America Rising (7 page)

Jesus. A real class act.

“You know anything else about her? Or the guys he hangs out with?”

“She’s Colombian, I think. I heard her say once she works in a law office. I’m a nosy old woman but that’s all I know. I don’t know anything about his shitheel friends, either. But one time I saw this little guy rip him a new one.”

“Do tell.”

“I was in the parking garage. It was late, after our girls’ poker night. I waxed that old biddy Nadine Terwilliger good. She thought she had me with two pair but I had a full house. Took her for twenty bucks. Thought she was gonna shit her pants right—”

“The little guy, Marilyn. Ripping the new one.”

“Oh, right. I was in the parking garage. My reading glasses had fallen out of my purse, beneath the seat. I was down on the floor looking for them when I hear another car pull in. The Shitheel gets out—”

“How did you know it was the Shitheel?”

“What, you think I’m stupid? I’m a nosy old broad from The Bronx; I peeked over the dashboard. And stop interrupting.”

I sighed. “Yes, Marilyn.”

“That’s better. So the Shitheel gets out, and this little guy gets out too. He’s shorter than me. Gray hair, gray beard. You know, that kind of beard that just looks like stubble. He says something to the Shitheel and the Shitheel says something back. Then the little guy slaps him across the face, slaps him really hard. The Shitheel didn’t do anything, like he was scared. The little guy started yelling at him about keeping his fucking mouth shut, pardon my French, about staying away from ‘bitches.’ I don’t remember what else. Tell you the truth, I was scared too. He may have been little but he looked like he’d bite your nose off, just to see if it tastes good. Then he got back in the car and drove away and the Shitheel went inside.”

“When was this?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Would you recognize him if you— Of course you would.”

“Damn straight.”

“What about Gaby?”

Marilyn took another big gulp of vodka and checked her watch.

“When the Shitheel’s not here she’s probably in the exercise room, running on one of those treadmill thingees. What is it with you young people and exercise, anyway? Melvin and I never exercised a day in our lives and we’re still going stro—well, Melvin isn’t. But he was as strong as an ox. Did I tell you—”

I waved my arms in surrender. “Marilyn, Marilyn.”

No wonder poor Melvin was no longer with us. Just trying to get a word in edgewise had probably worn him out.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I’ll take you up to the exercise room if you want to see her.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

Marilyn grabbed her purse and we took an elevator to the building’s top floor, which opened onto a huge swimming pool, barbecue area, lounge and exercise room. That last was really a well-equipped gym, full of whirring, clanking, chrome-plated machines and wall-to-wall mirrors so you could admire your own sweaty, self-conscious industriousness.

A row of treadmills sculpting already admirable female derrieres lined a far wall. Marilyn pointed to a woman in pastel gym shorts with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail hanging almost to her waist.

“That’s Gaby,” she said.

“You stay here,” I said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

I walked across the room and stopped in front of Gaby Lopez’s treadmill. She wasn’t just pretty; she was drop-dead gorgeous. Slim and petite but with curves in all the right places. Soft, luxuriant hair the color of ink at midnight, creamy skin that could make cashmere feel like sandpaper. But even a thick coating of makeup couldn’t hide the bruise under one eye, the purple marks on her neck and wrists. She resolutely ignored me and kept her legs pumping as I took out my Public Interest business card and laid it on the treadmill console in front of her.

“Gaby, I understand you’re Armando Gutierrez’s girlfriend,” I said, trying to keep my voice down but still audible over the humming machines. “I wonder if you could talk to me about him. You know he’s in jail for murder in San Francisco?”

I don’t know if it was the mention of Armando Gutierrez’s name or his arrest that did it, but Gaby Lopez jerked backwards as if she’d just seen a rattlesnake, almost losing her footing and spinning off the treadmill. Before I could move or speak again she turned and fled, brushing past Marilyn at the door and running out into the dusk. I stood there like an idiot, all the workout junkies watching, then I picked up my card, put my head down and nodded at Marilyn to get going.

She ignored me too—this was getting to be a habit—and instead continued glaring at a lean, muscular twentysomething with a shaven head and colorful dragon tattoos running down both arms who’d sat up on the bench of his weight-lifting machine and was giving us the hairy eyeball.

“What that clown be mean-muggin’ me for?” she said. “I’m-a give him a taste of my gat.” She reached into her purse and I could see the black butt of a .38 Police Special in her hand. I grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand back into the purse.

“Jesus Christ, Marilyn! Are you out of your mind?! You can’t be pulling guns on people here! And where did you learn to talk like that? You sound ridiculous.”

“One of those cable shows. About the ‘hood. You feel me, dawg?”

“No, goddammit, I don’t ‘feel’ you. And I’m not your ‘dawg.’ Now can we please get the hell out of here?”

I took her by the arm and she let me guide her back to the elevators and down to her apartment. I really needed to go in and finish my scotch but I was afraid she’d never stop talking or put a hole in one of us with that damn gun. Instead, I settled for shaking her hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Marilyn Kravitz,” I said with at least some measure of sincerity. “Thanks for your help.” I passed her the Public Interest business card meant for Gaby Lopez. “If you think of anything about the Shithe—Armando Gutierrez—or if anything else comes up, give me call, okay?”

“Sure thing, Josh.” She patted the gun still in her purse. “And you need me to bust a cap on some fool, I’m down with it, homey.”

I couldn’t help it any longer. I burst out laughing.

“I love you, Marilyn. I really do. You are just too much.”

“Damn straight.”

