Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [60]
Meadows was learning something about himself. He had known abject terror for the first time in his life. He had been bounced from pillar to post at the whim of a demonic puppetmaster. And by Jesus, he had survived. In spite of himself, perhaps, but he had survived.
Late that afternoon he called Clara Jackson to see how the opening salvo in his campaign of character assassination was being received.
“Did you see what they did with my story?”
“No. Which one?” Meadows answered, rattled.
“Speargun Spat Ends in Tragedy.”
“Oh.”
“Page Three C. I really lost that battle,” Clara said.
“Did you get my sketch?” Meadows asked anxiously.
“Yeah, I got it. What kind of a joke is it supposed to be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You sent me a drawing of José Bermúdez.”
“You know him?” Meadows’s pulse raced. Bingo.
“Everybody knows him, Chris. He’s one of the most dynamic, prominent, up-and-coming, et cetera, young Cubans this town has ever seen. In another couple years he’ll probably be the goddamn mayor.”
“Clara, are you certain?”
“Chris, Bermúdez’s picture is in the paper every other day. The editors of our Spanish editions have just about canonized him. Bermúdez has tons of money, and he’s a sucker for every charity around. He cuts more ribbons than the vice president.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not mixed up with the dopers, does it?” Meadows said, reeling inside. “Maybe that’s where all his money came from.”
“I tried that idea on two sources, Chris, one local and one federal. They practically laughed in my face. Bermúdez is the original straight arrow. No files anywhere.”
Meadows was crestfallen. “Maybe it’s not the same guy.”
“Maybe not,” Clara said. “Your sketch was sure as hell on the money, though.”
“Could you send me his photograph, Clara? Just to be sure. I’d be happy to pay for it.”
“I’ll just swipe one from the files. We’ve got a hundred of them back there,” she said. “I’ll get some clips together and put the whole thing in the mail this evening. I think when you read this stuff, you’ll see what I mean.”
Meadows gave her his Coconut Grove address, then blurted: “Do you know anything about a Detective Nelson?”
“There’s a couple of them.”
“This one is with the city of Miami. Narcotics,” Meadows said. “Stocky, tough, a bit rumpled.”
“Octavio.”
“Right!” Meadows exclaimed.
“You hit the daily double today, Chris. Nelson is squeaky clean, from what I know. He’s made some huge cocaine busts in the last two years.”
“That doesn’t mean he turns it all in,” Meadows cracked. He could hear Clara typing in the background.
“Octavio Nelson is a fanatic,” she went on. “A couple years ago he got shot during a bust and nearly died, but not before he put two dopers away for good. Two Colombian pros.”
“So you never heard anything bad about him?”
“A few little things,” Clara said. “Last year there were two brutality complaints that probably had some basis in fact. Nelson roughed up a couple of nickel-and-dimers in his car. He used that big flashlight they’re all issued. Nothing came of it. They jumped bond anyway.” Her tone of voice told Meadows that the incidents were of minor journalistic significance. He thanked her for the information, hung up and submerged into his swirling thoughts.
He was certain of his information, sure of what he had lived and seen. Clara Jackson, who could find out more with a dozen profane phone calls than he could in a year, was certain that Meadows’s drug kingpin was a pillar of the community.
The thought of being wrong didn’t gall Meadows. He knew he was not wrong. Meadows thought fleetingly of taking his story to someone who might care. The state attorney? Federal officials? Wouldn’t they see justice done? Clara Jackson didn’t think they would even listen to him. And even if they did, could they possibly protect his anonymity?
Besides, in the cold light of day, what facts did Meadows have that would persuade anyone? That Bermúdez had talked in a funeral