Most Wanted (13 page)

I
n a matter of days, Sticks turned Lolah on to major buyers of stolen cars, one in Russia and the other in Argentina. Dealing with Lolah was like Burger King: a buyer could have it any way they wanted—make, model, interior color, features, and everything. If her clients wanted it, she got her guys to go get it for her. Everything was working out; the supply and demand were leveling out.

Though things were pretty much intact, she wanted to figure out a way that she could eliminate the middleman on the shipping end. The only problem was the logistics, out of the country. But the beauty of any business was one step at a time, she reminded herself. She was already getting well ahead of herself, before venturing into large overseas markets; she first needed to get her money up in the States. So she started with shipping cars over to the Bahamas, but she couldn’t resist the Russian’s money because it was always long and right.

She had only been in business a little over two months, and her profit alone was already tripling the paper she left Richmond with. She was off to a better than decent start and able to rent out an office space near the beach. She could tell that Sticks was impressed with her negotiating skills and business acumen. In addition, she felt like she was in her element. It was something about making that money and keeping busy that made her think less about home, especially since she had touched base with her father and he was okay. But most of all, he was most proud that she was surviving, eating good, and enjoying her life in the land of the free.

In Mickey’s eyes, that was all any father could really ask for. He knew he’d made the right decision in sending her to Florida. Matteo and Sticks owed him—harboring a fugitive was a small favor in return for the pain they’d caused all those years ago when they lived in Virginia. That’s one of the reasons Mickey tried to talk to Peaches about her growing attachment to her new family.

“I know they treating you real well, but I don’t want you to get too attached,” Mickey told Peaches during one of his calls.

“Why do you say that? Aren’t they your friends from back in the day?” For Peaches, Mickey’s caution was coming a bit too late. She had already caught feelings for Sticks and knew he felt the same way. They hadn’t burned up the sheets yet, but it was only a matter of time.

All Mickey would say was, “We got history that’s both good and bad. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

But not everyone wanted Peaches to be happy. That was evident by the text message left on her phone just this morning:

Lolah wasn’t intimidated, but she wasn’t stupid either. With her vision and ambition, she knew that she’d be stepping on someone’s toes. After all, both Sticks and Carlos had warned her about this from the beginning. She had no idea that he would take notice of her this early in the game! Also, she was thoroughly impressed that he was able to get her number and contact her.

From day one, she researched her competition in depth. There were lots of car thieves, a few small timers, who stole cars, chopped them, and sold the parts. But the only big-time player buying and selling high-end cars in volume was Pablo. Pablo had a reputation for being an asshole with a serious mean streak. From the information Lolah gathered, he seemed to have more bark than bite, but that didn’t mean Pablo wasn’t to be taken seriously. She had learned at a young age, never sleep on an enemy and especially never underestimate their capabilities.

Lolah had a crazy morning already. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong, and to top it all off, she had a bad case of cramps and wasn’t really in the mood for the excuses, no’s, or any bullshit, but if she were a toilet, she was stopped up from the shit going on in her business.

She sat at the desk, with her legs crossed and the phone on speaker. “What do you mean the cars are gone?”

“Nothing personal, Lolah. But I got a better offer for the Vette,” Dean said.

“What about the six Benzs you said you would get for me?” she asked him, knowing in her gut that he didn’t have those either, but she so wanted to be wrong.

“They gone too,” Dean said.

“They gone too?” she asked, not expecting or allowing him to answer. “Really?” She shook her head as if he could see her through the phone.

He and Lolah had made a deal for twenty cars a week at 7k each. Dean and his crew were beasts at circumventing alarms and snatching whips, but obviously not very keen on loyalty. “Maybe next time I will do better,” Dean suggested.

Dean had been the second supplier today that had reneged on a deal; it was crystal clear what was going on. Pablo had paid a better price for them not to sell to her. But what Pablo didn’t know was she was a master at cards, and he wasn’t the only one who could deal from the bottom. First she would deal with Dean since he was on her radar right then. “I tell you what I’m going to do,” she said confidently, as if she was in a position to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “I’m going to put Pablo’s ass out of business, for starters”—she took a sip of her cappuccino and then started speaking firmly again—“and when you come begging for someone to sell your merchandise to, I’m going to tell you to drive them up your fat ass. Mark my words.”

