The Life and Deaths of Wolf Redburn

By TR Thomas

Wolf Redburn is the chief bodyguard for a prominent crime boss in Miami. As if his job wasn't stressful enough, he's also in

a romantic relationship with a homicide detective, trying to protect his boss from a planned assassination from a rival boss and keep his best friend's mate alive. At the most crucial time in his adventures, he also has a cunning assassin gunning for him. Will it be life or death for Wolf Redburn and how many deaths can he manage?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637841389

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The Life and Deaths of Wolf Redburn

TR Thomas

ISBN 978-1-63784-137-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-138-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by TR Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

About the Author

Chapter 1

It was a plate-glass palace. Things got broken there and few were mended. I'd stopped in for a fast drink, something stronger than beer, a quick numbing and short absolution. It may not have been the best Natchez had to offer, or Mississippi, but at that point I wasn't particular. I'd downed my first shot, pointed to my glass for another. The fortyish woman smiled, more a tired grimace, something required for a better tip, splashed in more whiskey. Her glance over my right shoulder was a road map to her life, as well as hours in the dim dive.

The three men playing pool were a contradiction of game rules and I'd noticed them when I came in. The noise level had risen since I'd claimed the barstool, tried not to use the stained mirror. Mixed in the male banter was a woman's soft but desperate voice. Two men were actually playing pool. One was pressing the woman against the wall, cheered on by the players—more spectators than stick kings.

Kiss her, already, or I'll show you how it's done, the most seasoned looking man commented, sinking the four ball. Hitching his belt over his checkered shirt, he sucked on a cigarette, took a sloppy sip of beer and missed his next shot.

How could you miss that? his opponent snorted, missed a set up left for him.

Well, Cleve, you're no ball wizard either, except for scratching, checkered shirt snorted, touched the woman's throat with the tip of his stick.

When the woman, the wall woman, saw me watching in the mirror, her eyes locked on mine, pleading. I looked away, probably damning my soul a little more. The barmaid's tired expression turned to scorn and I must've laughed, made some kind of sound that the doomed do, falling through the realms of hell. Just a drink, trip to your horror of a men's restroom, then back on the road, I tried to convey to the contemptuous server. She was having none of it, however, all eyes now on the drama playing out behind me. I heard an intake of breath, knew it was the victim.

The players finally fumbled their way to game's end, set up for another but first turned to the other man fumbling behind them. Harvey, are you going to sample that girl or try your luck at something easier? the biggest man, Cleve, asked, moved to the right side of the frightened woman. Occupying the other side, checkered shirt touched the woman's arm, whispered to his friend. Her eyes widened, darted around, looking for help. When the men returned to the table, I relaxed a little, till I saw two other men leave, glancing over their shoulders at the pool table. I'd also heard what checkered shirt said.

I didn't want any part of it, had just done a job in Baton Rouge for my boss. Tired and just a little sick from the inevitabilities of life, I'd had my share of mayhem for a while. Whimpers of desperation behind me and the anguished look of the woman hugging bottles stirred something in me. Beckoning the woman over, I asked, What's your name?

Her eyes flared and I wondered why she didn't rescue the pool bet, if she had the nerve to try and stare me down. What's your name? I repeated, covered my glass when she tried to top it off.

Angie, not that it's any…

Angie, I interrupted, Convince me why I should help her and explain why the owner of this place isn't putting his ass on the line.

She's my sister and the owner is the guy in the checkered shirt.

That got me turned on my stool and I studied the three men, dismissing the leader of the group out right. Checkered shirt was the typical boss—a bully, secret coward, willing to let others do the fighting for him. Tico Sanchez, my boss and Miami gang leader, paid me well for my enforcer talents. Fleeing Miami for Baton Rouge hadn't worked for one of his targets. Checkered-shirt boss would be the last one I had to deal with, so I concentrated on the other two.

Cleve, the second pool player would be who I'd have to stop first. He'd be the one with a knife, would try to get behind me. Romeo, I dubbed the man molesting the woman, had nervous eyes, was trying to impress the others. He could be the real unknown but might run when Cleve went down. The owner would swing his pool stick, try to keep me at a distance, but he would probably be last.

Another look in the mirror showed me that I still had about a minute till the woman screamed and the mad scramble began. Does that still work? I asked, indicating the jukebox that was almost hidden in the gloom. Angie nodded eyes mostly on her sister. What's the oldest music you have?

