Bad Money: Hair On Fire, #1

COPYRIGHT

BAD MONEY. Copyright 2017, 2019 by Howard D. Weiner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher/copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact Howard D. Weiner, 200 Hoover Ave, Unit 1907, Las Vegas, NV 89101.

ISBN: 9781549748493 (paperback)

ISBN: various (ebook)

ASIN: B075MHTMT5

Cover design by R.L. Sather of

www.selfpubbookcovers.com

Edited by Wendy F. Weiner

Bad Money is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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BOOKS BY HOWARD WEINER

F I C T I O N

THE TRIPLE PLAY NOVELS

It Is Las Vegas After All¹

Serendipity Opportunity

The Big Lowandowski

HAIR ON FIRE NOVELS

Bad Money

By Any Other Name²

THE BLOOD RELATIONS NOVELS

One for the Price of Two

Deadly Walkabout

If At First

A C A D E M I C

Introduction to Structured COBOL: A Programming Skills Approach

¹Also available on audiobook

²Forthcoming, 2019

DEDICATION

To my lovely bride. You rescued this manuscript from the trash where it lived to see the light of day. Don’t blame her.

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT

BOOKS BY HOWARD WEINER

DEDICATION

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

CHAPTER 50

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

April 3, 1993

THE SMELL OF NEW LEATHER. Shakespeare was convinced that nothing smelled like success more than the leather interior of the new BMW. He was rolling now. The money was coming in—the orders were, too. Life was perfect. He’d just rented a new apartment near the University of the District of Columbia campus. During the past year, he’d managed to move far up the food chain and away from the dingy apartment he once shared with his grandmother.

The juxtaposition of his grandmother’s image and the smell of the new car transported his thoughts to an earlier time in Washington, DC, while the vehicle moved south on Interstate 95.

She was strict, but he knew she loved him dearly. No matter how bad things got—and the misery of that sad, little apartment was filled with more bad memories than good— Grandma would always find some small change for a soda or ice cream cone on a hot summer night.

The cold blast from the car’s powerful air conditioning system jerked him back to the present. No, sir, he wasn’t going to be hot and sweaty anymore. And he could just about afford anything he wanted. Yet, he knew his grandma wouldn’t be proud of his new-found success. If she were still alive and knew that he was a drug courier, her temper would flare, and he would once again feel the wrath of a God-fearing woman who would more proudly bear her poverty than the wealth offered by the sin and depredation of the drug trade.

Shakespeare had succumbed to the lure of a small fortune and a better lifestyle. He’d overlooked the hazards of his new profession—dazzled by the money and the prospect of living large. For the first time in his life, he had the things he admired and desperately wanted as a teenager.

Growing up in the troubled public housing projects, located just blocks from the wealthy and powerful folk who ran the government, created an overwhelming need for material things and wealth. Just as food stems the hunger, Shakespeare’s money, new crib, clothing, and new BMW—but especially the new car—filled an organic need that festered and grew throughout his deprived childhood.

Still, he didn’t want to end up in jail like his father, or dead of an overdose like his mama. All those years of the wailing, screaming sermons delivered by his grandma had at least some effect. No, he’d only make another couple of runs, and then he’d have enough money to set himself up in something legitimate. Money blessed him with options.

Options, the word sounded so rich to a poor boy. Options sure as hell beat the despair and hopelessness of poverty.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

HE LOOKED OUT the window of the suburban Miami hotel into the brilliantly lit parking lot. He just couldn’t take his eyes off of the BMW. It looked so good, and he worried about it whenever it was out of his sight. Even the rich velour hotel robe wrapped around his slender frame didn’t make him feel better unless he knew his car was safe.

The telephone call came an hour later.

You sure do like living uptown, said the man in a condescending tone of voice.

Look, Shakespeare replied, the Feds wouldn’t think of looking for a drug deal in this hotel because—

Shut up! the interruption was filled with rage. You talk too much, and you think you know it all. Just leave the money in the briefcase under the bed. Tomorrow morning go for a swim, rich boy, and while your room is being cleaned, we’ll make the swap.

I don’t know about that, Shakespeare said trying to sound brave when he knew he wasn’t. How do I know that you’ll leave the stuff?

You don’t, you fuck, the man laughed, and the telephone line went silent.

