Live by Night

“Why have the boat runs been so erratic?”

“Oh,” Smith said easily, “that’s the Cubans. We don’t have any control over that.”

“Two months ago,” Dion said, “you got fourteen shipments in one week, three weeks later it was five, last week it was none.”

“It’s not cement mixing,” Gary L. Smith said. “You don’t add one-third water, get the same consistency every time. You’ve got various suppliers with various schedules, and they might be dealing with a sugar supplier over there had himself a strike? Or the guy who drives the boat gets sick.”

“Then you go to another supplier,” Joe said.

“Not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Smith sounded weary, as if he were being asked to explain airplane mechanics to a cat. “Because they’re all paying tribute to the same group.”

Joe removed a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “This would be the Suarez family we’re talking about?”

Smith eyed the notebook. “Yeah. Own the Tropicale up on Seventh.”

“So they’re the only suppliers.”

“No, I just said.”

“Said what?” Joe narrowed his eyes at the man.

“I mean, they do supply some of what we sell but there are all these others too. This one guy I deal with, Ernesto? Old boy has a wooden hand. You believe it? He—”

“If all the other suppliers answer to one supplier, then that supplier is the only supplier. They set the prices and everyone else falls in line, I assume?”

Smith gave it all a sigh of exasperation. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’s just not that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

Joe waited. Dion waited. Smith relit his cigar. “There are other suppliers. They have boats, they have—”

“They’re subcontractors,” Joe said. “That’s all. I want to deal with the contractor. We’ll need a meet with the Suarezes as soon as possible.”

Smith said, “No.”

“No?”

“Mr. Coughlin, you just don’t understand how things are done in Ybor. I deal with Esteban Suarez and his sister. I deal with all the middlemen.”

Joe pushed the telephone across the desk to Smith’s elbow. “Call them.”

“You’re not hearing me, Mr. Coughlin.”

“No, I am,” Joe said softly. “Pick up that phone and call the Suarezes and tell them my associate and I will have dinner tonight at the Tropicale, and we’d really appreciate the best table they have as well as a few minutes of their time once we’ve finished.”

Smith said, “Why don’t you take a couple of days to get to know the customs down here? Then, trust me, you’ll come back and thank me for not calling. And we’ll go meet them together. I promise.”

Joe reached into his pocket. He pulled out some change and placed it on the desk. Then his cigarettes, his father’s watch, followed by his.32, which he left in front of the blotter pointed at Smith. He shook a cigarette from the pack, his eyes on Smith as Smith lifted the phone off the cradle and asked for an outside line.

Joe smoked while Smith spoke Spanish into the phone and Dion translated a bit of it, and then Smith hung up.

“He got us a table for nine o’clock,” Dion said.

“I got you a table for nine o’clock,” Smith said.

“Thank you.” Joe crossed his ankle over his knee. “It’s a brother and sister team, the Suarezes, right?”

Smith nodded. “Esteban and Ivelia Suarez, yes.”

“Now, Gary,” Joe said and pulled a piece of string off his sock by the anklebone, “are you working directly for Albert White?” He dangled the string, then let it drop to Gary L. Smith’s rug. “Or is there an intermediary we should know about?”

“What?”

“We marked your bottles, Smith.”

“You what?”

“If you distilled it, we marked it,” Dion said. “A couple months back. Little dots on the upper-right corner.”

Gary smiled at Joe like he’d never heard such a thing.

“All those supply runs that didn’t make it?” Joe said. “Just about every bottle ended up in one of Albert White’s speaks.” He flicked his ash on the desk. “You explain that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t…?” Joe put both feet back on the floor.

“No, I mean, I don’t… What?”

Joe reached for his gun. “Sure you do.”

Gary smiled. He stopped smiling. He smiled again. “No, I don’t. Hey. Hey.”

“You’ve been pointing Albert White to our northeastern supply runs.” Joe ejected the.32’s magazine into his palm. He thumbed the top bullet.

Gary said it again. He said, “Hey.”

Joe peered down the sight. He said to Dion, “There’s still one in the chamber.”

“You should always leave one there. In case.”

“In case of what?” Joe jacked the bullet out of the chamber and caught it. He placed it on the desk, the tip pointing at Gary L. Smith.

“I don’t know,” Dion said. “Things you can’t see coming.”

Joe slammed the magazine back into the grip. He snapped a bullet into the chamber and placed the gun on his lap. “I had Dion drive by your house on the way over. You’ve got a nice house. Dion said the neighborhood’s called Hyde Park?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Funny.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a Hyde Park in Boston.”

“Oh. That is funny.”

“Well, it’s not hilarious or anything. Just interesting, kind of.”

“Yes.”

“Stucco?”

“Sorry?”

“Stucco. It’s made of stucco, right?”

“Well, it’s a wood frame, but, yeah, stucco skin.”

“Oh. So I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t wrong.”