Chapter 2
November 7, 1983
Hialeah, Miami, Florida
Detective Klima pulled into the parking lot of the small Cuban restaurant. The lieutenant had taken Jan's suggestion that he get a Cuban partner to help with the Cuban murders, so Senior Patrol Officer Luis Cárdenas was removed from his posting in the Liberty City neighborhood and sent downtown to Homicide. The pairing would be "for the duration of the investigation." Cárdenas, for his part, silently hoped he'd get a promotion if they succeeded in breaking the drug ring behind the murders.
On the patio, a number of older men were sipping coffee and playing dominos, the same scene that was repeated endless times throughout Hialeah/Little Havana. Salsa music came from a small transistor radio on one of the tables. Walking inside, Klima and Cárdenas went to speak with the owner, who'd fled Cuba in his early twenties when his father died in the aftermath of Batista's fall. Jorgé Pérez was now in his mid-forties, running this restaurant, talking with everyone who came through, and listening closely. He was talented at these things, and together with his wife, who ran the kitchen, he'd become successful at being a restaurant owner and at knowing everything that happened in his neighborhood.
"Que bolá, Jorgé!" Cárdenas exclaimed as he approached the counter. The two men bear-hugged. "Luis, papo, your arms are starting to look like that wrestler in Rocky III, what's his name," Pérez said. Cárdenas smiled. "You mean Thunderlips, or Hulk Hogan."
"Yeah! That's the guy! You could take him, brother."
"Jorgé, I hit the gym, what can I say, better than you." Cárdenas playfully backhanded Pérez's growing belly. "He's got about ten inches on me, though, I think I'd be in trouble if we fought. Anyway, that's not why we came."
The owner motioned them to the corner of the counter, and busied himself pouring coffee for the two men and himself. He leaned in close. "Those perros that got themselves killed, yes, I know. They're all playing a dangerous game, getting involved with this basura. I can't tell you who's in charge of it, other than a few whispers I've heard. He's a very smart, angry man. Some of the other old-timers who stop in have seen him. Drives around in some flashy cars, always wearing sharp clothes. They call him El Caracortada."
Klima asked, "What does El Caracortada mean?"
Pérez said, almost with a hint of menace, "The Scarface."
Klima blinked. "That was a nickname for Al Capone. Capone was a lot bigger deal, though, everyone knew him. This guy seems like he's a ghost."
Pérez nodded. "Some people around here compare him to Capone, but he also has a large scar above his left eyebrow. Rumor has it he took a beating when he was starting out three years ago. Those same rumors said that he got ahold of the man who beat him a year later and fed him to the crocodiles off Key Largo."
"Jesus!" Cárdenas replied. "What kind of puto is this guy?"
"I don't know, papo, and I don't want to know. Go ask Miguel out on the patio. He's heard some things about this guy, too. I suspect one of his nephews works for The Scarface. Whenever he talks about him, it's always in a low voice. You boys need to be careful, and Luis, teach your gringo partner how to dress around here. He doesn't fit in." Pérez finished his coffee. "I need to get going. Talk to Miguel, see if he'll say anything, and then buy some new clothes, lo tengo?" The officers shook his hand and left.
"What's wrong with my clothes?" Klima asked.
*****
El Caracortada was sitting in a chair on his balcony, enjoying the sun, smoking a large Cuban cigar. He'd been in a Cuban jail when he was freed to be a Marielito, one of many that Castro sent to cause his American adversaries trouble. His boat was lucky. It had evaded the Coast Guard and landed in Coconut Grove, where the passengers were spirited to Little Havana in a van. To the generation that fled Castro twenty years prior, these were heroes deserving of help. The man got a job working in a cigar shop, rolling cigars expertly. It was about six months after he landed in Florida that a flashy man came in the shop to purchase some cigars. The flashy man had moved marijuana for over a decade, amassing substantial sums of cash, and he saw potential in the young man behind the counter. He took him under his wing, taught him the drug trade, how to bribe the local cops, everything. After a year, the young man broke away to ply his skills in the hot drug: cocaine.
Miami was teeming with people who loved the rush of the white powder. Poor blacks, rich whites, teenagers, athletes, rock stars, actors and actresses. Nobody could get enough, and the market was cutthroat. It was early on that the young man was indeed beaten by a competitor, and how he first earned the name El Caracortada. A month later, that competitor had become a meal for the fearsome crocodiles that roamed South Florida, and The Scarface took over his business.
Now, he had a large home in Bal Harbour, and he built the balcony so he could look out to the ocean, the way he came here to America. It was calming, and he needed calm. His volcanic temper was well known to his subordinates and the dealers he supplied. Those who crossed him, well, they ended up brutally dead. His loyalty to those who were loyal was just as well known. The best workers got bonuses. He looked out for their families. He was like a feudal lord of old, ruling over his stretch of land, meting out rewards and punishments as he saw fit.
In the background, the news break began on his radio. "It's 2:00 pm, and it's time for the news this hour. Mayor Ferré held a news conference just a couple of hours ago, and he addressed the spate of murders in the city.
'I want to assure residents of the city that these murders are being vigorously investigated by the Miami Police Department and their fine detectives. We believe what we're seeing is nothing more than turf wars over drugs, and we are determined to bring it to an end. Every last one of these dealers will be caught, and we will convict them.'
The Mayor announced that Miami PD will be hiring more officers to increase patrols in the neighborhoods of the city, and vows to make significant progress by the start of next summer.
Meanwhile, in international news, talks resumed in Geneva between negotiators from the United States and the Soviet Union over the deployment of intermediate range..."
He clicked off the radio. I rule this town, he thought. The politicians think they control it, but I control the people behind them. That's power. I'll always find more dealers. They can't stop people from their greed, their vice, their ambition. These fools can't stop me.
He finished his cigar and closed his eyes for a nap. What good was power if you didn't take time to enjoy it?
) and help write this story. I hope you all enjoy it, and I look forward to comments, contributions, and good discussion.