Shakespeare didn’t want a repeat of his last meeting with the Panamanian. Nor did he want to face his client empty-handed back in Washington, DC. Shakespeare really wasn’t cut out for this work, and everyone in the business seemed to know it. Rather than give the problem any more consideration, he turned out the light and fell asleep.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

TO NORMAN RAMÓN it was just another hit. The only time he was happy was when he could make the guy sweat before he killed him. It gave him a sense of power that he’d missed since leaving Panama. He liked making that kid, Shakespeare, shit his pants over the telephone.

Now the fun was over, and Norman Ramón, dressed like a room service waiter, walked down the hotel hallway toward Shakespeare’s room. When he reached the door marked 1147, he looked both left and right and then placed the room service tray on the floor next to the door. The plate contained the discards of another guest’s dinner. Ramón found it near the service elevator and used it to help establish his cover as he made his way to Shakespeare. Using the passkey he came across during his last visit to the hotel, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside the darkened room.

The room was actually a suite. The bedroom, framed by French doors, lay beyond the entrance foyer on the far side of the living room. Ramón moved silently to the doors and carefully opened one of them. He walked quickly around the bed while withdrawing a large piece of plastic wrap from inside his jacket.

The sound of the unfurling plastic made enough noise to awaken Shakespeare, and he felt a heavy weight on his chest. Ramón, now straddling his victim’s chest and pinning the boy’s arms beneath his knees, held the plastic over Shakespeare’s face. The boy’s initial wakeful response was to take a sharp, deep breath which served only to suck the straining plastic into his mouth and effectively seal off his airway. Ramón carefully shifted his position to ride out the boy’s thrashing body and still hold the plastic firmly in place. The struggle was over quickly, too quickly for Ramón who enjoyed watching his victims’ torment, but he continued to hold the plastic over the boy’s face until he was sure that the kid, Shakespeare, was dead.

Shakespeare, he quietly spat the boy’s name. A young college punk trying to make quick and easy money carrying product north for his boss. But Shakespeare’s boss needed to learn a lesson and killing the boy would do that nicely. The local DEA office was suddenly proving to be a problem for Ramón. There were questions about bad paper. That wasn’t part of the deal with Shakespeare’s boss. The DEA wasn’t supposed to be a problem. It’s all taken care of, everyone promised. And Shakespeare’s pick up wasn’t supposed to be a problem either.

According to Ramón’s calculus, Shakespeare’s death was a subtle way of sending a message about promises not kept. The fact that he despised this kid he just killed was an added bonus.

The act made him powerful again, if only briefly.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

JOHN WILKERSON, THE hotel’s MOD—Manager on Duty—was new to the Miami area and its Hispanic culture. Coming from the Midwest, he found it difficult communicating with the hotel’s housekeeping staff. He was having an especially trying time understanding the eleventh-floor maid right now. She was screaming about something, or someone, he just couldn’t tell what.

Looking down the hallway, he saw her cart outside of room 1147. Whatever had her in a dither must be in that room. So, Wilkerson, trying to demonstrate the calm, controlled manner drummed into him in management training, led the hysterical maid toward her cart and suite 1147.

Inside the suite, Wilkerson found the maid’s problem—now his problem. A young, black male, with plastic over his face, was dead on the right side of the king-sized bed. The boy’s grotesque grimace caused Wilkerson to momentarily lose control. He shivered at the sight of Shakespeare’s bulging eyes and distorted facial features frozen in a death mask of wild surprise.

Wilkerson fought for self-control and focused on the checklist he was to follow whenever an MOD encountered a dead guest: Call hotel security, secure the room, make sure nothing is disturbed, keep all witnesses available for the police investigation, and call the General Manager.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

BY THE TIME the Miami Police Department responded to the call, hotel security had put together all of the information on the corpse. He had checked in late last evening paying for his room with a corporate American Express card. The hotel reservation for a one-night stay had been made through the Marriott toll-free reservation number earlier in the day. The valet from the parking concession remembered the guest because he was nervous about letting anyone park his car. Even though the car was now missing, the valet had no trouble describing it to hotel security.

The homicide investigator arrived first. After all, the hotel had reported a dead body. The dispatching protocol followed by the Miami Police Department called for homicide to investigate without first sending out a patrol car.

When Detective S’barra arrived at room 1147, he knew that he would be first on the scene. That was good. Too often patrol cops screwed up the crime scene making it impossible for forensics to lift anyone’s fingerprints except those belonging to the patrol cop. The lectures at the police academy just weren’t doing the job. These new guys made every crime scene look like a herd of elephants had trampled the victim to death.

