Chapter 1

The Blue Corner

Harry watched the minutes slot change on his digital wristwatch. For state-of-the-art technology the thing sure looked ugly. It was a prototype; every officer in his division was issued one, so he couldn't complain. He tended to find use in all the free stuff the department threw at him. At 17:00 hours he would get the call from Lieutenant Thomas Matthews—about what, he hadn't the slightest idea. Matthews had been keeping quieter than normal about upcoming operations; at least to him. Could tonight be the night? "Your badge, detective. And your sidearm," he imagined Matthew's dry, gravelly voice saying. The last thing he needed was another surprise.

He headed into the bathroom connected to the master bedroom and fetched a bottle of prescribed clindamycin from the medicine cabinet and hurried through the kitchen to the living room. Another perfect Miami afternoon shone in through the sliding glass doors, and a hot one, by the looks of it. Maybe it was better that he had gotten the day off. Another day in that kind of heat, in the middle of summer in Miami, and he'd be the one laid up on the couch in the next room. But he knew Doris, his wife, would bring him his medicine if he were in her place all the same.

She lay on the sofa under the cool AC of the living room, where it usually was the coolest; windowless except for the front door. She was watching one of her shows, it seemed, or was half-watching, half in contemplative respite, as Harry knelt beside her, helped himself to a handful of her popcorn on her lap, and carefully shook out two capsules from the bottle.

"Harry, what're you doing?" she said, her eyes staring far past the TV.

"What? The popcorn? Sorry, it looked good. It's cold though. How about I go make some more and we put on a movie? Anything good on?"

"No. I mean," she groped for the bottle in Harry's hand. He let her take it and she set it on the carpet next to the sofa. "I'm fine. I really don't want anymore. I told you I'll be okay." She came to awareness, as if suddenly stirred, and smiled at her husband.

"You think you're sick of this stuff? You should try taking penicillin twice a day. Remember when they had me on penicillin after I got shot?"

"You had me worried sick for those whole two months."

"You don't have to worry about me, Doris."

"And you don't have to worry about me, Harry Morgan." She threw her feet onto the carpet and made ready to stand up. She hesitated. Harry took it as a sign to help her up.

"Well," said Harry, putting on a playful smile, "I'm a worrier."

"A warrior?" Doris managed a chuckle. "Yes. You're my brave, crime-fighting warrior."

"That too, I guess," Harry laughed.

He helped his wife to the bathroom without needing to ask where she wanted to go. It was only ever that or outside to water the flowers on the back porch. He'd sit out there with her, but not in the sun, of course. This certainly wasn't the lifestyle he was used to; lazing around, watching TV, only leaving the house for a quick trip to the store or the pharmacy. But as long as Doris was ordered to mandatory bed rest by her doctor, he would take off all the time Lieutenant Matthews would allow. Part of him, however, hoped that the telephone would just ring already and it wouldn't be to discuss how much more vacation time he would be permitted, but to hear Tom utter the familiar phrase, in his normally coarse, direct tone: "Morgan, we need you on call. Right now."

Harry sat at the edge of his bed, looking over his collection of hunting rifles he had gathered over the years. He never was too particular to hunting. It was just something to ease his nerves after a hard week. The feel of a firearm in his hands was natural, and what he got out of hunting animals went beyond a thrill or a means to survive; rather, an extension of himself that had to be honed and appeased every once in a while.

He retrieved a small leather suitcase from the bottom of the gun cabinet, set it on the bed, and slowly opened it. Inside, his gear; tools of a bygone trade. This part of his past he hoped would stay at the bottom of that cabinet. He traced his fingers over the seams of the neatly folded garment; dark, sleek, smooth. Could he still fit in it? A long, thin cylindrical shape was still contained in its specific slot in a different compartment: the barrel of his trusty old PB silent pistol. How many times had he fired it, he wondered; six, maybe seven times? Each time he had, he faced a matter of life or death, and even then, only was his own ever at stake, lest his shot go so askew as to become fatal, which was near impossible as it was repurposed to fire tranquilizer rounds. He had gone behind enemy lines with these same two articles, been fired upon, undergone torture, as well as slipped relatively undetected into a number of dangerous facilities—unspeakable, horrible, cold, metal places. No matter how many times these two items had kept him from sure death, he wished nobody ever had to find out; nobody more than Matthews.