Probably Jerry Lee Lewis, she replied.

Whole lotta shakin'? I asked.

I think so, but what…?

Play it. Now! I ordered softly, turned fully around, found the rhythm in my head and pushed off to begin the short but painful dance. They didn't notice me till I was on them. Cleve! I growled, broke his nose when he turned to me, shoved him against Romeo, was already ducking the pool stick swing. Half turned by the momentum of his body, checkered shirt's knee popped like a dropped pumpkin when my boot connected with it. His surprised face was only inches away from the floor and the satisfying crunch of his chin, under my size elevens, assured me that he was finished.

Cleve was trying to rally and retaliate, was on his hands and knees, Romeo trying to pull him up, but a well-placed kick from behind, soft and painful contact, brought out a squeal like a castrated pig. He should be finished now. No scratching for a while.

Romeo had moved behind the woman and was trying to push her toward me. I saw where this was going, gestured for the woman to allow the shove. Catching her, I anticipated his path of escape, caught him on his second step toward the door and used his curly hair to bounce his head off the wall twice. One last look confirmed that they were done, still breathing and would be candidates for rest and rehabilitation—maybe more.

The woman was hanging on my arm. Angie had appeared suddenly, getting my quick and wary attention. She was examining her sister, however, pushing her clothing into a less-revealing display of disarray. Are you all right, Juliette? she asked.

I appreciated the irony in names but knew I needed to take Jerry Lee's advice and shake on out of there. Juliette had other ideas, still grasped me, watched me coyly as her sister rearranged her clothing. I didn't hear the wail of sirens yet, but they were as inevitable as bruises on the floor huggers.

I want to show my appreciation, the surprising woman said to me, winking at her frowning sister.

I grunted, I don't save damsels and then distress them, pulling her hand away and ignoring the blouse that was slipping off her shoulder, headed south. I could see that she didn't understand, but my dry humor was usually diluted by splashes of red.

Jerry Lee Lewis was finished and so was I. Glancing toward the prone pool losers I saw some unfinished business. Cleve was still trying to salvage his reputation, whatever it was, had fished out a knife and was attempting to get up. The floor was slippery, face was awash with blood and his legs were wobbly from the sack cracking. Pushing him down on his face again, I revisited what he'd left unguarded with splayed legs. He only grunted this time but curled like a worm on hot cement. Somehow he kept his grip on his knife, giving me an opportunity to examine it. Nice, I decided—a switchblade, supposedly illegal but always obtainable, with a scorpion engraved in a pearl handle. Very nice. Now mine. Spoils of war.

The pop from his wrist under my boot was as satisfying as rejecting Juliette. My Pontiac Bonneville, convertible, was waiting and I'd been here one song too long. Knowing that I had to blink my way into harsh sunlight, I cracked the door, didn't see any badges in the parking lot and had one leg outside when I heard, Wait. Who are you? Angie asked.

For the police report, I said, refusing to look back. Nothing stirred beyond the women.

For when my sister and I talk about this, she confirmed. The way sisters do, if you know about that, have sisters.

That was the only thing that had touched me in there. I wanted to go back in, revive the men. Get them on their feet but just a mistake all around. Let's share the woman and I'm first. This is how I hug, I'd say, and do worse than put them into the hospital. Do something to the woman who mentioned my sisters. It would be very physical, not in the sense of female violation, but she'd feel it the next day.

Emptying my lungs and willing my body to relax, I surprised myself when I said, Wolf Redburn.

Chapter 2

Pushing thoughts of Iris out of my mind, I replayed but didn't relive my trip to Baton Rouge. Hector Aragon, former lieutenant in Tico Sanchez's criminal organization, attempted a violent takeover and failed. Tico ordered me to Run him down and end him, his words from a hospital bed. Do this for me, Wolf, and you can have anything you want. Will you do it, Soldier? he asked, gritted his teeth in pain and waved away Victor Vitrano, son-in-law and in a work-study program to be Tico's successor.

I nodded, not wanting to say much of anything at all while Victor was listening. I didn't trust him, didn't want to consider working for him some day. Things would just get severe then.

