The Stakeout, Part 1 of 2

December ████, 1991, 13:41
Miami, Florida
SE 16th


    The crisp winter air in Miami was cold enough to produce a light frost on the ground, and on the roof of nearly every car in the city. The frost would all be wiped out by the rain that would no doubt come later; but it proved a nice break for the citizens of Miami, who have dealt with the same repetitive weather for their whole lives. The streets were completely silent except for rats rummaging in trash cans, and distant police sirens.
    This silence was broken by an scratched up Iroc car pulling up, blasting Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” Two seagulls that were eating a box of chinese takeout flew away, and a few rats skirted away from the car. Both front doors opened and two men got out, both wearing navy blue suits.
    The first man looked in his 30s, with slicked back black hair. He used so much gel that street lights seemed to reflect off of it. He chewed on a toothpick in his mouth, and spoke in a thin Italian accident. The other man looked about 10 years older and was bald. He wore tinted blue aviators and chomped down on a cigar. He spoke with a thick Italian accent and stood at 6’ 5”. They both walked down the street while they shared a few words,
    “Is the place up ahead?” The younger man said.
    “Yeah.” The older one responded.
    “What’s the deal?”
    “You stay back and I’ll do the negotiating. If anything goes wrong, you got this.” The older man tossed the other one a Remington shotgun.
    “Nice.”
    “Only use that if shit goes down, but it shouldn’t.”
    “Right, right.” As they were walking over to their building, an orange spark lit up the inside of one of the cars.
    “What the hell?” The younger one said.
    “What?”
    “Some light was on in a second in that car over there,” the man pointed to a 1966 cream colored Cadillac Coupe DeVille.
    “What are we gonna do?”
    “You got anything in mind?”
    “We can go smash the windows and see what’s inside.”
    “And paint a target on your back as you do it. Fuck off, we got a job to do.” They both shrugged it off and moved to the warehouse two buildings down.


3 MINUTES EARLIER


    Dimitri Vincent Jones and Kathleen Perry both sat inside a 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille with the air conditioner on full blast. They were both Northerners and hated the Miami heat, despite the frost building up on their windshield. The windows of their car was heavily tinted. Jones sat on the driver’s seat and Kathleen sat in the back, with a pair of binoculars.
    “See anything?” Jones asked.
    “Nope.”
    “Shit. The guys are late.”
    “Think you got a fake tip?”
    “No way. If they don’t show up in 5 minutes we’re leaving and having a talk with Alfonso.” Kathleen nodded. Jones reached into the backpack and got a bag of Utz Potato Chips. He opened it and took a big handful.
    “Don’t hog your chips, asshole. Hand me some.” Kathleen asked as she took the binoculars away from her eyes.
    “Keep an eye on the warehouse.” They were silent, “Besides, these are my chips.” Kathleen rolled her eyes. Jones took a swig from his aluminum thermos. He shook his head and winced.
    “This Coke’s getting flat, do you want the rest?”
    “That’s Coke?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Huh, thought it was bourbon.”
    “Nope, it’s Coke.”
    “I thought bourbon was like… your thing.”
    “Nah, still not drinking.”
    “Why not?”
    “It makes me angry.”
    “Go figure.”
    “What’s that supposed to me-”
    “Shit, shit! Fucking shit!” Kathleen interrupted.
    “What?” Kathleen pointed to two men in navy blue suits. As they walked, one of them tossed the other one a Remington shotgun.
    “Slouch down,” Jones suggested. Kathleen obeyed. They both sat still for about a minute. Jones put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a Zippo lighter.
    “Hey fuckface, could you not smoke while I’m in the car with you?”
    “Are you, perchance, an infant or a dog?” Kathleen was quiet for a second,
    “Give me the damn cigarette.” The two men walked over to a warehouse, with the Italian flag painted on the garage door. The taller one knocked on it and it opened. Four other bald guys with gray sweatshirts were on the other side.
    “Since when does the Italian mob do drug deals with local gangs?” Kathleen asked.
    “Keep in mind this isn’t the Italian mob. This is my uncle’s part of it. They’re like the mob but a lot less threatening.”
    “And less Godfather-ey.”
    “Yup. Let’s get moving.”
    “You got the guns?”
    “Follow me.” Jones got out of the car with the cigarette still in his mouth. He opened up the back of the car and took out a zip up bag. Jones grabbed an MP5k and Kathleen got out a machete.
    “You got masks for this?”
    “I have masks, but not ours. I don’t want 50 Blessings to be at war with the Italian mob.” Jones pulled out two ski masks, one green, one black. They both slipped them on.
    “Yet.” Kathleen said. Jones grinned.