Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story

if he had anything “nice” to wear in his wardrobe. A quick glance at his closet was all he needed to remind himself that his collection didn’t exactly fit the expectations.
-#-
They say money is the root of all evil, but perhaps it just gets a bad rap because those in control would rather dictate where the green paper goes than give everyone a chance to get their word in on the matter. It’s hard to deny that money can help fix many problems, from the mundane to the severe. Find yourself on the street after eighteen to twenty-two years of living under your parents’ roof with nothing but the clothes on your back? Search for a job which leads to money which, through careful research and positive credit checks, leads you to an apartment. Your significant other complains that you never show them you care about your relationship? Easy, twenty bucks can buy a half-decent bouquet of roses to wipe away any concerns of infidelity. Someone rubs you the wrong way? More expensive a problem to fix, but a few sizeable bills could lead to them learning a rather painful lesson.
For Micah, money simply allowed him to put on something classier than a polo shirt and chino shorts. It’s amazing what delivering a couple of rounds to the head of someone you had no angst toward can be worth. If the brown envelope he found lying on the floor underneath the mail slot after he woke up was any sign, the going rate for a prime-time reporter with a terrible judgement, and an even worse haircut, was apparently fifty thousand dollars. That sort of money can create a wealth of opportunities when bills aren’t a primary concern.
Shortly after consuming the meal most people are too busy to worry about, Micah made his way to a nearby strip mall. A quick survey of the mall directory pointed him toward a family owned tailor who typically dealt with the needs of pubescent teenagers looking for the threads that offered them the greatest chance of scoring at their prom. However, according to the poster in their window, they also carried suits for the working man on a budget.
Although neither customer profile fit him all that well, the latter seemed appropriate when Micah considered the fact that he wasn’t sure when his next payday would be. The money could have to last him longer than he would prefer. With that in mind, he picked out a decent black single-breasted suit with a red silk shirt and a black tie. He wasn’t too concerned with fashion and the woman fitting him seemed to like the way he looked in it enough to undress him with her eyes, so it couldn’t have been all that bad. He parted ways with five Franklins and stopped in a few more stores. The suit, he reasoned, could be chalked up to a business expense. Despite his desire to make the money last, he figured he could spoil himself at least a little.
-#-
La Cantina Sucia was booming with business as Micah approached it. Most people in the city wanted nothing more than to stuff their faces after a long day of work, which made him nothing more than a member of the herd. The little man waited at the front door, dressed in what Micah thought had to be the smallest three-piece suit known to man. He wanted to chuckle, picturing how the munchkins in Oz may have looked, dressed like their cohort, but the current situation was far too disconcerting to allow it.
“This way,” the little man said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Micah briefly wondered if his thoughts had manifested themselves as a stupid grin on his face. He chided himself for it, but followed all the same. Opening from the alley beside the restaurant was a clearing with signs about future construction. In the middle sat a limousine with jet black tinted windows and a low, rumbling engine. The little man approached the rear door and opened it, standing still with his hand on the side.
Micah stared out at him, not sure he wanted to follow through with it after all. He had thought they set the meeting to take place inside the restaurant, not the backseat of a limo outside. It didn’t help that he had watched enough mobster movies in his lifetime to know what usually happens in this sort of situation. Eventually he reasoned that all hope was not last because the little man hadn’t patted him down. If he was going to get whacked, he was going to make damn sure he took someone with him.
The little man made a motion with his hands that was intended to inform Micah that he needed to hurry and get inside. Almost immediately after Micah complied, the door closed. He had little time to take stock in the reality that he was alone before he felt the limousine lurch forward and weave through the tail end of rush hour traffic, backtracking at random intervals to throw off any potential tails. This continued for fifteen minutes until the vehicle stopped outside of a random warehouse at the Port of Miami.
Micah sat still, unsure of his next step. It was clear the driver wouldn’t be offering any help. When the limousine came to a stop, he didn’t put it in park. There was nothing to gain from staying inside, Micah reasoned. He could lose quite a lot by exiting, but he had never been one to shy away from the unknown before, and he didn’t intend to start now. He stepped out of the backseat and felt the vehicle speed away before he had the chance to close the door.
Asshole.
He stared at the dilapidated warehouse in front of him. The haggard sign nearby offered little to go by outside of the letter F, but it was easy to tell this place hadn’t been in use for its intended purpose in quite some