under the counter after scanning the area. No one paid them the least attention.
“It’s better than last month. But I can’t take them every month.”
“I don’t want you to, Miguel. The last thing we want is for you to get caught.”
“My wife would kill me.”
“Hold back on the gambling, Miguel. Save the money I’m giving you. You’ll need it someday.”
“I’ve got a government pension when I retire in two years. It’s good for life.”
“You won’t have much of a life if your wife finds out you’re spending three half-days a week up at Calder Race Track.”
“I need to get more money.”
“I’ll go out on a limb and get you another $3,000 tomorrow. I’ll meet you at 1:30 at the Ruby Tuesday next door.”
It was better with Miguel to dole the money out slowly.
“But you hate Ruby Tuesday.”
A food runner brought the oversized plate—more like a platter—of Fiesta Nachos, a cloud of steam billowing up from the pile of gooey mess. It looked like a cow had just shit something yellow and brown. The food runner put the side of Jalapeños down next to the platter.
“I can’t have Fiesta Nachos two days in a row,