“Why you acting like that, Lolah? It’s only business, like I said. It’s nothing personal with you. In fact, I like you.” He was trying to hedge his bets by playing both ends to the middle.

Lolah quoted a line that she liked from
Scarface
, “All you have in this world is your word and your balls.” She added: “I suggest you use plenty of spit the next time you suck on Pablo’s.”

She disconnected the phone call angrily. She knew she now had to step up her game.

Sticks walked in her office staring at her, smiling. “I’d hate to be on your bad side,” he said. “Take it easy, Dr. Jekyll, or are you Mrs. Hyde today?”

Lolah punched him on the shoulder. “Ha. Ha, Mr. Funny Man. Let’s let go eat before boobirds come out and start to try to crap on ya.”

They headed to lunch and as soon as she got to the restaurant, she realized that she had left her phone in the car. She ran to the car to get the phone lying on the seat of the car. As she about to cross the street to head back inside, she was checking the call log, and she happened to look up. That’s when she noticed a black SUV speeding in her direction. Her first thought was it was the police who had finally caught up with her. If she didn’t know better she thought it was coming directly for her. And it was. It was a good thing she had great reflexes and darted out of the way of the fast-moving vehicle.

L
olah was so pissed it was difficult to think straight. Not only had the driver of the SUV attempted to run her over, he caused her to ruin her new Giuseppes.

Sticks asked her to take it easy and gave her a bottle of water. “Thank you.” Lolah plopped down on the plush sofa. Matteo was out taking care of something or another; she and Sticks had the house to themselves. Sticks was trying to be objective. He said, “What if it really was an accident? The man driving the truck might have been drunk or texting.”

“And a reindeer may really be able to fly when nobody’s looking,” she shot back. “The driver of that truck tried to kill me or make me believe that he was trying to kill me. It was as simple as that.”

Sticks twisted the cap off of his own bottle of water and took a sip. “And you think Pablo set it up?” Sticks questioned, “How could he know you would be at that place at that time?”

Lolah didn’t believe in coincidences. “I don’t think, I know Pablo was behind it. Maybe he had someone following me and knows where the office is? That’s not the most important thing concerning me.”

Shaking his head, Sticks said, “You don’t think it’s important to know if someone has been following you?”

“I said, it’s not the
most
important thing. We can’t change what ‘has been,’ only what’s to come next.”

Sometimes it was hard to believe that Lolah was only twenty-one, seven years younger than him. She was as smart and cunning as she was gorgeous. A dangerous combination. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said, wanting to see where her mind was. “But what’s next?”

An almost giddy gleam shown from her eyes, but it was completely absent from the rest of her face. “Now we are getting somewhere,” she said. “Tell me, how quick can you put your hands on some hard-body goons who can be trusted?”

Like Lolah, Sticks was no virgin to the streets, and had learned its ways at a young age. “You know the flava of the day. Money talks and bullshit walks. Let’s be clear, though, nobody can be completely trusted. That’s something earned and rare. But, yeah, I know a few guys.”

Lolah nodded. “Good enough. I’m trying to buy a goon, not a husband. Complete trust isn’t wholeheartedly required. Just good people who gonna ride for me.”

“I know just the person then.”

“And this is what I have in mind . . .”

P
ablo, the youngest of twelve siblings, escaped Cuba in the oppressive fist of Fidel Castro at the age of seventeen. He journeyed the rough Atlantic Ocean in a boat about the size of a bathtub that almost killed him at least twice. But he overcame the odds, crashing safely on the shores of Miami alive. Bruised, battered, and broke, but alive. That was twenty years ago and today Pablo had done pretty well for himself. He owned two homes and a couple of boats. Real boats. Nothing like that piece of driftwood he escaped from back in the day. These were 75- and 90-foot vessels. He also held the reins to four warehouse-style garages, where he stored and managed his inventory of stolen cars. Pablo spent most of his time in a small, yet lucrative, chop shop a few blocks away from the American Airlines arena. That’s where he was this evening, in a tiny office nestled in the back of a chop shop. A continual racket from all the air tubes and hydraulic lifts filled the shop dirty. Pablo liked the noise; noise meant money was being made, and he loved dinero.