* * *

One of the bank of cell phones lined up in Leland Elliott’s desk drawer chirped its distinctive ring. It wasn’t the smartphone he used for his personal calls or the one on which he took off-hours calls from his handful of employees. It was one of six phones, each dedicated to a single client, which put its caller in 24/7 contact with the founder, president and sole owner of Tutis International. After each call the phone was destroyed and replaced by a new phone with a new number. Tutis International had become obscenely profitable and Leland Elliott obscenely wealthy by being very, very careful.

He reached into the desk and took out the device. It was an old-fashioned “dumb” flip model; an Internet connection was a security breach waiting to happen. He pried it open and said, “Yes?”

The voice on the other end was brusque. “This is Mr. Flowers. We need to meet. This Friday. The usual manner.”

“Yes.”

He closed the phone, placed it in a burn bag and buzzed for his assistant to take it down to the incinerator in the underground parking garage of his Miami office. It was, of course, illegal to have a furnace burning a fiery 1,500 degrees built without permits or permission in the basement of a downtown office building but he owned the structure and had spread a lot of money around and, after all, this was Miami.

The assistant entered and took the bag and handed Elliott a new phone, which he placed in the same position in the drawer of his lovingly restored antique French pedestal desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and wondered what so concerned “Mr. Flowers” to make him pick up the phone and call. Whatever it was, Leland Elliott decided, it smelled like money.

* * *

On my way back to the Keys from my encounter with Marilyn Kravitz I got a call from Chloe Enders.

“Armando Gutierrez has been released,” she blurted.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. I just got off the phone with my source in the cop shop. They had to kick him loose. No evidence tying him to the scene. No witnesses. No DNA. The other two swore he was just a friend they called to drive them to the airport.”

“Anyone believe that?”

“No. But it’s not what you believe. . .”

“It’s what you can prove. I know. Where is he now?”

“Probably on a plane to Miami. You ought to be careful, Josh. Gutierrez is a thug. If he finds out you’re checking out his shit he may get nasty.

Damn. I told Chloe about my visit to the condo and Marilyn and Gaby.

“Wow, that’s not good,” she said.

“It’s very bad,” I agreed. “I’ll call Marilyn, let her know what’s going on. Maybe she can warn Gaby too. Thanks for the heads-up, Chloe.”

I finished my drive thinking of Marilyn Kravitz and her .38 Police Special. I hoped she really did know how to use it.

* * *

That Friday morning, two days after receiving “Mr. Flowers’” call, a black Lincoln town car picked Leland Elliott up at his Coral Gables mansion and drove him to a small airport in a Miami suburb. There he boarded a Gulfstream G500 for the short flight to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. Another town car was waiting to take him to the sleek tower on West 56
^th
Street. He rode the private elevator from the parking garage to the penthouse, trying to control both his nerves and anticipation of a hugely lucrative payday. The elevator doors opened and Wei Lee said, “Good morning, Mr. Elliott. This way, please. Mr. Bernabe is waiting for you.”

Frank Bernabe was sitting behind his severely modern desk in his office. He didn’t look up. He swiveled a computer monitor in Leland Elliott’s direction and said, “Have you seen this?”

On the screen was a grainy, fluttery video, shot at a distance with a cellphone camera. It showed a line of men and women, all of them holding weapons, standing in the front yard of a home as snow flurries swirled around them. Audio was indistinct but there was no mistaking the confrontation that was taking place between them and a group of uniformed police officers. The video ended with the men and women watching the officers climb into their squad cars and drive away.

“This has already had more than one hundred million hits on YouTube alone,” Bernabe said. “There have been forty-six incidents similar to this across the country since it was posted. In all but three, police backed down and refused to enforce the law. Now many police departments are refusing to respond to lawful eviction notices at all.”

“That is a problem,” Elliott said.

“That is
not
a problem,” Bernabe snapped, the heat of his words causing Leland Elliott to blink. “But it could become one.” He stroked his chin and his expression grew thoughtful. “I may have underestimated the rabble on this one,” he said. “They seem to have grown some balls.”

“Which, of course, must be crushed.”

“Of course.”

“No offense, Mr. Bernabe, but I’m familiar with the operations of Meyer Global and I don’t see how this affects you.”

“We have, shall I say, our fingers in very many pies. . . pies even you, Mr. Elliott, know nothing about. That said, you are essentially correct. I called you here not primarily as a representative of Meyer Global but of a number of large and importation organizations that would be at far greater risk should such lawless actions be allowed to continue. That is why I am prepared to offer you significant compensation—up to twenty million dollars—to put a stop to this nonsense and ensure the properties in question are returned to their rightful owners.”

Leland Elliott was already thinking of the additions he would make to his estate on a private island in the Bahamas.

“That is a very generous offer. I’ll begin preparations as soon as I return to Miami.”

“See that you do, Mr. Elliott. See that you do. Anything less would itself become a problem. And I have a very strong aversion to problems.”

R
ussell Millar had been dreading this trip for weeks. As president and CEO of All-American News—the hugely profitable three-legged stool of broadcast, print and Internet that formed the news division of behemoth All-American Media—a distasteful but necessary part of his job was the care and feeding of its star, Ed “Bane of Their Existence” Bane. More to the point, it was the care and feeding of Ed Bane’s ego, which Millar estimated to be roughly the size of Ohio.

It wasn’t that Bane was a pompous gasbag with the worldly appetites of a modern-day Nero. Hell, if all the pompous, hedonistic gasbags peddling “news” were suddenly obliterated in a meteor strike, you could fit the survivors in a phone booth. No, what really bothered Russ Millar and his boss, All-American Media founder and ruler William S. Bigby, was the suspicion that Bane didn’t truly
believe
in the righteousness of their cause, that it was all just an act, that he was using them the way he used the “Bane-iacs” who slobbered over his every word.