Good, my friend, Tico said, sighing and touching his shoulder, bandaged and healing. If Hector's aim had been as keen as his desire to run the business, Tico would've been dead and I would've been on the run. Hector missed. I don't.

It'd been easy to track him west, because I thought I knew where he was going. New Orleans, where he'd worked on the docks as a union persuader. His power grab had failed there, which prompted him to set his sights on Miami. More docks, more sailors with thirsts and appetites, money to lose. There'd been a woman in New Orleans and I believed he wanted a place to hide and heal. Tico had shot back, claimed he'd hit Hector in the side. It wasn't an actual blood trail, but when you suspect a destination, splatters begin to appear.

He knew he'd be followed and I hoped he felt me behind him. It would eliminate all the unnecessary and embarrassing begging that can occur when you reach your target—especially if he's tired and trapped. Hector would put up a fight, or as much as he could with blood loss and Tico Sanchez's soldier finally appearing.

Anything I want, Tico had said. I knew he wouldn't ask what my anything would be till I returned with something to prove that I'd ended Hector. Anything I want. Because he didn't stipulate, what I wanted to hear—considered I'd heard—was anyone I wanted. And that was Rowena Jewell. She was Tico's Thursday-afternoon mistress. He'd seen her the first night she sang at the Pink Papaya, a nightspot in Opa-locka, a piece of Miami, Tico Sanchez territory. He'd listened to three songs, glanced at me, beckoned the waiter and sent for the owner. The offer Tico made to the sweaty, little man was reasonable, because the alternative involved me. Rowena was then part of Tico's stable but being an occasional bodyguard, I had too many moments of hearing what was happening in the stall.

Afterward, Rowena would beckon me in to check on Tico, napping in the bedroom, but then watched me as I trailed after her. A balcony view from the third floor was pretty impressive…but so was she. Medium height, black hair with brown eyes, skin tea colored, she was beautiful, knew it, and suspected my feelings.

What do you actually do, Mister Redburn? was the first thing she ever said to me, which got a laugh from Tico.

Don't call him that, or by his first name, Tico said. Just Soldier fits him best.

From that time, Rowena called me Soldier, or just with her eyes. The first time we were alone, Tico napping, she smiled at me, gazed off the balcony at blue joining blue, sky and water blending their azure splendor. When she turned to me I heard my clock slow, felt her turn a shovel full of dirt on my grave when she touched my shoulder. What is it you really do, Wolf?

Hearing my name didn't bother me as much as the question. She could've asked Tico, probably had, and she was clever enough to know…obvious question with an obvious answer. Not wanting to consider where this could go I moved enough to leave her fingers touching air, watched her carefully, considered choices and consequences.

I know what you do, she whispered, hand falling to her robe. Pulling it partly behind her, slowly to ease the pain, she asked softly, Would you consider protecting me? voice silk on silk.

The bruise was obvious, behind her nightgown, spread across her side like a bluish-black spider. There were other darker patches under that thin cloth, but I'd seen what she wanted to show me. Tico? I asked.

Yes.

Why?

Who can say? Passion? Not enough nursing at his mother's breast? Wanting you to hear.

Moving away from me indicated that our brief conversation was over but there were more to come and I knew my resolve was being erased, washed away in that blend between sky and sea—choice and consequence. So I knew what the siren's call could do to a man, luring him to his death and my path toward New Orleans was as reasonable as thinking I would die because of a singer with a roving eye. I accepted part of the blame because I looked back. Sometimes it took two to dance with the devil, but it would be Tico who tapped my shoulder to cut in.

There was a good chance I'd find Hector in Natchez because he wasn't traveling as fast as I was. If he rolled into the colorful Mississippi city late, looked at the river that provided the state's name he might still be there. He had a superstition about crossing water at night. More of an aversion—fear of bad fortune if he ignored his feelings, and he only worked the docks to face the beast that prowled his fancy. All that salt water was, he hoped, astringent enough to cauterize some of his fears—even kill some of his bad fortune.

Not seeing his car on my slow way through Natchez, I tried to imagine what Hector Aragon would do, knowing that I was on his heels. Parked just off the entrance to the bridge across the Mississippi River, I stared across the water, pushing down the notion that he was in Louisiana. If he'd ditched the car I knew, which was what I might've done, then he was in one of the motels lining this side of the river. There were at least half a dozen and I needed to get to it. Driving as far to my right as the city went, I parked outside The Natch and began my search. There were no cars or trucks with Florida plates but I would've been surprised if he made it that easy.