S’barra looked at Shakespeare’s body and knew instantly what he’d found. Young black male with eighteen karat gold chains around his neck, leather pants folded neatly on the wood valet next to the bed, and according to hotel security, a new BMW in the parking lot.

A drug courier all right, but what happened?

He looked in the closet and under the bed. Clean. No suitcase, no briefcase, no money, and no drugs. Thank God for the small victories. If S’barra found anything from a drug deal, then he had to call in one of the scuz balls from the Drug Task Force. He didn’t like working with any of those guys. They all looked and dressed like the enemy, and he sure wouldn’t want to trust one of them to cover his back if things turned nasty.

Using his handkerchief, he carefully picked up the telephone in the other room and called the dispatcher.

Listen, this is S’barra over at the Marriott. Any idea when the Coroner’s team is coming? he asked sarcastically.

S’barra had the reputation of being a wise ass. He asked questions when he already knew the answer, and he usually mimicked the bureaucratic responses, word for word, just to drive the other party crazy.

They’ve been notified, S’barra, both he and the dispatcher replied nearly simultaneously. The dispatcher had been through this scene with S’barra before, but it still didn’t keep him from losing his temper.

Look, S’barra, I can’t make them move any faster, the dispatcher volunteered.

Without responding, S’barra carefully returned the receiver to its cradle.

He reached into his trench coat and withdrew the packaged camera. The camera said it all for S’barra. The new fiscal reality of police work required every homicide investigator to request one of those new disposable cameras preloaded with film from the supply clerk before responding to a call. Now, every investigator was also a photographer. Too many crimes happening too quickly to send real photographers to each crime scene. So here he was, fifteen years on the force, taking pictures of a dead man like a fucking paparazzi.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

RAMÓN HAD WHAT he might describe as a rewarding night. One message sent, a briefcase that just happened to hold $750K, and another quick ten large for dropping the BMW at a chop shop located near the airport. And it hadn’t cost him a thing.

He had plans for all of it. Ramón knew that he had to send the money back to DC. It was one thing to send a message, but another to take what didn’t belong to him. His DC contacts knew Ramón was an honest businessman who observed a strict code of ethics. As long as the game was played by a set of acceptable rules, no one got hurt. Step over the line, however, and Ramón would send you a message that brought you back into line.

Killing a little prick like Shakespeare was okay. Taking someone’s money without providing the expected goods wasn’t. So, the money was going back. In fact, he’d deliver the cash in person.

That was another of Ramón’s characteristics. He liked to deliver his messages in person.

He looked at the ten thousand dollars. Walking around money—-another benefit Ramón hadn’t experienced since leaving Panama. 

CHAPTER 2

RALPH CARRUTHERS WAS NOT BEING paid this day, and like anyone who was self-employed, that was cause for concern. Instead, he was attending a stockholders’ meeting of Subscriber’s Review in Miami. Carruthers always purchased stock in the companies for whom he provided consulting services. It was always easier to take an owner’s view when writing a report. Too many of his colleagues lacked this perspective, and it showed as they glibly fired off several thousand words and moved on to the next client.

We’re going to focus our technology investments on supporting the firm’s strategic initiatives, the voice came thundering across the sound system.

The current speaker, like all of the others, was not only dull, he was lying through his teeth. Clarke Williams, Vice-President for Information Technology, was stringing together buzzwords and sound bites that described how he was going to spend his $65 million budget in 1993. Subscriber’s Review was one of Carruthers’ clients, had been since 1985. He was acutely aware of how little Clarke Williams understood technology. Under his inept leadership, the firm badly squandered hundreds of millions of dollars with little or nothing to show for it.

Like most firms, the long-term Information Technology plan for Subscriber’s Review looked like a collage of the headlines from the industry trade journals. Each week there was a new technology or a new application of existing technology, and Subscriber’s Review was chasing them all, and doing an awful job of it.

Carruthers looked at his watch and realized that if he stayed much longer, he’d have to spend another night in Miami. The bad air in the room made breathing difficult. His allergies were starting to bother him too. So, the thought of spending one more night in a city he didn’t like wasn’t pleasing.

After stepping on only three sets of toes, he beat a hasty retreat. Carruthers walked out into the bright Miami sunshine and found himself at the taxi stand waiting for a cab to the airport

He wasn’t the only one who wanted to sneak away early. He suffered his turn in a long taxi line filled with others eagerly departing the stockholders’ meeting and climbed into a cab outfitted like a religious shrine. There were beads, religious icons, even a votive candle, and of course, the cab driver professed to speak little, or no, English.

