Manny Suarez was a feisty little man with a black walrus mustache and a habit of snapping his fingers as he walked. In fact, his walk was almost a dance step, and as he bopped along, he smiled at all the passing women. Most of them smiled back because he looked like fun.
Manny was with the Miami Police Department, where he was called "Bunko" Suarez because that was his specialty: breaking up flimflams and swindles, especially those preying on newly arrived immigrants. He spoke Spanish, of course, but a lot of his success was due to his warm grin and ingratiating manner. The bad guys couldn't believe he was a cop until he snapped the cuffs on them.
He bade an emotional farewell to his wife and six children in Miami and, following orders, drove up to Fort Lauderdale in his new Ford Escort for what he was told was a "special assignment."
In Lauderdale, he reported to Tony Harker and got a two-hour briefing. Manny thought Harker was a typical Anglo: cold, starchy, and not the kind of guy you'd want to have over for a pig roast and a gallon of Cuba Libres.
But he had to admit his new boss was efficient; Harker had already set up his cover: Manny had done eighteen months in a San Diego clink for an aluminum-siding fraud, and had decided to come east to put as much distance as possible between himself and his irate victims.
His target was a man named Sidney Coe, wlio ran a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard. Manny was to apply for a job as a phone salesman, a yak, and since yaks worked only on commission, the chances were good that Coe would take him on for a trial period to see if he could fleece the mooches.
Suarez knew all about bucket shops and assured Harker that, if he was hired, he'd be handed a script to follow. It really was an acting job, Manny said, and if he could deliver a convincing performance, he'd be in like Senor Flynn.
"What I want out of this," said Harker, "is an inside report on Coe's operation, what he's pushing right now, how much money you figure he's stealing. Also, Coe has a good friend, a man named David Rathbone. I want to know if Rathbone has a piece of Coe's action, or what his connection with Coe might be. Got all that?"
"Don't worry," Manny said, grinning. "I can do it. Tell me something-do I get to keep the moaney I make?"
Tony was startled. "I never thought about that," he admitted. "I'll have to check it out with the chief. Meanwhile you try to land a job at Coe's place. Here's the address."
"Hokay," Suarez said cheerfully.
He already had a place to stay: a room in the home of a nice Cuban lady, a friend of his aunt's, who was happy to have a cop in the house and someone to cook for. So he drove directly to Coe's boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard.
It looked no different from the legit places on the wide boulevard. The sign over the door read: instant investments, inc. The sign was on a board, hung on a chain from a nail pounded into the stuccoed wall, and Manny wondered how often that sign had been changed.
"Good morn'," he said to the receptionist, flashing his big white teeth.
"Good morning, sir," she said, returning his smile. "May I help you?"
"Could I speak to the boss man, pliz. I am looking for a job."
"Just a moment, sir. I'll see if he's in."
She spoke softly in a phone, listened a moment. Then, to Manny: "Please sit down, sir. He'll be with you in a few minutes."
The investigator sat in an orange plastic chair and picked up a month-old copy of Business Week. He read a short article on inside trading, then tossed the magazine aside. He stared at the receptionist, who was typing away busily. She had short brown ringlets, and Manny thought her ears were exquisito. The lobes were flushed and plump. He could go loco nibbling on one of those lobes.
Finally a skinny, suntanned guy came out of a back door and beckoned. Suarez followed him into an inner office. It was a square chamber, sparsely furnished. The desk, chair, and file cabinet looked ready to collapse, and the tiled floor was stained and scarred with cigarette burns. The man didn't sit down and didn't ask Manny to sit.
"Looking for a job?" he asked. Cold voice.
"Tha's right."
"How did you hear about this place?"
Suarez shrugged. "You know how word gets around. Maybe some of your yaks are mouthy guys. That's why they're yaks-am I right?"
"Uh-huh. Well, I'm Sidney Coe. I own the joint. What's your name?"
"Manuel Suarez."
"Cuban?"
"Mexican," Manny said, figuring this Anglo would never know the difference in the accents.
"You live in south Florida?" Coe asked.
"Now I do."
"Where you from?"
"San Diego."
"How come you left?"
"I had a little trouble."
"Yeah?" Coe said. "How little?"
Manny hung his head and shuffled his feet. "Eighteen months," he said in a low voice.
Coe nodded. "That's a little trouble, all right. What were the eighteen months for?"
"I was selling aluminum siding."
Coe laughed. "That scam will never die. You ever sell by telephone?"
"No, but I know I can do it. I can talk fast and hard."
"I don't know," Coe said doubtfully. "You sound Spanish. I'm not sure the mooches will go for that."
"Look, mister," Manny said, "you got Hispanic names on your sucker list-am I right? There are plenty of rich Cubans, Mexicans, Salvadorans, Nicaraguans in the country. Let me talk to the Hispanics in their own language. I ask how is their health, are their families well, how do they like the United Sta'. Hispanics like that: the personal touch. Right away they trust me. Then, when we're friends, companeros, I give them the hard sell."
Coe stared at him a moment. "Yeah," he said finally, "that might work. Let's try it. Come with me."
"Wait, wait," Suarez said hastily. "How much you pay?"
"Strictly commish. Ten percent. The harder you work, the richer you get. Some of my yaks clear a grand a week. How does that sound?"
"Hokay," Manny said.