Assassin

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Miami

HALF AN HOUR LATER, STOKE WAS SHIVERING IN THE FRONT seat, busily pulling all the small gold studs out of his shirtfront. The pleated shirt with the gold doodads down the front had to go. A man doesn’t feel so damn resplendent when he is all wet and cold and shit, soaked to the bone.

They had made a run for the car the same moment as the furious storm finally unloaded over Miami Beach. Stoke and Ross raced out of the hotel and made a mad dash down the drive, looking for Preacher’s Lincoln. Torrential rain and wind lashed them, and the near-hurricane-force winds of the tropical squall were strong enough to rock the cars parked along the drive. Even though Trevor was flashing the high beams, man, you couldn’t see a goddamn thing.

“What’d I tell you ’bout the tropics, Ross?” Stoke asked as they jumped inside the Town Car and pulled the doors shut, straining against heavy winds.

“I can’t remember,” Ross said, jumping in the rear.

“Three little words is all I got to say,” Stoke said, fumbling with the AC controls. “Humidity, humidity, humidity.”

“Call this humidity?” Ross said.

“Wet, ain’t it? What the hell else would you call it?”

Preacher’s cell phone started playing the William Tell Overture. Have to talk to him ’bout that. So nineties.

“Yes?” Trevor said, flipping it open. “Okay. Good.”

“What?” Stokely said.

“She’s coming out now, Cholo says.”

“Move up, Preacher,” Ross said. “What you waiting for?”

The headlights were practically useless it was raining so hard, but Trevor managed to negotiate the curving drive without sideswiping any limos. Preacher edged forward, trying to get his nose under the covered entrance.

“Okay, let’s wait here,” Ross said.

They could see Fancha standing at the valet desk. She was flanked by two double extra large Cubanos in tuxedos. One look at them, Stokely knew they were all carrying. Suddenly, a midnight blue Bentley Azure convertible raced up out of the rain and screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger side door swung open and some hombre in a white guayabera jumped out and helped the two tuxedos hustle the singer into the back seat.

The tires chirped as the big Bentley swept away from the curb and disappeared into the rain.

“Move it,” Stoke said to Trevor.

The Bentley’s large and distinctive red taillights made tailing it a good deal easier in the blinding rainstorm. It hooked a left onto Collins Avenue, heading south, the storm-whipped breakers of the Atlantic and Hotel Row on their left. Trevor did as he was told, always at least one or two cars between the Lincoln and the Bentley, keeping the Bentley in sight.

“Where are they headed, Trevor?” Ross asked after they’d passed a number of intersections.

“All you can do is go west ’cross Biscayne Bay to downtown on the MacArthur Causeway.”

Which is exactly what the big Bentley did, turn right on 5th and head across the causeway connecting South Beach to the mainland. Five minutes later, at the intersection of Brickell Avenue, in the heart of downtown Miami, the car took another left, heading south on South Miami Avenue.

“He’s headed for Coconut Grove,” Trevor said, excited, accelerating.

“Easy. Easy. You get any closer, he’s going to make us, Preacher,” Stoke said, “Man looks like he slowing down, fixing to turn in somewhere.”

Trevor hit the brakes seconds before the Bentley’s taillights flashed red and the car swerved into a wide drive, coming to a stop at a massive, ornate set of iron gates.

“This not making no sense, mon. No sense a’tall.”

“Don’t stop, Trevor, don’t slow down, keep going,” Ross said from the backseat. “It’s a residence, is it?”

“Was a residence built by some millionaire back in de twenties,” Trevor said. “Now, de house got to be de biggest tourist attraction in South Florida. Called Vizcaya. A beautiful museum, mon! Sitting on a huge piece of land sticking right out into de bay. Tell you one thing for sure. It’s not open this time of night.”

“Hang a right here, and turn around,” Stokely said, craning his head around to keep the Bentley in sight. “Let’s go back and see what the hell he’s up to.”

Trevor backtracked to Vizcaya, slowed, turned right into the drive and pulled to a stop before the gate. The Azure had disappeared inside. On the right was a three-story stucco guardhouse, and a huge man wearing a black poncho came out into the downpour. He sloshed through the puddles at the front of the car and rapped his knuckles on Trevor’s window. Hard rain was beating down on the man’s clean-shaven head but it didn’t seem to bother him much. Trevor cracked his window down about a foot and looked up at the guy.

“What can I do for you, bud?” the guy asked Trevor. Stoke leaned across Trevor’s chest and favored the big bald guy with one of his biggest smiles.

“How you doing tonight? We just want to drive in and take a look around, that’s all.”

“Sorry. It ain’t open,” the guy said, heavy New York bad-ass accent. One look at the guy and two words popped into Stoke’s brain. Mobbed up. Yeah, this was one seriously mobbed-up individual.

“Funny, we just saw somebody go in there,” Stoke said. “It’s a tourist attraction, right? A museum? Open to the public, is what I’m saying.”

“You got a hearing problem, asshole? I said it ain’t open.”

“You want to watch who you call an asshole, asshole,” Stoke said, still smiling.

“Listen close, asshole. This is private property. A private residence.”

“You work for the man, right? You got any ID? Rap sheet, maybe? All them prison tats on your wrists? Look to me like some jive-ass con fresh out of the joint. Guy who’s done more time than a clock, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“You wanna fuck with me?”

“Maybe later. I swear I know this jailbird, Preacher. I think maybe I even sent him up once. Aggravated stupidity. Hey! This is the Vizcaya Museum, isn’t that right, hard case?”

“Right. But it ain’t no museum no more. Guy who owns it now shoots trespassers and apologizes later. You’re trespassing. Now, you two get your black asses out of here or I’m going to fuck you up.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. It’s a racial thing. Hey, there’s another guy in the back. He white. Can he go in?”

“Fuck are you, wiseguy, or somethin’?”

“Stokely Jones, NYPD,” Stoke said, flashing his old shield and forgetting to add the “retired” part as he sometimes did in situations of stress.

“Yeah? Is that right? A plainclothes cop, huh? Tailing the boss’s Bentley looks like. Maybe you better come in after all,” the guy said, pulling a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun out from under his poncho and pressing the muzzle against Trevor’s temple. To his credit, the Preacher didn’t even flinch.

The big black gates swung inward.

“Bada-boom, bada-bing!” Stoke said, getting right up in the guy’s grill, trying not to smile too much when he said it.

The guy, pissed, pulled the shotgun away from Trevor’s head. Stoke saw Preacher’s lips moving, guessed he was praying.

Stoke looked past Preacher and smiled at the mob guy. “Now, you listnin’ to reason, see? I knew you come around eventually.”

“Fuck you,” the guy said.

“Your place or mine?” Stoke said.

He was showing him a lot of pearly whites as Trevor accelerated the big Lincoln away and up the curving drive. Stokely swung his massive arm over the back of the seat and looked at Ross, seeing a big smile on his face.

“What you smiling at?”

“You, mate,” Ross said. “Just you, Stoke.”

“Shit,” Stoke said. “A guy like that? Kind of guy can’t make it as a real person, so he trying to make it as a character.”