He could have sat in the bedroom all the rest of the day ruminating over his guns and old equipment, living again in the memories they brought back, but the phone rang from out in the kitchen. Harry glanced at his digital watch. It was time, but he couldn't go too eagerly, not with Doris watching from the adjoining living room. The caller had given up after only three rings; another sign the ever prompt Lieutenant Matthews was on the other end. Harry spun the rotary and reached his superior officer within the first ring, who answered with his usual dry, terse "hello."

"Lieutenant," Harry said, trying to conceal his smile as Doris looked up from where she lay on the couch.

"Morgan," answered the lieutenant, sounding almost as if out of breath. "Is this important? I'm right in the middle of something."

"Didn't you just call me?"

Matthews stuttered and then let out a small chuckle. "Morgan, I know you must be going stir-crazy; probably got a lot on your mind. I know I wouldn't be able to stand it, either. But if I were you I would enjoy sitting around on my ass while I can."

Harry turned from the inquisitive eyes of his wife. "So this isn't about me getting canned? You said you had something to discuss with me and I could expect a call from you around…" he checked his watch one more time, needlessly.

"For God's sake, Morgan," Thomas Matthews interrupted. "You're the best I've got. It's why I've been meaning to call; to consult you about this case. We can't discuss it over the phone."

"I see. Same place as usual then?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving the station right now. I'll be there in a half hour."

"You sure it's a good idea to drive?"

"You've got a half hour, Morgan."

Harry laughed quietly and hung up the receiver. He avoided looking over at Doris, who he could feel was still watching him, anxious to hear what the call was about. She sighed and said nothing for a long while.

"Go ahead, Harry. My parents are in town and I can call them in case I need anything. But you know I won't have to."

That was his wife all right—desperately trying not to look as needy as she really was. She needed him, but Harry also had his needs.

"It was Tom Matthews. He just wants to discuss this one case with me. I'm not getting called in; and if I were, I would have gotten a couple days notice." Not exactly a lie; that was how it typically worked. With Matthews at the helm of the homicide department, those two or three days were just enough time to toss whatever assignment he could conjure out the window and dream up another.

"Top secret, I take it. You're not going to the station."

"Must be. But don't worry, Doris; it won't be like the other times. Those days are over for me now."

"All I ask is that you be careful. I couldn't bear to see another bullet hole in you."

"I'm telling you, it's not gonna be like that. Tom just needs some advice on this case and I'll be home later tonight. You have that doctor's appointment tomorrow anyway."

"I told you my parents are in town."

Harry grabbed the keys to his Dodge Dart off the counter and headed for the door, pretending not to appear too eager. "I'll see you tonight," he said. Doris gave a small smile in response, though uncertainty lingered in her eyes.

Long shadows of the westering sun cloaked the streets of Harry's comely little corner of the neighborhood. The Miami sun would subside, giving the denizens of this city some relief from its cruelty for a time, and usher in another muggy summer night. The night in Miami revealed a different sort of place all together. The common notion of Miami would be that of sunshine, women in bikinis, lively nightclubs, and so on, but folks tended to forget the influence the moon had on this city; what sort of world it became after dark. The rough underbelly turns right side-up. Without it, people like Harry would be without a job, and for that he could be grateful, or at least hold in some macabre esteem this hometown of his.