I expected a devious flight and he hadn't disappointed me. Feinting escape to Atlanta, where he had family, Hector abruptly swung toward Mobile, then went south. Natchez was a hunch. I hadn't tired of questioning motel managers, bartenders and pharmacists. Having more stamina and blood than I credited to him, I'd traced him to the town on the river with complaints from motel maids, having to clean bloodstains.

In The Natch, the woman I saw may have once been a motel maid, had the rough elbows and hands, weary eyes of someone who'd seen too much of leavings from others. Her nameplate said May but her maybe days had been over long ago. He was here, she confirmed, reached behind her and pulled a stained-red towel from a big, plastic hamper. For insurance purposes, she explained, emphasizing insurance with smacks from a wad of gum. I thought he was staying the night but he left before sundown, asked me about Baton Rouge emergency clinics. He left number one looking like a hospital room.

What was he driving?

A green truck with Mississippi plates, she said, chewed and pumped her jaw, looked bored.

What kind of make? I asked. License number?

Mister, that's more than you get from most. Say, she added, interest renewed in me, are you family? It's going to be expensive restoring that room. If you are family…?

I'm not, I said with enough honesty that I thought at first she might've swallowed her gum.

Do you want a room? she asked, though her tone indicated that she hoped I'd decline.

I do. Two rooms. Number two, if it's available. And number one.

I told you one isn't fit, she managed.

Just to look. I gave her money and she gave me keys. Is there an emergency clinic in Baton Rouge?

Wherever he is—that's an emergency room, she said, making the bills disappear…into her mouth, possibly, as vigorously as she began to chew.

A quick examination of the first room confirmed what I'd suspected. He'd gone across the Mississippi River while he still could and would turn south and head to Baton Rouge, if he was still able to drive. The condition of room number one raised my doubts that he could make it that far.

A quick meal down the road and I was on my way, across the river that emptied into the Gulf and then south, hopefully straight to my target. Watching for green trucks on my pursuit, I slowed my speed as I approached Baton Rouge, state capital of Louisiana and an absolute red stick for Hector Aragon.

It was just beginning to get light when I reached my destination, saw the end of a green vehicle under the first bridge I'd have to cross to continue my journey. Easing off the road and stopping behind the truck, I accepted that I wouldn't have to touch that bridge after all. Hector was slumped against the side of the truck, where he could watch the road. Crimson bandages were strewn around him, already home to some flies. He nodded, tried a smile but the slight head shake may have been all his pain level could tolerate. I thought that might be you, he gasped. How is the Pontiac running? he asked, coughed and strained forward.

Better than you are, I answered, fished out my last cigarette and thumbed a light. Why did you try that, Hector? It was a dumb move and I always credited you with more intelligence than that. Was it a spur of the moment or did Tico pull on you?

It was a spur, but not in the sense that you mean. Do we ever do things just on our own?

I agreed with him, found myself thinking about Rowena Jewell and how her looks and words had begun to twist me around.

I couldn't go any farther, Soldier. Did you enjoy your outing? Did I fool you when I went north? he managed, holding his side, glancing at the water racing under the bridge.

Just till I remembered you talking about a woman in New Orleans.

Hillary. I did share that with you, didn't I, because we were friends once.

I'd finished my cigarette, flicked it into the water and watched it being carried away. Everything ends. Everything. We still are, I replied, though it was only as true as I'd allow in the next few minutes. Friendship ends where duty begins. Like it or not.

If that's true, and I've never known you to say something you didn't mean, then I'm going to call you on that and ask for one…one last favor.

His posture and expression indicated that he didn't expect nor need leniency. He was beyond that so it had to be something he couldn't do himself. I'm not taking you to New Orleans, won't be going near the place.

No, he coughed, gazed up at me, trying to remind me of the friendship we'd managed in the potentially-violent line of work we'd found in life. I do need help, but my trip is much shorter than what you imagine. Down to the water. I want to face my fears, right to the end.

Wind appeared from nowhere, blew around and under the bridge, scattered the flies but then moved the bandages from the depleted man.

Are you sure, Hector?

