Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story

they may have just stepped off a runway–not outside the question in the Magic City–but Micah had a hunch they operated most often on the type of runway that wasn’t featured in the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. He looked down at the little man for assurance before walking over to the booth.
Castillo leaned close to each woman and whispered something in their ears. They giggled softly, an obnoxious, robotic chuckle that suggested the giggles were anything but natural and excused themselves from the table. He then picked up a half used Cohiba and placed it in his mouth. He lit the cigar and took a couple puffs from it as he studied the man approaching his table. “Sit,” he ordered in a stern voice. One thing he liked to do most when he met someone for the first time was to assert his dominance. There were to be no questions about who the Alpha dog was in this equation. Micah reluctantly followed the instructions and sat directly across from him. “So, Victor tells me you’re looking for work.”
“You could say that.”
“I hear you’re the guy I can thank for taking care of my problem in Crandon Park.” Micah nodded. “Good. Listen, I’ve been thinking about adding some more sophisticated muscle to work with me on a more regular basis. Is that the sort of thing you’d be interested in?”
“If you’ve got the funds, a certain level of interest may exist.” Micah’s face showed no emotion and gave no tell about what went on inside his head.
“All about the money, eh? I can respect that. We all do it for some reason or another. Me? It’s a tie between the money and the pussy. I bet you can’t guess my two favorite colors,” Jimmy said. He let out a hearty laugh and took another puff of the cigar before returning it to its resting spot in the ashtray. “Listen, before a partnership can take place, there’s one more thing I need you to do.”
“Crandon Park didn’t ease your concerns?”
“That simply let me know you could be the right person for the job. However, I also need to know if you’re dependable. Loyal, really. All the talent in the world don’t mean dick if you can’t be trusted. Comprende?”
“What do you need me to do?”
“That’s the spirit,” Jimmy said, a smirk not at all hidden at the corner of his mouth. “There’s a pizza parlor on Miami Beach that needs some work done to it.”
“To be honest, I’m not exactly a handy-man,” Micah said.
“Let’s just say some switches need to be flipped, permanently. The owner of the place has been holding out on paying for some merchandise that one of my guys gave to him a couple weeks back. I’ve given him more than a few chances to pay up, but he’s got more excuses about it than a guy with erectile dysfunction.”
“You want me to just torch the place?”
“I want you to send a message,” Castillo said. He took one last long drag on the stogie and snubbed it out in the ashtray, a look of longing in his eyes. “There’s a catch, though.”
“I figured as much.”
“The job’s going to be pro bono. As in no money leaving my hands and entering your wallet.”
Micah kept his face devoid of emotion, but a slight bit of anger welled up inside of him like someone had just clicked on the main burner of a gas range. He had just killed a man without leaving a shred of workable evidence in his wake. Why did he need to prove himself further? Not to mention the fact that it was hardly the first time he’d done such a thing. His exploits were well documented.
“That going to be a problem, pal?” Castillo seemed slightly annoyed at the delay in Micah’s response. Part of being an Alpha dog is commanding respect. Expecting those beneath you to ask how high when told to jump. Not to flail about without a clear desire to agree to his demands.
“Nope,” Micah said. “Anytime in particular you want this message delivered?”
“The minute you leave here. That way, I’ll know by morning whether you’re the guy I’m looking for.”
“How will I know?”
“Don’t worry,” Castillo assured him, “you’ll know.”
-#-
The pizza parlor was on a side street that got little traffic after the early evening hours, once the dinner crowd had left to the confines of their own homes. That unfortunate fact is a large part of why it closed each night at nine instead of catering to the whims of the plethora of drunken people mere blocks away. The parlor was surrounded by small commercial buildings whose inhabitants left well before the last light of day touched their exterior.
This provided Micah ample angles with which to do his deed. It could be as simple or creative as he wanted to be. Castillo didn’t seem to care much about the specifics of the task, just that the loose ends in question were knotted beyond recognition. As far as Micah was concerned, he could have a little fun with this. It was highly unlikely the owner of the parlor wouldn’t notice his handiwork by the next morning.
A feeble-minded vandal would choose something simple, to the point, and merely toss a Molotov cocktail or two through the window. Hope for the best, though, and you must expect the worst outcome to follow soon after. Not only would it bring about unwanted attention from the sound of breaking glass alone, but it also couldn’t guarantee to produce the desired result. A simple problem, to be sure, but complexity was the answer to solving it.
Micah slithered down an alley leading to the side door of the parlor where the owner accepted deliveries and employees stepped out for their smoke breaks. A gas canister in hand, he kept a steady, quick pace. The last thing he needed was to spill a few drops on his clothes before taking care of business inside the parlor. He set