He arrived with five minutes to spare. Dusk was pink in the sky. The lights flickered on in the parking lot. The place was mostly empty; it was a Monday after all. Perfect for these sorts of meetings with Matthews: "cloak and dagger bullshit" as he once put it. Harry walked slow through the double doors, under the sputtering, buzzing neon sign that read The Blue Corner. By no means was it his favorite place, as everyone at the station insisted. He had passed through the same shabby double doors that so many times he had stammered out, sometimes tossed through, bumbling and inebriated. He hoped for once he could walk out as the same person who walked in.

So it wasn't his favorite place, or by any means a pleasant place, save for that any place was a pleasant place as long as it continued to serve the next hopeless patron who happened to stumble in something hearty to drink, to reinvigorate the spirit, to chase the despair for another night, but by God—his favorite song was playing. Faintly amid the noise of chattering and clattering of glasses at the counter and the occasional thwack of a cue stick against a cue ball, he heard the song The Ballad of Little Fauss and Big Halsy on the stereo, and he felt compelled to make straight for the bar and indulge in another of his favorites: a neat bourbon. At the bar, he noticed, were plenty of faces; some familiar and some strange, but none were of the steely, almost smug complexion Tom Matthews wore.

Harry heard a whistle and then his name. He saw in the dim, smoky corner of the room his lieutenant sitting at a booth; his legs facing out, his tie undone, motioning to Harry with two fingers. Strange. He would talk casework all night with the bartender or anyone else interested enough who happened to be sitting near, especially once he had a few drinks in him, but the booth? Was he trying to be this furtive so when he delivered the news Harry wouldn't cause a scene? He couldn't stand to think any further into it. He approached the booth and took a seat.

"Christ, Morgan. Look at that head of hair! You couldn't have been out long enough to grow a mullet like that!" said Matthews. Harry brushed at the back of his hair touching his neck, suddenly conscious of it. He had never been one to follow trends, but it sort of came about on its own. Had he been going to the store looking like this?

"I'm a bit overdue for a haircut, aren't I?"

"You know what? I like it. As long as you show up when I call you I don't give a shit what you do with your hair! And look here, you're early. I figured now that you're married you wouldn't have time for this stuff anymore. Take it from an old-timer like me: being married isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Just 'cause you made lieutenant, it doesn't make you an old-timer," said Harry. Matthews answered with a tight smile and gestured to an unopened beer bottle on the table as he popped one open for himself. Harry hesitantly pried the cap off.

They both swigged at their beers for a while without saying anything as the TV over the nearby pool table kicked on. It was the live broadcast of President Nixon's inauguration.

"Can you believe it? A second term?" said Matthews, pointing with the lip of his bottle. Harry gulped and nodded listlessly. "He's a complete whack-job. How can someone like him, so high up, have been allowed to slip through the cracks? There's no justice anymore."

Harry clicked his tongue, still nodding. "No, there's not. Not the kind that'll ever accomplish anything." He turned to look over his shoulder at the television screen. "You know, you'd make a good president. They need someone like you."

"Someone like me?" said Matthews. "A washed-up detective, newly made lieutenant, with a drinking problem?"

"At least you look good on TV."

"Damn right I do." Matthews drained the last of his beer. "And if you think that's how you go about getting your shield, you're wrong. Sometimes it isn't as much about kissing ass as it is knowing how to keep a secret." Harry cocked his head, interested.

"Learn how to keep a secret real well, Morgan. Not only can it be the thing that gets you promoted in this line of work, but it might be the thing that keeps your ass alive one of these days."

"I guess everyone's got their secrets," said Harry, trying not to press too hard for Matthews to get to the point of why he brought him here. If this was some roundabout way of breaking it to him that he was terminated, he may be inclined to cause a scene after all.

"Sometimes," said Matthews, leaning back in his seat, "you've gotta lie. It's one of the first sins we commit as children. Why do you think that is?"

"Because it's more of a survival tactic." Harry always believed in truth, the whole truth, and nothing but—he wouldn't have become a cop if he didn't—but sometimes, being a cop didn't entail following the absolute truth. He never saw it possible. Lying had gotten him out of some hairy situations; he'd be a fool to ignore that. But rather, being a cop, as he came to learn, was more about how the truth exists in accordance to laws; the only sort of truth, in reality, people can live by. He supposed that's what Matthews meant.

