Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [122]
“There you are,” he said to Octavio Nelson. “I’ve got some bad news, Captain.”
MEADOWS WAS STILL asleep the next morning when Terry, cross-legged at the foot of the bed, found the story submerged on page four of the Journal’s local news section:
RAID ON MIAMI RESTAURANT NETS COKE, COLOMBIANS
by Clara Jackson
A WILD SUPPERTIME RAID by Metro narcotics detectives Saturday night led to the seizure of nearly a pound of high-grade cocaine at a popular Little Havana restaurant.
Acting on a tip, nine detectives stormed the La Cumparsita restaurant on SW Seventh Street shortly after 8:00 P.M., according to police spokesman Jim McWilliams.
About 400 grams of cocaine were discovered in a brown briefcase, McWilliams said. Three Colombians and two Cuban-Americans were arrested at the scene. The Colombians were turned over to the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, which refused to release their names.
The Cuban suspects have been charged with possession of a controlled substance, resisting arrest with violence, possession of unregistered firearms and assault. McWilliams said both men gave their names as “Juan Fernández.”
Also detained briefly at the restaurant was prominent Cuban-exile banker José Bermúdez. He was released at the scene after brief questioning by police.
Reached at his home late Saturday night Bermúdez told the Journal he was dining with a friend when police stormed the restaurant. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he said. “I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“The police did an excellent job,” Bermúdez added. “They made their arrests swiftly, and no one got hurt. They are to be commended.”
Victor Volstok, the owner of La Cumparsita, was unavailable for comment.
Terry’s fury propelled Meadows out of bed.
“They let him go,” she cried. “Nelson, the bastard, he let him go! ¡Hijo de puta!”
Meadows took the newspaper and read the story silently. His face showed no surprise. When the telephone rang, he stretched across the bed and snatched it off the hook. It was Arthur.
“They fucked us, man.”
“I’m reading about it right now,” Meadows said.
“Your cop friend is a prick,” Arthur snarled, his voice thick with sleep.
“Take it easy,” Meadows said.
“He bought his way out,” Terry fumed. “He opened his wallet and Nelson dove in.”
Meadows put a finger to his lips. Terry reddened, exasperated.
“What now?” Arthur said wearily.
“I don’t know,” Meadows said with a trace of a smile. “You up for some chess later?”
Chapter 31
FOUR DAYS LATER an open grave appeared on a small rise overlooking an artificial lake. It was a prime lot in the new Catholic cemetery on the fringes of the Everglades, a gravesite befitting such an important man as José Bermúdez.
Many mourners came. Businessmen and civic leaders. Office workers and laborers. A congressman and the mayor. A bishop said the mass and read prayers over the grave. There were many Cubans and nearly as many Anglos, for the dynamic man who lay in the oak casket had bridged the gap between the communities in Miami.
The mourners placed their wreaths and said their prayers and shed their tears, and they drove away. Now only three old men remained, hatless in the noonday sun.
“So young, so young. Que descanse en paz,” Pedro murmured in private oration. He wrung gnarled hands that were stained a leather brown from sixty years of making cigars. It was like losing a son.
“The ways of God are strange.” Raúl sniffled.
As usual, it was Jesús who took charge.
“It is for us to mourn, but it is also for us to understand,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?” asked Raúl.
“It was no accident. A careful man like that. Was it an accident that our shop burned to the ground just three days earlier? Was that an accident, too? If that is what you believe, my friends, then you are fools!”
There was a long moment of silence. A duck landed noisily on the artificial lake. A backhoe began digging nearby.