Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) Page 14

  A brand new tank top, white, stylish. New jeans with a few strategic scuffs—a far cry from the damage on my current ones. She'd even stocked me with several pairs of socks and underwear. As I dressed, each piece of clothing effected a surprising change in my mood. I wasn't wearing a dead man's clothes anymore. Even better, I felt normal.

  I found Milena in the living room, proud of herself.

  "This is the exact same outfit I wore yesterday," I told her.

  She shrugged. "It looks good on you. Sorry I didn't replace the boots. I forgot to check the size."

  I chuckled and shook my head. "I never would've guessed I'd be wearing alligator boots and wife beaters."

  "To be honest, you kinda rock them now." She gave me a wink. "Now come here you big dummy." I joined her on the couch and she handed me a small phone. "This is a burner. Anonymous. Prepaid minutes. It's disposable, so if you think someone's tracking the number, toss it."

  "They can track these?"

  "Trust me. It's a different world now."

  I checked it out. It wasn't nearly as nice as her phone. It was fatter with a thicker frame, but it ran all the basic apps I needed. She showed me them and the screen she'd set up for me. She even listed her own number in the contacts under "M." I added Evan's info using the same unbreakable cipher.

  While I toyed with the device, Milena got ready for work. Eventually, she grabbed a paper shopping bag with fancy handles and I walked her out. It wasn't until the elevator that I peeked inside.

  "Um, Milena, why do you have thongs and stripper heels in your bag?"

  She reflexively yanked it away, then sighed as she realized it was pointless. "Exotic dancer heels."

  I chuckled at the joke but her face was deadpan. She wasn't kidding.

  "You're a—"

  "Shut up!" she yelled as the elevator door opened. An old couple recoiled, aghast at the volume. Milena stormed past them, her flip-flops snapping across the lobby floor.

  "Tourette's," I explained to the elderly couple. I gave them a cartoony shrug to really sell it, then raced outside and caught up with Milena. "Look," I said. "I'm sorry. It's not my place to judge."

  "You're damn right."

  I nodded. "And I get it. Paying for law school or whatever, right? Like you said, the details don't matter."

  She halted mid stride on the sidewalk. I almost ran into her. "Those are the wrong details, Cisco. I'm not going to law school. I'm not going to any school. Dancing is what I do to pay my bills. It's how I live. It's how I got out of Little Havana."

  "But," I fumbled, not wanted to offend her but having to ask. "You and Seleste were always such good students..."

  "Yeah, well, shit didn't exactly go as planned. Did it?" Her eyes flared and she spun away from me.

  I followed again. "But can't you find something better?"

  "Better how?" Still stomping. No eye contact.

  "I... I don't know, Milena. Something a little more... A little less..."

  She stopped again and flashed angry eyes at me. "More respectable? Less sleazy? Screw you, Cisco. What happened to no judgment?" She stormed away again.

  "I didn't mean it like that," I said, but we both knew I had. I continued after her, feeling like an asshole. After a couple blocks, I spoke up. "What are you doing? Walking?"

  "Yes," she answered. "It's only a few more blocks. Parking costs money and they give me a ride home. It's better than some customer copying down my license plate."

  I nodded, and I saw it. The savvy. The toughness. What had happened to me and Seleste was forever a part of her. Everyone's damaged in some way. That's what life does to a newborn. It slowly gives and takes indiscriminately, piling on and stripping away like so many coats of paint. People are just the remnants, the left behinds. And everything considered, Milena was doing very well for herself.

  "Listen," I pleaded. "Just stop one second. I don't want you to leave like this."

  She slowed, huffed, and turned to me. Her eyes were daggers at the ready, but I knew I was safe.

  "I didn't mean anything by it," I said. "Just took me by surprise is all. Honest."

  Milena pressed her full lips together and frowned. Then she threw me a bone and nodded.

  "You need a ride at least?" I asked.

  "I'm fine," she said. "You've got more to worry about. Call me sometime, okay?"

  I waved the phone toward her. "I will."