The lieutenant got quiet again for a while and seemed to ruminate over some difficult thought.

"Do you want your job back?" he asked.

"What do you mean back?" Harry knew this all looked a little out of Matthew's style. It would be like Tom, however, to fire him without his knowing and then turn around and ask if he wanted his job back; like he was doing him a favor.

"Your old job. Remember? You always told me you liked VICE better. You know; undercover work."

"Well I don't anymore. I'm trying to leave that part of my life behind me. I became a cop so that I don't have to lie about who I really am; so I can catch scumbags the right way. Those crazy operations you put in me on in VICE were… thrilling, but—"

"You said you were sick of this desk job shit. It's not a demotion by any means. Think of it as a special condition towards earning your shield. One last operation and you'll never have to look back. Then you can do all the boring, plain detective stuff you want."

"It's homicide. It's never boring."

"Come on, just imagine: strapping on the old night vision headset, crawling around in the weeds around back of some drug compound, taking out a whole platoon of dirtbags without them even knowing you're there."

"I was nearly killed last time you sent me to one of those rat dens."

"So you were shot; big deal. You're alive, aren't you?" Tom said with a shrug. "You're made out of some tough stuff, Harry. I feel bad for anyone that tries to step to any Morgans that come after you."

The notion of having kids made Harry laugh to himself. What did he have that could ever be passed on to a child, let alone, one who came from him? His explicit sense of right and wrong? How never to draw compromise in the face of justice? Those were rather hard-headed beliefs, and even then, they were only beliefs; hardly anything worth bringing a child into the world over.

"Look, I don't know who else to go to with this. I haven't run it by the captain, or any of the sergeants. It's not technically a homicide case, so I shouldn't even be fucking with it. But I'm telling you right now: this is huge. And it's right up your alley. At least take a look at it."

Harry couldn't have hoped Matthews would ask sooner. He stared hungrily at a small stack of folders and manila envelopes Tom had placed on the table. The lieutenant unwound the string on the topmost envelope and slid a few large-print photos Harry's way. They were aerial views of some sort of structure, like a plant or a prison. A few of the photos were in black and white—copies—riddled with crude scribbling. Harry had seen more organized casework from his sergeant.

"What you're looking at is another coke factory down in Cuba. Coast Guard rounded us up a good group of wetbacks trying to ship a boatload of blow into the Port of Miami, handed 'em over to us, one of 'em squealed and gave us this…" Matthews dug further into the envelope and produced a small photo of a dark-haired, swarthy-skinned individual; a deep, red scar across his cheek. "The ring leader: Santos Jimenez. He's been back and forth between here and Cuba over the last couple years. Wasn't too hard to put a finger on. Nobody's seen from him in a while, so best guess is he's in Cuba, keeping tabs on his supply, or maybe preparing another big haul."

"So we know his name, but can't get a sure fix on him. That's hardly worth risking your best guy, to chase the wild goose and find that he's not there or already made off with his shipment. Besides, how do we know if we don't nab this guy, the next in a line of ten or so won't fill his spot?"

"To be frank, I don't give a shit about this asshole; not so much as I'd rather incapacitate his operation from the source. Then, those other ten assholes'll be squabbling around with a multi-million dollar hole in the ground." Matthews slapped both hands on the table, seeing Harry's doubtful looks. "Bottom line: I can't have another haul hitting my streets like that last one. I just can't. This city's already a festering shithole enough as it is. You think the department can't look worse than it already does? Just let this piece of shit continue doing what he does best and everybody's gonna think it's free game here in Miami," Tom said, smashing his index finger onto the photo of Santos Jimenez.