I've been thinking about it, waiting for you. Don't think I can manage myself, any way you look at it, he mumbled, gazing at the water again. His hand had fallen away from his side, palm up, fingers extended, a final request—shiny offering for his soul. My donation.

Surprising me even further, he put his hands together, eased his ring off with red persuasion, dropped it by his foot. I know Tico will want something. Give him that. I know I didn't kill him, couldn't right at that moment. Tell him…I'm sorry I even considered it. If I could do it over I would never have tried. We do things. Some not on our own. Now, he gasped, I really need that baptism, reached toward me, head bowed.

He was a dead weight, in every sense of the deed. To his credit, and for my later thoughts on it, he didn't resist at the end. Almost as if he embraced his watery grave, he slipped beneath the surface, disappeared immediately. Though I watched at length, he didn't appear again.

A fence stretched across what I believed was an irrigation canal. He'd be trapped against the wire till chance brought him up. I stared at the gold ring, flecked in red, by a remnant of bandage. Retrieving it and leaving it stained, I wrapped it in the clean bandage I found in the truck cab. A reflective duplicate sat on my finger, gift from Tico. Hector and I received them the same evening at the Pink Papaya, for services rendered. Friends and duty, coinciding.

Hector's wallet sat on the seat. I took anything that might point to a life of crime but left his driver's license, so he could be identified and at least have his name on some kind of marker. I disposed of all other items, except for one, which I slipped into my pocket. After some consideration, I added Hillary's phone number to the first item. I could call her someday and tell her that Hector was thinking about her at the end. That he would've seen her, if he could've.

The wind picked up, blowing under the bridge, raising riffles on the water's surface. It was as if other forces were trying to move Hector off his metal trap, return him to air and light. He'd met his fears, chosen his final moments. He did things on his own—at least one that I knew was important to him.

Something else had mattered too, enough for him to shoot, get himself shot. I'd have to think about that all the way back to Miami. I might also be superstitious, because I moved the snapshot of Rowena Jewell from the pocket with Hillary's phone number. I didn't have to ask how Hector got it but might have to ask why.

Chapter 3

Miami was leaden-colored that morning, the type of day that would force people to gaze toward the ocean and wonder what the storm would belch up. Nerves jittered, tempers frayed and wounds ached—particularly old ones. Fresh wounds oozed and reminded the foolish or unfortunate that everything does eventually end—even the discomfort of healing. Endings, though, suggested others.

Tico tried to tell himself that, sagging into the edge of the mattress, staring angrily at the bottle of pain pills on the bedside table. It didn't help his bad humor that he could feel Rowena gazing at him from the open door. A juvenile delinquent who'd survived the dangerous streets and alleys of central Miami, then rose to crime boss, there wasn't much he feared, but he couldn't abide anyone staring at him. Go away, woman, he snarled. If he got off the bed he'd have to follow his words with a more-lasting reminder and she hadn't healed from the last one.

Soldier called, she said softly but Tico heard the defiance in her voice. He wasn't going to look at her, couldn't—for both their sakes.

And? he finally managed, allowing a sidelong glance that only confirmed, in a hazy image, that she was wearing her black nightgown.

It's done, she whispered, and he has the kill token. A ring.

Of course he'd take the ring, Tico thought. It's what I would've done. When Rowena passed by the door again, he stared at her intently and asked, Where is Victor?

In the hall, she answered, appearing and leaning against the doorframe. Her posture stretched the thin fabric against her beautifully-brown skin and Tico forgot his shoulder for a blessed second of heightened desire. Continuing, she noted his intense interest. I wouldn't be dressed like this if he was where he could see me. You know that. I hope.

Put something on and call him in, he commanded, saw her hesitation. Lust was replaced by anger and he'd almost risen when he saw her pass by his door in her robe, heard the door open, then Victor's cigarette-scarred voice. Hi, Rowena. How's Tico? Is the old boy awake?

Rowena strolled by the open door without answering, made a point of glancing in, eyebrows elevated, small smile not touching her eyes.

Boss, Victor blustered, knowing that Tico had heard him. Are you feeling better?

If you weren't married to my daughter, Tico thought, didn't have to say it. He knew his expression would and was lethal now, made certain Victor received the threat in a cold stare, furrowed brow and chiseled chin. When he rose and approached Victor, the pup retreated, gazed around to find Rowena and fished out a cigarette.

