Page 32 of Tangled Vows

Height: 5’5”

Weight: 143lbs

“You were wrong,” I remark, reading just the first couple of lines of his rap sheet. “He’s got a record. That son of a bitch’s rap sheet is as long as my arm. Look at that shit. Drug use, dealing drugs, possession of illegal firearm, petty theft.”

“So, a Mexican midget tried to blow you up,” Ivan interjects.

“Yeah,” I agree. “The question is ‘who put him up to it?’”

“Someone powerful,” Rurik states, hitting the keys on the keyboard in a frantic manner. Pressing the “enter” button, a picture of the laser cutter Juarez used to open the hood pops up on the screen. I pay no attention to technical specs, brand and country of origin, and go straight to the cost.

RRP: $32,500

“You’re right about that,” I comment, the amount serving as another clue. Feeling Ivan’s big hand on my shoulder, I turn in his direction. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“No Armenians,” he utters in a firm tone. “Nothing fits. I mean, nothing.”

“How can you guys be so sure?” Rurik asks, curiosity pitching his voice higher.

“Let me tell you a story,” I say, focusing on him. “Once, a collector named Arto Kalpakian, working for Emil Bagdashian, a loan shark at the time, tracked down one of his boss’s customers, a guy named Sean Walker. Walker owned a restaurant in downtown Miami and owed Bagdashian about a hundred grand. His first installment was ten thousand. Kalpakian collected the money—no problems there. On his way to his boss, he used twenty dollars of that cash to buy a hotdog. Bagdashian was outraged. He had his two other collectors break Kalpakian’s arm.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rurik sighs, slamming his palm into his forehead. “That guy had his arm busted over twenty dollars?”

“That’s right,” I affirm, wearing a smile of irony. “So, the idea of the Armenians spending over thirty grand just to plant a bomb is ridiculous.”

“That’s just a theory,” Ivan reminds me. “Let’s go get that midget to find out. Thank you, Rurik.”

“Good job,” I praise with a pat on his back. I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket. I count a thousand dollars and leave it on his desk. “Just a little bonus. More to come later.”

“Thank you,” Rurik nods, a big smile spreading across his face.

Ivan and I climb the stairs. I finally get the feeling that I’ve been searching for since the day I woke up in that hospital bed.

Purpose.

We are no longer in the dark. We have a target, someone who can actually help us get to the bottom of this. I thought I had that feeling, too, when we staked out Kevorkian, but in truth, I didn’t. I just had a fool’s hope. I hadn’t thought straight, and I managed to piss off my boss by being reckless and impulsive. Now we’ve got that prick by the balls. His fucking face on video while he plants a bomb in my BMW.

We wait for the cover of darkness. Keeping a low profile is important, just like the car we use to get to Hialeah, one of the main Latino hoods in Miami. In Ivan’s Ford, we’re just another couple of nobodies, cruising around. Sadly, when we mention the name “Sergio Juarez” to a few of the locals, nobody seems to have any idea who he is. After five attempts, I give the sixth guy we come across a clear description of our target. His height is quite common—most Latinos aren’t tall. The mark on his eyebrow? That’s unique. This middle-aged man responds with a long “oh, yeah” and then reveals Juarez’s street name.

“Razor.”

His nickname isn’t the only stupid thing about him. It seems Sergio is desperate to draw attention to himself. He’s been driving around in a modified black Camaro. According to my source, “the sound system on that damn car is loud enough to wake the dead. He just loves Essex Avenue because there are more posers like him over there.”

Ivan and I head to Essex Avenue, and we realize that this man wasn’t exaggerating at all. More than two blocks away, noises come through the open windows. Car engines revving. Another engine is roaring, as well as something that some street racers use: A shifter. It’s a lot like the sound of a handbrake on a truck, only much, much louder.

Ivan’s Ford rolls to a halt at a stop sign; I glance right. Two cars are weaving through the traffic, speeding down the road—a bright red Nissan and a white Honda with a flame mural on its side. Further up the street, people have gathered on either sidewalk, some of them punching the air and cheering.

“We need to act fast,” I advise, my gaze on the Nissan as it roars past a moving Cadillac. “This place is going to be crawling with cops in minutes.”

“Sure,” Ivan agrees, checking his rearview mirror. Just then, I realize that we won’t have to go to Juarez. He’s going to come to us. A black Camaro emerges from behind a blue van and swerves left, rap music blasting from its speakers. The windows in Ivan’s car are vibrating so loud I wince.

He roars past our spot and Ivan follows.

I hate it when a situation isn’t under my control. As for car chases? I’ve only been in one and don’t want to do it again. Yet, this is our only choice. To get to that asshole, we have to pursue him through the streets of Hialeah.

“How do you want to play this?” Ivan’s question snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Don’t get too close,” I advise, the Ford speeding through a gap between two cars. “We don’t want him to suspect he’s being followed.”

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