He opened the door to his office, “Miquel! Get in here. Pronto.”

Miquel, a couple of years from being old enough to legally drink, was an illegal immigrant from Nicaragua. He couldn’t speak English worth a damn, but the dude could strip a car down to the horn and then put it back together in his sleep.

In his native tongue, Miguel asked,
“Que pasa?”
He wore dirty blue overalls and a pair of Dickie boots that leaned to the side. Underneath his fingernails were permanently black from the accumulation from the dirt oil and grime. Miquel liked them that way; in his mind, it showed he was a hard worker.

“I got six Benzs coming through in a couple of hours.” Pablo spoke fluent English but used Spanish with Miquel. “I’m going to need you to stay late tonight.”

Miquel was trying to save enough money to send back home to his four brothers and two sisters. He would stay up all night if he had to. Sleep would come once he accomplished his goals. Pablo knew this and used this to his advantage, never cutting the poor guy any slack and paying him the very bare minimum.

“Ningún problema,”
Miquel said with a proud smile.

In a white two-piece linen suit and two-inch padded lifts in his loafers, Pablo looked out of place in the garage, as the Pope would in a whorehouse. However, he thought that white made him look important. Before coming to America, he never owned anything white. Now he wore white clothes, obsessed over his white teeth, and drove only white cars.

Pablo picked up a pack of Camels from his desk and after shaking two from the pack, he handed one to Miquel and placed the other into the corner of his brown lips. Miquel hated the taste of cigarettes, especially the harsh-tasting Camels that Pablo smoked, but he never told Pablo that.

“Gracias,”
Miquel said before lighting up.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Gunshots rang out from automatic weapons. It sounded like microwave popcorn being popped through a megaphone. Bullets sparked holes through bodies of cars, ricocheting off the grease-stained concrete floors.

Miquel was reaching in his pocket for something when a 40 cal ripped through the chest of his overalls. The bullet exited from his back, leaving a hole the size of a fist. Miquel lay there bleeding with his Camel clinched between his teeth looking to Pablo for help, but Pablo was only worried about himself.

Pablo threw his hands in the air. “No weapon! I don’t have a weapon! Please don’t shoot.”

Pablo thanked Santa Maria when the shooting stopped. He then kissed his fingers, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

Five men had raided the chop shop in all. They were paid not to kill, but teach Pablo some manners. However, if someone happened to have gotten in the way of a bullet or tried to be a hero, that was their own fault.

T-Rex was 6’6” and built like a tank, working out every day for over ten years while doing time for robbery. T-Rex asked, “Are you Pablo?” while the other four hired guns held the shop down.

The other four men had no need for words because a smoking gun was multilingual. No one who wasn’t already dead wanted to join the unlucky.

T-Rex said, “I’m not going to ask but one mo’ time. I’m talking to you, Tattoo.” T-Rex raised the Uzi he held for emphasis. “Are you Pablo or not?”

Pablo’s mouth was as dry as a field of cotton during a heat wave; he barely choked out the words, “Yes, I . . . I am Pablo.” He knew that he was hopeless without his muscle and pissed that he had let them go home early.

“Good,” said T-Rex, speaking around the toothpick in his mouth. “I came to do you a favor.”

Pablo thought he was going to be sick. A gas bubble burst in his stomach. He farted, almost shitting his drawers. In a shaky voice, he asked, “What type of favor?”

With a straight face, T-Rex said, “The best kind. The type that if you do what the fuck you are told, maybe you will live long enough to thank me one day.”

Pablo asked, “What would I owe . . . the favor you offered me?”

“I’m pretty easy to get along with, Tattoo. All that’s required is that you discontinue all business in the state of Florida. That’s all.”

A wise man once told Pablo, “If you quit while you are ahead, it’s not considered quitting.” Back then, Pablo didn’t understand the meaning of those words, but today the meaning was loud and clear. An alive coward beats a dead tuff guy any day.

Pablo said, “I’m willing to agree to those conditions.”