David Robbins - Miami Run

“That damn Fowler!” the Narc muttered.

“Fowler?”

“Yeah. He’s a lower-echelon pusher. We’ve received a few complaints about him before. Seems he likes to strong-arm his sales. But there’s never been a case we could prove. Do you want to file a formal complaint with his Dealer?”

Blade’s forehead creased, as if he was pondering the matter. “I don’t want to make waves,” he remarked.

The Narc shrugged. “It’s your choice, mister. But if it was up to me, I’d file the complaint. Assholes like Fowler only spoil the trade for the law-abiding, hard-working pushers.”

“How would I go about filing a complaint?” Blade queried.

“I’ll see that Admin gets the proper forms to you,” the Narc said, reaching into the top right pocket of his uniform shirt. “But I’ll need your names and the place where you’re staying.” He pulled a small notepad and a pen from the pocket.

“We just arrived,” Blade stated. “We haven’t decided where to stay.”

“Try Hotel Row,” the Narc suggested.

“What’s that?”

The Narc cocked his head at an angle and stared at the giant. “Jerome must be in the boonies. Hotel Row is another name for Miami Beach. It’s an island to the east of Miami, about two and a half miles across Biscayne Bay. You can take any of the causeways over on a shuttle bus. From where we’re at, I’d say take the Kennedy Causeway or the Julia Tuttle Causeway.

Both will get you there. And if you’re looking to live it up, Miami Beach is the place you want.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Blade said.

“Tell you want I’ll do,” the Narc offered. “I’ll have the forms delivered to the Ocean View. It’s not the ritziest joint, but it should suit you just fine.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Blade remarked.

“It’s no trouble,” the Narc insisted. “Besides, if you do file the complaint, and if the Dealer decides Fowler did try to stiff you, then I get a bonus. Every little bit helps.”

“You get a bonus?” Blade mentioned in surprise.

“Sure. The Dealers don’t like the pushers to overstep their bounds. Most of the pushers know how to toe the line, but a shithead like Fowler can give all of them a bad name. Which is why the Dealers like to know about incidents like this. They want the bad seeds weeded out. Any Narc who helps get rid of the driftwood receives a bonus. After all, the last thing the Dealers want is to jeopardize the tourist trade.”

“Understandable,” Blade commented.

“Your going to Miami Beach will make filing your complaint a lot easier,” the Narc observed.

“It will?”

“Sure. The Dealers all have their assigned territories in the Greater Miami metro area. The whole city is divided among them. North Miami.

Hialeah. Coral Gables. You name it, a Dealer controls it. But not Miami Beach. That’s neutral territory. No one Dealer can claim it, and that’s where most of them hang out. Practically all the Dealers have suites there.”

“Fowler’s Dealer too?”

“Yeah,” The Narc confirmed. “But I can’t think of the name of his hotel.

I’ll have the forms and the info sent to the desk at the Ocean View. All you have to do is complete the paperwork, then drop it in the mail. Easy as pie.”

“You have mail service?” Nickok asked.

The Narc snickered. “Yep. You’re definitely country boys. Of course we have mail service! It’s only in the Greater Miami area, and delivery is slow sometimes, but the mail gets through.”

“I appreciate your effort on our behalf,” Blade said courteously.

“No problem. Now I need your names.”

“John Clayton,” Blade answered.

“And you?” the Narc asked, looking at Hickok.

The gunman grinned. “William Cody.”

“And you?” the Narc inquired of Rikki.

“Bruce Lee.”

The Narc dutifully scribbled the names in his notepad. “Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.” He nodded at them, wheeled, and strolled off with his fellow officer.

“Most mystifying,” Rikki mentioned.

“Not really,” Blade said.

“Then maybe you can explain it to me, pard,” Hickok chimed in. “Why the dickens was that hombre so blamed nice to us? Why didn’t he haul us in?”

“Checks and balances,” Blade stated. “The Masters have set up a system of keeping everyone in their organization in line. I didn’t realize it before, but the tourist trade must be critically important. They wouldn’t want the pushers to endanger it.”

“Where do these tourists come from?” Hickok asked.

“The southern U.S.,” Blade guessed. “Probably elsewhere. Maybe Central or South America. The Dragons must have trade relations with someone able to supply the fuel for their vehicles.”

“What’s this business about checks and balances?” the gunman questioned.

“The Narcs serve a two-fold purpose,” Blade said. “They insure no one interferes with the drug trade, but they also keep an eye on the pushers to make sure none of them step out of line. That Narc said he gets a bonus for turning in pushers gone bad. The idea is brilliant. The pushers are continually monitored by the so-called police force created to protect the drug trade.”

“I’m glad you’re impressed,” Hickok stated.

“We can’t underestimate the Masters,” Blade warned.

“I don’t intend to estimate ’em,” Hickok said. “All I want to do is plug ’em full of holes.”

“Are we going to Miami Beach?” Rikki inquired.

“We are,” Blade replied. “Let’s go.” He headed to the east.

The next hour passed uneventfully as they meandered into the heart of the metropolis. Both the pedestrian and vehicle traffic increased the farther east and south they went. Guns were in evidence everywhere, but the citizenry appeared to take the presence of the firearms in stride.

Miami’s population was a cosmopolitan mix of ethnic groups. Some neighborhoods consisted of predominantly Hispanic or black residents, while others were racially integrated. Gangs were in abundance. Every six blocks or so, there would be an average of ten youths lounging on the steps of a tenement or hanging out on a street corner. Their faces were invariably hard and challenging, and black leather was obviously the preferred style of clothing.

If the gangs and the guns were common, the drug use was universal.

Deals were conducted openly. Hundreds of people the Warriors passed were smoking odd, stubby cigarettes that gave off a pungent odor.

Popping pills or capsules was also a favorite pastime. A large number of the gang members bore needle marks on their arms. Street vendors, urchins mainly, hawked their wares brazenly. The result of all this drug use was reflected in the customers; heavy users weaved as they walked, or gazed at the world with blank expressions, or talked to themselves. Totally wasted men and women were a frequent sight, their personalities shattered, their clothing mere rags, filthy and beyond reclamation.

“Remind me to never take a vacation here,” Hickok said at one point.

“Same here,” Rikki said. “Why would anyone come to Miami as a tourist?”

“Why else?” Blade responded. “For drugs. Miami could well be the drug capital of the Western Hemisphere, for all we know. When that Narc talked about tourists, he wasn’t referring to the old-fashioned kind who took their families on trips to amusement parks once a year. He was talking about drug-users. Think of it. An entire tourist industry catering to drug-users. Every drug a person could imagine, right here at their fingertips.”

“People come here from all over merely for drugs?” Rikki commented in disgust.

“That’s the way I read it,” Blade replied.