No, Tico said quietly, watched Victor shove it hastily in his pocket. Do you have the sign maker and painter? His son-in-law's confusion and distress was as satisfying as one of his pain pills. The restaurant? Tico suggested, saw recognition replace fear, then Victor's ingratiating and annoying smile spread.

Yes, boss. Same guy can do both. The sign is finished.

Right away?

Today. We just have to move tables and chairs, cover the stage and bar. He said he could do it in one day, if you're sure about the colors.

Are you certain, Rowena? Tico asked, raising his voice. She had gone on to the balcony and Tico could smell smoke from her cigarette…not good for her voice but she didn't or couldn't listen.

Gray and blue, to match the new name, she said.

Tico nodded, studied Victor till he began to glance toward the balcony door, hoping that Rowena would rescue him. The sign's finished, you say, Tico mumbled, daring Victor to change his mind and story.

It's finished, boss, ready to replace the other one. I got to tell you, gray and blue will look very classy…way better than the pink.

And your painter can finish in one day, Tico stated. Not a question. No backing up or eating boastful words. You said it and now it's on you. Try to deny it and daughter or not… Victor felt the importance of the unspoken.

Guaranteed, boss. He has helpers.

Good, then, Tico declared. Get the sign replaced today and get them started. Up his wages, your call, but impress that he might have to lose his salary for hospital bills if he doesn't finish by tomorrow night. Take a few of the fellows to get his agreement. The place may smell a little strong but I want it ready for the party we'll have for Wolf. I want it to be special, Victor, which means you just make this happen, have my daughter looking beautiful and keep your mouth shut. I want Soldier to enjoy it.

Rowena came into the room when she heard Tico's order. Her expression was smugly pleased. She enjoyed seeing Victor squirm, under Tico's foot. When he was squashed like this, he couldn't leer at her, taking a piece of clothing off her every time he blinked.

Tico watched her saunter in, knew what she was doing to Victor and why. He'd warned his daughter, Angela, but she was as stubborn as he was, would eventually castrate Victor and that would be the end of it. Until then…he just enjoyed the show. Why are you still here? he growled at Victor.

Waiting for him to leave, Tico regarded Rowena for a few seconds, grunted and gazed across the balcony, watching seabirds flying parallel to the beach. Rowena touched his arm lightly and paused to let her perfume surround him. I haven't thanked you for the Pink Papaya makeover and for letting me hire my own piano man.

I knew you could look better, Tico said matter-of-factly, but are you sure about your ivory guy? He looks like some sort of male prostitute who works Hialeah.

Oh, Tico, she laughed, rubbing against him. He knows my style and won't leave me hanging on a note or rush into a line when I'm out of breath.

Sounds like bed music, Tico answered, turning to see her up close. And what kind of name is Craig Cavatina? It does sound like a street name. Come get your Craig Cavatina. One hundred dollars for some finger time in the alley.

Rowena frowned, walked a few feet away, sighed and seemed to compose herself. I like the new name, Tico.

Anything is better than what sounded like a fruity drink. Pink Papaya. Talk about a sissy name. The Sultan sounds masculine. Real men will come in now…

And watch me sing, she reminded him.

Watching and dreaming isn't the same as touching. I have that pleasure and I'm willing to do a renovation to pay for it. Besides, with the Moorish architecture in Opa-locka, the club won't look like a tit on a flamingo, he chuckled and emphasized his point with something that Rowena hated. Seeing her reaction he instantly regretted his impulsive touching. He meant it affectionately but she never saw or felt it that way. To cover his feelings of regret—something he'd forgotten even existed—he cleared his throat, rotated his injured shoulder. Will you sing something special tomorrow night? For Soldier?

Happily. Any requests?

Old songs. Slow and sweet. Sentimental. He'll be down, Tico added. They were friends. It was honorable to have Wolf do it. A friend executing a friend. Or do you understand that?

No. You could've sent anyone. You have enough men to choose from. Why put it on Wolf?

Tico considered for a moment before answering. Hector was dying. As soon as I shot him. He expected Wolf to come for him. Deserved the best. It's a poor example, that you wanted an effeminate pianist and got it. Expectations. Respect.