  Real smooth, I was. Handled that revelation with all the grace of a cat with its head caught in a bag. I watched Milena walk another two blocks with a bit more bounce in her step. She put some extra shake in her ass just to taunt me. You see? She could be mean too.

  I trudged back to my car and found it missing. Guess it wasn't my car anymore. Found and towed by now. The police must have come and gone. Better them finding it empty than with me behind the wheel.

  I still had a few bucks for a taxi. I flagged one down, sat in the back, and dialed Evan.

  "We missed you last night," he said when I announced myself.

  "You told Emily?"

  He took a breath. "I did. You're gonna need to see her."

  I chewed my lip instead of responding. Then I changed the subject. "You didn't tell me about the infighting in Little Haiti."

  "What infighting?"

  "The voodoo gangs going at each other." I mulled it over. "The African connection."

  "What're you talking about, Cisco? There aren't any African gangs in Miami."

  I frowned. He was probably right. What did I know? But there were small populations scattered throughout the city. I thought of the anansi, the unfamiliar voodoo, and Kasper's information. I took a stab in the dark. "What about the Nigerians?"

  Evan skipped a breath. "The who— How do you know about them?"

  "Someone's taking out the Haitians, vying for control of Biscayne Boulevard. Remember their leader that was taken out with magic? That was me. A hit man. A thrall."

  "You did that?"

  "The world according to Laurent Baptiste."

  "Jesus, Cisco. You talked to Baptiste?"

  "Are you just gonna repeat everything I say in the form of a question? I told you I was getting to the bottom of this. What did you think that meant? Hallmark cards?"

  Evan didn't make a sound, but I could practically hear him thinking it over. He knew something he hadn't told me.

  "Okay," he conceded. "We need to talk. Just... not over the phone. Let's meet somewhere. Bayfront Park. You know the fountain?"

  "Come on, Evan. I grew up here."

  "Can you be there in half an hour?"

  "I'm close enough." I hung up the phone.

  I wasn't sure if this was bad, but it wasn't good. Evan had held out on me. I'd originally asked him about an African connection and he'd been mum. Now, the second I mentioned Nigerians, he wanted a covert meeting in a public place. There was something I didn't see yet.

  "Hey," I called to the driver, knocking on the plastic between us. He turned down the music and looked at me through the mirror. "You get any of that?"

  The driver was a black dude wearing a fisherman's hat. He pointed to the speakers. "I couldn't hear."

  "Right," I said, not pressing the issue. "Looks like I have a change of plans."

  Chapter 27

  My destination was a straight shot down Biscayne Boulevard in light traffic. The taxi pulled to the curb alongside the park without a lot of time to spare. The fare almost tapped me out. I paid the cabbie and asked him to wait anyway.

  "Money first."

  "What?"

  "I saw what you had left. Don't ask me to wait if you can't pay."

  I sighed and scrounged back in my pocket. "Here's my last four bucks."

  He nodded and accepted the scrunched bills. "That gets you ten minutes."

  I slammed the door and wished I still had the Monte Carlo. Not dealing with this was worth the risk of getting arrested. I shook it off and reminded myself that it was a new day with new possibilities.

  Bayfront
Park, surprise surprise, is a park that sits in front of the Bay. I suppose the naming committee skipped out early that day to watch a movie or something, job well done. The park isn't much besides grass and palm trees sliced with intersecting lengths of wide sidewalks, but it works as a public space. It's mostly known for fireworks, free concerts, and guys selling arepas out of little carts. In the daytime, without an event going on, things were more laid back. Quiet, almost, but enough people and daylight to keep things reasonable. Easy visibility in all directions.

  In a plaza by the waterside, Evan Cross leaned against a railing that circled a large fountain. It was plain as far as fountains went. A bowl of concrete that sprayed and swallowed water. A fountain next to the ocean. I never understood the point. A few pedestrians were scattered nearby, but most were lounging closer to the Bay.

  No good shadows in sight, of course.

  "You afraid of something?" I asked when I came upon my friend.

