M.I.A. Hunter: Miami War Zone by Stephen Mertz Page A

along with Charlie's ideas, all right. It was just that he seemed vague on the details of what was going down. And then there was that D.E.A. guy his father had bought from the Cubans.
    Charlie didn't like that part of it at all.
    "It's stupid," Charlie had argued. "He's a nothing. Why take a chance on messing with the feds any more than we have to? It's bad enough as it is, but if one of their guys disappears . . ."
    The old man hadn't listened. He thought it was a fine idea, and it was about the only idea he'd had in the last few years. So he stuck by his guns, and Charlie had given in.
    Now Charlie was going over his plans for the rest of the night with the old man. He'd told him everything twice already, but Don Vito had to hear it all again. His mind was like a sieve.
    "It's real simple," Charlie said loudly. The old man was partially deaf, too. "We go in, we blow ' em away, that's all there is to it."
    They were in the master bedroom of the mansion on Don Vito's estate. When his wife had died nearly ten years before, the don had redecorated.
    There was a circular bed with red silk sheets, and a black spread. The walls and the carpeting were white. There was a huge mirror on the ceiling over the bed.
    Probably the only way the old fucker can get it up , Charlie thought. Pretend he's in a whorehouse .
    Don Vito was propped in the bed, supported by five or six pillows in red and black silk cases. He was wearing black silk pajamas and looked like a waxen corpse, his face thin, the flesh hanging on it loosely. The only thing about him that looked alive was his eyes, which were still darkly black and shiny.
    "Nothing's ever that simple, Charlie. I thought I taught you that. I want you to go through it again, carefully."
    Shit , Charlie thought. I know he's got a broad waiting in the next room. Why can't he just let me go and get on with it?
    Aloud, Charlie said, "All right. It's like this. You remember I told you about the big drug deal that's going down between the Colombians and the Cubans?"
    "Of course," Don Vito said. And he did. He remembered much more than people thought. For several years he had been cultivating the image of a senile old man, but it was merely that—an image. Let them think he was harmless, and they would reveal much more to him than they might do otherwise. Even his own son. "I remember. Go on."
    "Good. Right. Well, of course the Colombians and the Cubans don't trust each other. We know that."
    Don Vito tried not to smile. For his son to state such an obvious thing was almost an insult. Or maybe Charlie was none too bright, which the don had long suspected might be the case. At any rate, no one in the drug pipeline trusted anyone else. That was an article of the faith: "Trust no one."
    Charlie was going on. "So naturally, the Cubans don't go to the processing plant. The Colombians won't tell where it is. Shit, even we can't find that out.
    "Anyway, the Cubans naturally don't want the Colombians in their territory, either. The Colombians import, process, and wholesale to the Cubans, who sell it on the streets. So they've set up a meet at a neutral site, like they always do. But it's always a different place. This time, we found out where."
    "How did we do that?" Don Vito inquired.
    "You know that. It was your guys that found out." Charlie admitted the last part grudgingly.
    "And what about my guys?"
    Charlie looked at the old man sharply. How much did the old man know? "You heard something?"
    "People still tell me things, Charlie."
    "I guess they do." Charlie watched the old man speculatively. "So you heard about the nightclub?"
    "Nightclub? Strip joint, no more. Why give it such a glamorous name? Yes, I heard."
    "It was a fucking slaughter. I heard some guys must have got away, but there was a lot of dead people. Cubans mostly."
    "Including any particular ones?"
    "Yeah, right, including your two tame boys, Castillo and Rodriguez."
    The old man shifted on the pillows, trying to reach a more comfortable