Rowena thought about it and nodded her head in acknowledgment but not understanding. Comparing Wolf to Craig was like putting Victor in a pool with an alligator and expecting him to talk his way out of it. Or, as she regarded the birds flying offshore, pushing Tico off the balcony and expecting him to fly. Without another look at birds or lover, she picked up the phone, face pinched in concentration, dialed. Her expression changed to excited purpose when she said, Craig, we need some rehearsal time. Yes, now. I can be there in thirty minutes, she added, gazed at Tico for confirmation. Got it. Smiling In satisfaction, she continued, What were you doing? Ha. I can help you when we finish. What? Old ones. Tin Pan Alley stuff. Yes, that one. For certain. She listened a moment, then hung up.

Leaving the door open to her room, she picked something simple, changed quickly, peering over her shoulder at Tico when she was down to near nothing. He had called for her ride but watched her avidly. When a quick but soft knock sounded, Tico checked carefully, nodded to Rowena.

Bring her back the way you found her, he said crisply to the driver. Rowena, what was Craig Cantaloupe doing that you're going to help with?

She paused at the door, glanced at her ride, smiled at Tico but finally answered, His nails. I'll do his. He'll do mine—and a better job than the beautician, she laughed, was out the door before Tico could respond, leaving her driver to glance unhappily at his boss and hurry after. It was easier and safer to collect on loans and break arms, the driver thought, but he would get a peek at her legs when she got into the back seat.

Chapter 4

Victor got out of his car cautiously, gazed up and down the street before he approached the brown, stucco home. Eyes were on him before he even reached the sheltered and cool portico, entrance to another dark world that he hadn't even considered several days ago. Hector's unsuccessful attack on Tico Sanchez had stirred Victor's imagination. Not brave enough to go at his father-in-law directly, he'd approached Manny Ramirez, East Miami's most dangerous denizen.

Having survived hurricanes, ambitious district attorneys and attempted encroachment by other crime lords, Manny Ramirez was the model for instant and fatal retaliation, deliberate elimination, which was equally fatal. Legendary, supposed architect for thirty homicides, he was the person to see if you wanted to move up the criminal ladder—quickly and violently.

Victor Vitrano to see Mister Ramirez, he said to the pair of hooded eyes, regarding him from the latticed peep hole. I'm expected.

Abruptly, the door opened, cold air erupting around him, mixed with an aroma of something delicious—meat in potato pockets, Victor knew, felt saliva fill his mouth. Am I in time for lunch, he choked, noticing the three other men standing behind the one who opened the door. Not cooks, for certain, Victor realized, unless it was human flesh he smelled.

Are you packing? door man asked. If I have to look and find it, you lose your weapon.

Victor pulled his pistol, small by anyone's standards, but still effective up close, or at least what he was told when it was added to the pot in a poker game. It was pretty—not a word or description that he would use with anyone.

Hefting the gun, the stone-faced man entertained a brief smile, half turned to the other hulking gun-check man and snorted, Look at this. A Browning 22 caliber. Hey, buddy, have you ever fired this? Where do the caps go?

Someone snorted, not making Victor feel any less comfortable.

You're always so sure of everything, one of the men said, pushing the barrel of the gun away, adding, these pop guns are plenty lethal. That little bullet hits bone and it bounces around, opening paths everywhere. Fatal with a headshot. Scrambles brains.

Anything else? door man asked, slipping the gun into his pocket. Peashooter? Slingshot?

You don't know nothing from nothing, the second man said, motioned for Victor to follow him. One of the silent men followed Victor, shoe sliding on the ornate tile. A shuffle and grunt.

Hear that shoe slip? the leader asked Victor. He used to be the doorman, put a pop gun in his pocket and it went off, shattering the bone. Now he does odd jobs, bringing up the rear.

The home was bigger than it appeared from the street. Several doors lined the corridor, some open, some closed. The open doors were to bedrooms or a den, library, and what appeared to be a nursery, empty. The last open door showed a white-haired woman in a high-necked dress. She was sitting stiffly on a cushioned chair, staring out the open patio doors, fountain misting water into a green canopy. She moved slightly when they passed.

Has Mama Ramirez been out today? the talkative man asked. A grunt from behind Victor was the only answer but they didn't falter. Two right turns brought them to another view to what must've been a central courtyard. Both men paused, one on each side of Victor. A man in almost-blinding white cotton appeared, gazed at Victor intently, chuckled and said, Follow me, Mister 22, pushed through some leafy foliage and presented Victor to Manny Ramirez, crime boss and part-time gardener.