  He turned, trying to act casual. He wore light clothes again, tan this time, but the effect was marred by the black bulletproof jacket he wore on top with the word "DROP" across the back. His twin guns were holstered as well.

  "Don't be dramatic, Cisco. It's just a vest."

  "If I was gonna attack you, the vest wouldn't help."

  "Exactly," he said. "So it's not for you."

  I nodded in a way that told him I wasn't so sure. I scanned the waterside again and caught a couple men watching me.

  Evan smiled and shook my hand. "Got yourself cleaned up, I see. Where're you staying?"

  "Don't worry about it," I answered, checking the perimeter of the park. "Why are we surrounded by cops?"

  My friend's smile froze in place, then drained into a sigh. "Sorry about that. They won't move in unless I tell them to."

  "What the crap, Evan? Is this why you wanted to meet in broad daylight?"

  He stepped toward me with his police officer braggadocio. "You're the one who just admitted to operating as a hit man for ten years."

  "Slaving as a zombie hit man," I corrected. "As in, not my choice. I was dead and under compulsion."

  "Then what the hell are you now?"

  I turned my back to him and checked the field. No one advanced in SWAT formation. I wasn't sure how much to trust Evan. The feeling was probably mutual. Maybe the units were just a backup plan.

  I laughed it off. "Fucking Frank Bullitt here. You always did watch too many movies."

  "We waited for you last night," Evan said softly. "It was the only thing we could talk about." I didn't answer and he spun me around by the shoulder. "We're friends, man."

  Sometimes, even when things are really obvious, it's still jarring to hear them out loud. I considered him, and I could tell he meant it. But he had held out on me.

  "I'm Cisco, bro. The same Cisco. I don't know about the last ten years, but I know about now."

  He smiled again, dissolving some of the tension between us.

  "Is anyone listening to us?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Good. Do you have my case file?"

  He chewed his lip. "I couldn't get it yet."

  "I'm serious about that file, Evan. I might need it to get somewhere with this."

  "I know. I told you I'd try. I need time."

  I nodded. He could've been humoring me. "Then tell me about the Nigerian gang."

  Evan ran his hands through his short hair. "There's no gang. They don't have the numbers for street power."

  "So how do they make moves in Little Haiti?"

  "By working with the other gangs. The Nigerians are either higher level players or independent contractors on the bottom rung of the ladder. They either are the muscle, or they pay for it."

  "Pay who?"

  "That's the thing," he said. "They have associations with the Haitians. The Saints. Smaller gangs like the Westies and 71st Street Hoods. They wouldn't be taking out their allies."

  I grunted. I thought Evan had more imagination than this. "Maybe they're only friends in public. The Nigerians don't have the numbers for all-out war, so they talk business and send outside players to do their dirty work. People like me. It's death anonymous."

  He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. What put you on this Nigerian kick anyway?"

  "We don't get too many West African spider tricksters in these parts. And whatever voodoo I've been hexed with didn't come from any of the Haitian death barons."

  "But—"

  "I'm telling you, Evan, if there's Nigerian activity, it's a worthwhile lead. If I find out there's a connection and you knew about it..."

  He put his hands up in a mixture of apology and indignation. "Don't go down that road, Cisco. This is you and me we're talking about. But there is something."

  I checked the park. Everyone seemed miles away but I leaned in anyway.

  "There's a meeting today," he confided. "That's why I wanted to talk to you."

  "What kind of meeting?"

  "The Saints are having a sit down with a particular Nigerian businessman." Evan saw the excitement on my face and waved it away. "He's not a gangster, Cisco. He's a community leader. He runs a nonprofit promoting unity and culture."

  "And happens to be meeting with known criminals in public."

  Evan was ready with an explanation. "Baptiste isn't just a criminal. He runs legitimate businesses up and down the Boulevard. That means legitimate businessmen sometimes interact with him."

  "But you know better about Baptiste."

  "Everybody does. We know what he is but we can't arrest him. He plays off his family history and needing to overcome the obstacles of minority culture. He's an unlikely success story. The public eats it up."

