Chuck said, “I get it You want to give them a target.”

o o o

Pete closed down the stand-in full public view. Fulo called an air-conditioner repairman. Chuck radioed his drivers and told them to return their cabs now.

The repairman came and removed the wall unit. The drivers dropped off their taxis and went home. Fulo put a sign on the door: Tiger Kab Temporarily Closed.

Teo, Chuck and Fulo went trawling. They drove their radiorigged off-duty cars, devoid of tiger stripes and Tiger Kab regalia.

Pete snuck back to the hut. He kept the lights off and the windows locked. The dump was brutal hot.

A four-way link hooked in: the three cars to the Tiger Kab switchboard. Fulo prowled Coral Gables; Chuck and leo prowled Miami. Pete connected in to them via headset and hand microphone.

It was ass-scratching, sit-still duty. Chuck hogged the airwaves with a long rant on the Jew-Nigger Pantheon.

Three hours slogged by. The trawl cars kept a line of chatter up. They did not see hide-nor-fucking-hair of the pro-Castro guys.

Pete dozed with his headset on. The thick air had him wheezing. Crosstalk gibberish sparked these little two-second nightmares.

His standard nightmares: charging Jap infantry and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s face.

Pete dozed to radio fuzz and wah-wah feedback. He thought he heard Fulo’s voice: “Two Car to base, urgent, over.”

He jerked awake and snapped his mike on. “Yeah, Fulo.”

Fulo clicked on. Traffic noise filtered in behind his voice.

“I have Rolando Cruz and Cйsar Salcido in sight. They stopped at a Texaco station and filled up two Coca-Cola bottles with gasoline. They are driving toward the stand rapidly.”

“Flagler or 46th?”

“46th Street. Pete, I think they-”

“They’re going to torch the cabs. Fulo, you stay behind them, and when they turn into the lot, you box them in. And no shooting, do you understand?”

“Sн, I comprende. Ten-four, over.”

Pete dumped his headset. He saw Jimmy’s nail-topped baseball bat on a shelf above the switchboard.

He grabbed it and ran out to the parking lot. The sky was pitch black and the air oooozed moisture.

Pete swung the bat and worked out some kinks. Headlights bounced down 46th-low, like your classic Cubano hot rod.

Pete crouched by a tiger-striped Merc.

The taco wagon swung into the lot.

Fulo’s Chevy glided in sans lights and engine, right behind it.

Rolando Cruz got out. He was packing a Molotov cocktail and matches. He didn’t notice Fulo’s car-

Pete came up behind him. Fulo flashed his brights and bacidit Crьz plain as day.

Pete swung the bat full-force. It ripped into Cruz and snagged on his ribs.

Cruz screamed.

Fulo piled out of his car. His high beams strafed Cruz, spitting blood and bone chips. Cйsar Salcido piled out of the spicmobile, wet-your-pants scared.

Pete yanked the bat free. The Molotov hit the pavement AND DID NOT SHATTER.

Fulo charged Salcido. The taco wagon idled at a high pitch- good cover noise.

Pete pulled his piece and shot Cruz in the back. The high beams caught Fulo’s part of the show.

He’s duct-taping Salcido upside the face. He’s got the tacowagon trunk wide open. There’s dervish-quick Fulo, uncoiling the parking lot hose.

Pete dumped Cruz in the trunk. Fulo nozzle-sprayed his entrails down a sewer hole.

It was dark. Cars cruised up and down Flagler, oblivious to the whole fucking thing.

Pete grabbed the Molotov. Fulo parked his Chevy. He was lipsyncing numbers over and over-Salcido probably spilled the safe-house address.

The taco wagon was metal-flake purple and fur-upholstered-a cherry ‘58 Impala niggered up.

Fulo took the wheel. Pete got in back. Salcido tried to scream through his gag.

They hauled down Flagler. Fulo yelled an address: 1809 Northwest 53rd. Pete turned on the radio full-blast.

Bobby Darin sang “Dream Lover,” earsplitting loud. Pete shot Salcido in the back of the head-exploding teeth ripped the tape off his mouth.

Fulo drove VERY VERY SLOW. Blood dripped off the dashboard and seats.

They gagged on muzzle smoke. They kept the windows up to seal the smell in.

Fulo made left turns and right turns. Fulo made nice directional signals. They drove their coffin wagon out to the Coral Gables Causeway-VERY VERY SLOW.

They found an abandoned mooring dock. It ran thirty yards out into the bay.

It was deserted. No winos, no lovebirds, no late-night fly casters.

They got out. Fulo put the car in neutral and pushed it up on the planks. Pete lit the Molotov and tossed it inside.

They ran.

Flames hit the tank. The Impala exploded. The planking ignited kindling-quick.

The dock whoooshed into one long fireball. Waves lapped up and fizzed against it.

Pete coughed his lungs out. He tasted gunsmoke and swallowed blood off the dead men.

The dock caved in. The Impala sunk down on some reef rocks. Steam hissed off the water for a solid minute.

Fulo caught his breath. “Chuck lives nearby. I have a key to his room, and I know he has equipment we can use.”

o o o

They found suppressor-rigged revolvers and bulletproof vests. They found Chuck’s Tiger Kab parked at the curb.

They grabbed the guns and vested up. Pete hot-wired the cab.

Fulo drove a hair too fast. Pete thought of old Ruth Mildred all the way.

o o o

The house looked decrepit. The door looked un-breakdownable. The place was bracketed by palm groves-the only crib on the block.

The front room lights were on. Gauze curtains covered the window. Shadows stood out well defmed.

They crouched beside the porch, just below the windowsill. Pete made out four shadow shapes and four voices. He pictured four men boozing on a couch FACING THE WINDOW.

Fulo seemed to pick up on his brainwaves. They checked their vests and their guns-four revolvers and twenty-four rounds total.

Pete counted off. They stood up and tired on “three”-straight through the window.

Glass exploded. Silencer thunks faded into screams.

The window went down. The curtains went down. They had real targets now-Commie spics up against a blood-spattered wall.

The spics were flailing for guns. The spics were wearing shoulder holsters and cross-draw hip rigs.

Pete vaulted the sill. Return fire hit his vest and spun him backward.

Fulo charged. The Commies fired wide; the Commies fired near-death erratic. They got off un-suppressored big-bore pistol shots-tremendously goddamn loud.

A vest deflection sent Fulo spinning. Pete stumbled up to the couch and emptied both his guns at ultraclose range. He notched head hits and neck hits and chest hits, and took in a big gasping breath of gray viscous something-

A diamond ring rolled across the floor. Fulo grabbed it and kissed it.

Pete wiped blood from his eyes. He saw a stack of plasticwrapped bricks by the TV set.

White powder was leaking out. He knew it was heroin.