Victor wasn't invited to sit at the wrought-iron table so he took the opportunity to look around. He was on the other side of the fountain, could just make out the old woman through the spray. She seemed to be staring at him, but when she turned her head sideways, and leaned forward, so did he. We can share a secret through the water droplets, Mrs. Ramirez. Tell me about your son. What are his weaknesses? How dangerous is he?

You've made my mother's acquaintance, I see, Mister Vitrano. Are you here for my secrets on ferns? Or could you possibly want Tico eliminated? he asked, taking a small sip of what Victor believed was lemonade. He grimaced and smiled.

Not trusting his voice or words, Victor chose to assess the man who commanded the largest group of felons in Miami. He did look like a gardener. White pants, cut off at the knees, stained green, topped by a simple cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to impossible dimensions over large biceps, feet free of worn sandals. A battered straw hat was at his elbow, partially covering a pistol that had a grip very much like Victor's weapon. Seeing his open curiosity, Manny pushed his hat aside, watched Victor closely before commenting, I haven't seen at 22 like this one for some time. Did your wife give it to you?

Victor jerked forward, composed himself, only after a concentrated effort. No, Mister Ramirez. I won it in a poker game.

Manny smiled, glanced at the other white-attired man standing to Victor's right and slightly behind him. When Victor gazed back at him, he realized that spotless-white was a younger version of Manny Ramirez; Ruben, the son with no male siblings. It was rumored that Ruben Ramirez would murder a brother in the cradle to assure ascendancy to the throne. Few saw Ruben, couldn't really describe him, because he was the last thing that many of the rivals saw. Victor froze when he remembered that, stopped a turn to look at Ruben full on.

Don't believe everything you hear, Mister Vitrano, Manny chuckled. Maybe that's really my daughter, Carmen.

Victor wanted to look again, try to find soft curves where none should be, but Manny Ramirez was studying him so closely that Victor was afraid to move. There was potential danger in front and behind. Some lemonade for Mister Vitrano, Manny whispered, slid around and touched the leaf of a plant near him. His request was relayed and the figure took his original position, ominous white in a green shade and way too close to him. Be seated, Mister Vitrano, Manny said, glancing toward the fountain, beyond it, frown creasing his hard features. Victor's drink arrived and a white-cottoned arm reached down to place it before the now-thirsty man. Catching the arm, Manny whispered something to the face and ear, covered by curly black hair. Victor stared at the outline, trying to see any telltale curves but couldn't. He did hear one word, Mother, and the message was conveyed, then Victor felt the presence behind him again.

Mister Vitrano, my mother is blind but I'm certain she can see the black ambition inside you. Tell me how I can get to Tico, when and where, and you can grieve the passing of someone much better than you. Remember, when you replace Tico Sanchez, you become a target. Manny paused to let Victor consider that, motioned for him to try his drink. Second thoughts? he inquired, took Victor's silence to be a sort of consent to proceed and began to tell Victor what he wanted for the deed. Victor's hand shook, sending ice cubes into a tinkling frenzy. He was suddenly very afraid to disagree with anything. When he saw the old woman being led past the fountain, he knew exactly how she felt. Exactly.

Chapter 5

The man at the piano looked comfortably casual in green, silk pajamas and black, cotton slippers. The door was open to a small but cozy living room, tastefully adorned with plain but functional couch and chairs. Ornate lights hung or perched, side tables reflecting light from windows open to bird song. Finishing with a flourish, Craig Cavatina tried the final eight notes again, nodded happily, shook his blond hair, blinked green eyes, rubbed his smooth jaw and added ink to a piece of sheet music. A shuffling of feet at his welcome mat brought his head partly around. Patting the pockets of his baggy pajama pants, he said, with obvious pleasure, Benno. You're right on time. Please come in.

A large, dumpy man shuffled in, glanced around irritably but then focused his puffy eyes on Craig. I don't want to get rough with you, Cavatina, but I'm not leaving without my money.

Of course you aren't, Benno, Craig chuckled, trying the final notes again, smiling and blowing a kiss to the sheet music. Did that sound acceptable to you? I recall that you mentioned being in the music department of one of Miami's colleges but can't recall which one.

"If this is part