Miami International Airport, Carruthers barked. Somehow, the increase in volume was intended to transcend the language barrier.

"Sí," replied the cabby.

The cab driver exited the Marriott parking lot and headed away from the interstate that would take them to the airport.

Wait a minute! Carruthers yelled. You’re going the wrong way!

"Fast streets are mala suerte, senor, smiled the driver. This street better. This street brings good luck."

Carruthers groaned.

The cab driver pulled into the airport’s departure and drop-off zone an hour later. The ride should have taken fifteen minutes. Carruthers knew he couldn’t make the 4:30 p.m. United flight to Washington Dulles. He reconciled himself to killing three hours in the airline club. This unpleasant thought weighed heavily on his mind as he computed the cab driver’s tip. When the cab driver saw the meager gratuity, he asked, Here safe, no?

Carruthers replied, Here very l-a-t-e, as he placed emphasis on the disappointing part of the ride.

The cab driver obviously felt safety took precedence over punctuality and he repeated the earlier question, Here safe, no?

Carruthers doubled the original tip while chiding himself for being a sap. He knew by paying the larger tip he had doomed many a business traveler to slow, out-of-the-way trips with this driver. The cabby now held the only proof that mattered. Safe arrivals are more remunerative than on-time journeys.

The check-in counter at United, now between flights, was empty and he had little difficulty in checking in his luggage.

⁑  ⁑  ⁑

THE LIMO GLIDED into the reserved airport parking area. Like many livery vehicles in the Miami area, this one possessed silvered windows. The occupants could see out, but no one could see in.

Norman Ramón used both of his hands to push away the rump of the unconscious hooker so he could pull up the zipper of his pants. The extra physical effort only served to point out that Ramón had chosen poorly when cruising the red-light district. He always thought of himself as an excellent judge of female flesh, but apparently, this time he had erred on the plump side which served only to heighten the rage he directed at the limp body.

Back in Panama, Ramón had his pick of any woman he wanted. As an officer in his country’s Internal Security Group, Colonel Norman Ramón cruised the villages in his jeep looking for what pleased him. He often spent weeks looking before he selected one of his fellow citizens. And then, in the name of security, a daughter, sister, or mother would disappear. His victims were always beautiful with classic features. Now, in this country, he was forced to choose from the putana. The thought disgusted him.

The hooker, whose head was now buried in the carpet of the limo, was turned, so her eyes stared blankly toward the door. The driver had been with his boss many times when Ramón’s idea of passion turned to violence. Disposing of the dead, or near dead, bodies so that they would not be found was now one of Luis Guiterríz’s unique talents, and he smiled at the thought of adding this skill to an imaginary resume.

In Panama, Guiterríz discarded the Colonel’s women in the mass graves used to hide those stolen from their homes in the name of national security. In the U.S., Guiterríz was forced to employ the full range of his talents to avoid problems with local law enforcement. In Panama, they were the law.

Like the others, this body would be driven to the tuna processing factory where powerful machinery would place equal parts of flesh into cans of tuna very popular in the Midwest. The thought of the hooker being served for dinner all across the nation’s heartland only added to Guiterríz’s euphoria.

Ramón, ever careful of his appearance, focused on his image in the limo’s lighted make-up mirror. His entire thought process conveniently overlooked the dead body at his feet and concentrated on the face looking back at him from the mirror.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed the door handle and exited the vehicle. Guiterríz quickly closed the door and moved to the now open trunk removing a single piece of luggage which he handed to his boss.

This was Ramón’s first look at the new bag, and he smiled ever so briefly at Guiterríz signaling his satisfaction with the purchase. Guiterríz, who was by now familiar with all of Ramón’s wants and needs, had chosen the bag according to the brief description Ramón provided. Inside the bag was the money Ramón intended to return to Shakespeare’s people.

Without saying a word, Ramón walked through the airport doorway into the cold climate of the passenger concourse. He moved to the ticket counter and requested a round-trip ticket to Washington National Airport. Ramón was unimpressed with the ticket agent who stood on the other side of the desk. This putana wasn’t showing him the respect he deserved. Instead, she was engaged in a long-running conversation with a handsome young male colleague at the adjoining service point.

So, I’m here for another two hours without a break because he screwed up the schedule, she complained. This is the third time this month. I’m going to talk to the union rep about it!

The young man regarded this last statement as doubtful, and the woman, sensing his disbelief, continued, I mean it this time.