Miami was balmy working on hot.
Pete cabbed over to a Teamster-owned U-Drive and picked up a new Caddy Eldo. Jimmy pulled strings: no deposit or ID was required.
A note was taped under the dashboard.
“Go by cabstand: Flagler at N.W. 46th. Talk to Fulo Machado.” Directions followed: causeways to surface streets marked on a little map.
Pete drove over. The scenery evaporated quick.
Big houses got smaller and smaller. White squares went to white trash, jigs and spics. Flagler was wall-to-wall low-rent storefronts.
The cabstand was tiger-striped stucco. The cabs in the lot had tiger-stripe paint jobs. Dig those tiger-shirted spics on the curb– snarfing doughnuts and T-Bird wine.
A sign above the door read: Tiger Kab. Se Habla Espanol.
Pete parked directly in front. Tiger men scoped him out and jabbered. He stretched to six-five-plus and let his shirttail hike. The spics saw his piece and jabbered on overdrive.
He walked in to the dispatch hut. Nice wallpaper: tiger photos taped floor to ceiling. National Geographic stock–Pete almost howled.
The dispatcher waved him over. Dig his face: scarred by tic-tac-toe knife cuts.
Pete pulled a chair up. Butt-Ugly said, “I’m Fulo Machado. Batista’s secret police did this to me, so take your free introductory look now and forget about it, all right?”
“You speak English pretty well.”
“I used to work at the Nacional Hotel in Havana. An American croupier guy taught me. It turned out he was a maricón trying to corrupt me.”
“What did you do to him?”
“The maricón had a shack on a pork farm outside of Havana, where he brought little Cuban boys to corrupt them. I found him there with another maricón and murdered them with my machete. I stole all the pigs’ food from their troughs and left the door of the shack open. You see, I had read in the National Geographic that starving pigs found decomposing human flesh irresistible.”
Pete said, “Fulo, I like you.”
“Please reserve judgment. I can be volatile where the enemies of Jesus Christ and Fidel Castro are concerned.”
Pete stified a yuk. “Did one of Jimmy’s guys leave an envelope for me?’
Fulo forked it over. Pete ripped it open, itchy to roll.
Nice–a simple note and a photo.
“Anton Gretzler, 114 Hibiscus, Lake Weir, Fla. (near Sun Valley). 014-8812.” The pic showed a tall guy almost too fat to live.
Pete said, “Jimmy must trust you.”
“He does. He sponsored my green card, so he knows that I will remain loyal.”
“What’s this Sun Valley place?”
“It is what I think is called a ‘sub-division.’ Jimmy is selling lots to Teamster members.”
Pete said, “So who do you think’s got more juice these days– Jesus or Castro?”
“I would say it is currently a toss-up.”
o o o
Pete checked in at the Eden Roc and buzzed Anton Gretzler from a pay phone. The fat man agreed to a meet: 3:00, outside Sun Valley.
Pete took a snooze and drove out early. Sun Valley was the shits: three dirt roads gouged from swampland forty yards off the Interstate.
It was “sub-divided”–into matchbook-size lots piled with junk siding. Marshland formed the perimeter–Pete saw gators out sunning.
It was hot and humid. A wicked sun cooked greenery dry brown.
Pete leaned against the car and stretched some kinks out. A truck crawled down the highway belching steam; the man in the passenger seat waved for help. Pete turned his back and let the geeks pass by.
A breeze kicked dust clouds up. The access road hazed over. A big sedan turned off the Interstate and barreled in blind.
Pete stood aside. The car brodied to a stop. Fat Anton Gretzler got out.
Pete walked over to him. Gretzler said, “Mr. Peterson?”
“That’s me. Mr. Gretzler?”
Fats stuck his hand out. Pete ignored it
“Is something wrong? You said you wanted to see a lot.”
Pete steered Fat Boy down to a marsh glade. Gretzler caught on quick: Don’t resist. Gator eyes poked out of the water.
Pete said, “Look at my car. Do I look like some union schmuck in the market for a do-it-yourself house?”
“Well… no.”
“Then don’t you think you’re doing Jimmy raw by showing me these piece-of-shit pads?”