"This belongs in the hands of the DEA, Tom," Harry argued. As much as he had heard of the goings-on in the world of the Cuba drug trade with how ruthlessly those folks handled business, he wanted no more than to go down there and serve some swift justice in his own way, be it alone or alongside the good men and women of Miami Metro. But it all looked peculiar. There were pieces missing.

The lieutenant shook his head. "DEA's been sitting on it. They don't find our sources credible. You know what is credible?" Tom pulled out yet another folder from the stack. It had Top Secret stamped in red across the front. He peeked quickly over his shoulder and opened it. "The FBI is treating it like a homicide case, and as long as the DEA keeps its hands off it, it'll remain a joint-effort with Miami Metro—well, that's how it looks on paper, at least. FBI's been looking into this Jimenez guy and all of his lackeys. They like to leave our informants in pieces around the city. As a matter of fact, a couple of 'em have been turning up, bit by bit, in and around the shipping yards lately. It seems to be their go-to place. We've had eyes on it for a while, and so have the FBI. They were able to trace Jimenez to that there compound I showed you. From what I understand, they've got agents down there now waiting to pounce."

Harry patted his T-shirt at the shoulder for his smokes. Right where he left them. "Then let them," he said. Tom already had his lighter ready. He lit Harry's cigarette and produced a cigar for himself and then lit it.

"You know, Morgan, I thought you'd jump at the chance to do this again. You've gone soft. Don't you want that shield?" Harry dragged long at his cigarette, squinting through the new smoke around his head. "Don't you want to be known as the hero who brought down these sons of bitches? Not only that, but do you realize what I had to do to get these FBI files?"

"Did it involve a set of night vision goggles and crawling around in some weeds?"

Matthews let out a sharp breath through his nose and collected the photos on the table. "Do you want the job or not?"

"So you want me to go down to Cuba, find the facility, and sabotage this big shipment?"

"I want you to see if our informant's full of shit." Matthews motioned to one of the waitresses. A round of shots soon arrived at Harry and Tom's booth. "I'm not sticking my neck out anymore than it already is with anymore FBI casework, so we won't be able to know what more they've got, or what the current situation is down there. But seeing as all of our informants are turning up dead, I'd bet it's safe to assume they aren't simply crying wolf. So, to answer your question, yes, you will be doing precisely that. And since you'll be working alone, I don't suppose arresting Jimenez is a realistic request, so I'm asking you to eliminate him."

"This is insane, Tom."

"Come on. If you don't, the FBI will. The thing is: you're better than the FBI; you don't have Washington to answer to, and for one thing, you cost a whole lot less."

Harry downed his third shot. "What about Doris? You know I can't leave her all alone."

"Ah, the Misses. No step kids to pick up her meds? No in-laws?"

"The in-laws are in town, now that you mention it," said Harry, pretending as if it just occurred to him.

"Good. Glad to see you're thinking clearly." Matthews was on his second or third shot; Harry hadn't kept track. Involuntarily, Harry knocked back another for himself, and another. Tom staggered to his feet, threw down a fairly large bill for the drinks, and patted Harry hard on the shoulder. "I expect your ass in my office at 6:00 sharp tomorrow."

Harry helped himself to the last shot left on the tray. He scarcely noticed that Matthews already had hobbled over to the door. "Six o' clock!" Tom yammered from across the room, through the noise of chatter and music, as he exited the bar.

Harry lingered at the booth, mulling over everything his lieutenant had told him; everything he had agreed to. When he felt capable, he too left the bar and staggered out to his Dodge Dart in the dusky light of the parking lot. He patted his pants for his keys and was surprised to feel an odd cylindrical shape in his pocket that rattled when he touched it. "Doris' meds," he muttered. "Her appointment. What the hell are you thinking, Morgan?"

He sauntered over to a shoddy wooden bench, appearing in some way strangely attractive in the cozy light of the street lamp overhead, and he collapsed into it, mumbling, laughing quietly in disbelief. He didn't know how long he sat there, fumbling with the little prescription medication bottle in his hand, but at some point, he drifted slowly to sleep.