  "What about his esteemed Nigerian business partner?"

  "Namadi Obazuaye. He's not a bad guy. He does outreach with the city commissioners and police."

  "The commissioners?" I fumed. "As in, your boss? Do you fucking work for this guy?"

  "He's legitimate, Cisco. The commissioners work with community leaders. When they need police details, the DROP team is the first in line for the overtime."

  "I can't believe it. You actually do work for these guys." I got a bad taste in my mouth and bared my teeth. DROP the real police work to score political points. "These are the facts, 'Lieutenant.' Namadi has heavy West African ties in this city. He's associating with a voodoo gang that's been under fire, by myself no less. We're all tied up in this somehow."

  "There are other facts you're ignoring. Like all the good Namadi has done for the poor neighborhoods of the city. All the redevelopment projects he's taken on."

  I hissed. "Redevelopment isn't noble. It's profitable."

  I knew Evan was hearing me, but his face was stiff. An impassive mask of disbelief. Maybe he didn't want to believe he'd been close to a bad guy. Maybe he discounted my opinion because I wasn't a detective. Maybe he needed more convincing.

  "Stop being so stubborn and open your eyes," I snapped. Some of the undercover officers watching us tensed.

  Evan Cross hooked his hands on his hips and laughed. "I can't believe this. It's high school all over again. You can only see things from your perspective. Nothing else matters to you."

  "You know I'm right."

  "Do I? You've never even met Namadi but you have him pegged. Meanwhile, I'm the one doing everything wrong." Evan pounded a finger in my chest. "You're reckless, egotistical, and overconfident. And now you're running around Miami like an outlaw."

  I hissed at him. "Stop exaggerating."

  Evan turned away and shook his head, like a father sick of disciplining his kid. "There was a shootout at Saint Martin's last night."

  I frowned. "Lots of people shoot guns in Miami."

  "At night in a closed cemetery? The same one that your sister and parents are buried at?" He rested his elbows on the railing and hitched a foot on the bottom rung. "What are you doing, Cisco?"

  I narrowed my eyes, about to snap back at him, but I realized he probably saw the same
defensive mask on my face that I saw on his. I stared at my red boots for a minute, then sighed and leaned beside him. I crossed my arms and watched the perimeter. "They followed me. I dealt with it."

  "Dealt with it how? You didn't kill Baptiste, did you?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then you only made it worse."

  I clenched my jaw. Yesterday, I'd been behind the eight ball. Scrambling and on the run the entire day. But today was mine. The Bone Saints didn't know where I was anymore. They'd assume they were safe at a sit-down behind gang security.

  "Why today?" I posited. "Have you asked yourself that? How long has this meeting been planned?"

  "I don't know," Evan admitted. "The gang unit picked it up last night."

  "After my run-in with the Saints?"

  Evan Cross frowned and nodded.

  "The meeting's about me."

  My friend remained silent. A last-second emergency meeting late at night? The timing was too coincidental for Evan to deny the plausibility of my theory. He rapped his fingers in irritation on the railing, over and over. I finally saw the work conflict. Evan could be working for a corrupt politician for all I knew. His job could be on the line.

  Evan pulled a white envelope from his back pocket. "You should stay away from them, Cisco. The Bone Saints are street scum. Low-level wannabes. Adding another player to your list of enemies will decrease your chances of living. Namadi Obazuaye doesn't have the firepower of the gangs, but he has enough resources and connections to make your life hell."

  "And if he already has? What if he used his resources and West African connections to make me his personal hit man for the last decade? If that was him, should I still leave him be?"

  Evan nervously clapped the envelope between his hands.

  I shook my head in disappointment. "What would you have me do, buddy? What's in that envelope?"

  He handed it to me. "I spoke with Emily about this. You weren't there to discuss it, but she agreed. We got some cash together for you."

  I opened it, rifled my finger over the fat stack of cash, and chuckled. "This isn't a payoff, is it?"