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  ACCLAIM FOR JAMES W. HALL AND HIS NOVELS

  “James Hall’s writing is astringent, penetrating, and unfailingly gripping long after you read the last page. Explodes with the brilliance of chain lightning.”

  —Dean Koontz

  “The king of the Florida-gothic noir.”

  —Dennis Lehane

  “No writer working today…more clearly evokes the shadows and loss that hide within the human heart.”

  —Robert Crais

  “James W. Hall’s lyrical passion for the Florida Keys, his spare language, and unusual images haunt us long after the story has faded.”

  —Sara Paretsky

  “A master of suspense…James Hall’s prose runs as clean and fast as Gulf Stream waters.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “James Hall is a writer I have learned from over the years. His people and places have more brush strokes than a van Gogh. He delivers taut and muscular stories about a place where evil always lurks beneath the surface.”

  —Michael Connelly

  MAGIC CITY

  “A gripping tale of dirty politics, love gone wrong, murder for hire, and international intrigue that is impossible to put down. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “The quintessential South Florida novel.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Further solidifies Hall’s mastery of an element that eludes many other contemporary mystery writers.”

  —The Miami Herald

  “Fast, entertaining…Hall offers lively characters, livelier dialogue, and an excellent depiction of contemporary south Florida.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Another outstanding chapter in one of the genre’s most consistently first-rate series.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Hall’s action scenes are starkly poetic.”

  —Baltimore Sun

  “From an opening scene that charges out of the box like a grey-hound on amphetamines, to the climactic denouement that will leave the reader as limp as two-month-old kale, the pace…never slows.”

  —The New York Sun

  FORESTS OF THE NIGHT

  “Complex…chilling…[Hall’s] prose style becomes almost cinematic…don’t put this one aside as a beach read. A long winter’s night is a better bet.”

  —New York Daily News

  “A successful departure from [Hall’s] usual style…[Hall] leaves the reader wanting more.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “The sort of first-rate thriller we have come to expect from Hall…in Forests of the Night, Hall again exhibits mastery of the craft. He knows, perhaps better than anyone in the genre, how to tap into the fundamental passions that drive us: ancient, dark, mythic passions, like those spoken around a fire at the dawn of storytelling…Hall has given us a thriller of the first magnitude.”

  —Miami Herald

  “[Hall is] a writer who carefully measures out the answers in clean yet elegant prose. Hall used to be a poet. In all the important ways, he still is.”

  —Denver Post

  “A multilayered, richly characterized, and compulsively readable story…Is it too early to pick a best book of the year?”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “A suspenseful, sharply detailed blend of history, family drama, and thriller, Forests of the Night cuts a wide literary swath, and does it with élan and passion.”

  —Russell Banks

  “Forests of the Night moves like an arrow—lean and swift—toward its amazing target. James W. Hall is at the top of his form; he’s a wonder to watch.”

  —Reynolds Price

  “Compelling…with action scenes that bristle with visceral intensity…nearly everyone has real depth, and the author’s appreciation for history and its reverberations adds further complexity.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  OFF THE CHART

  “In the crowded and talented pool of South Florida suspense writers, James Hall pretty much has the deep end to himself. Out of reach for most, it’s a place of nameless primal fears and murky evil, from which Hall shapes compelling characters in riveting stories. You get caught up in the light and color, the movement of the unfailingly taut action, but you are always aware of something very old and dark beneath it all. His latest novel is wonderfully disturbing in just this way…all of which make the carefully crafted, darkly resonant Off the Chart stay with you.”

  —Miami Herald

  “After years of tussling with metaphorical pirates of every stripe, fly-tying South Florida swashbuckler Thorn finally gets to go up against the real thing…the combination of world-class villainy, exotic locations, quick-march pacing, and studly heroism also suggests Thorn’s channeling James Bond.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  BONES OF CORAL

  “Hall takes this high adventure a step beyond the limits of the traditional action novel…a thoughtful, multifaceted novel that should not be missed.”

  —Library Journal

  “Brilliantly suspenseful…Hall raises mystery writing to its rightful place of honor alongside the best of American fiction.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  BLACKWATER SOUND

  “Nautical action sequences [are written] with cinematic vigor.”

  —The New York Times

  “Compelling…A well-crafted thriller.”

  —Miami Herald

  “From dramatic beginning to chilling ending, Hall’s never been better…the result is suspense, entertainment, and high-quality literature.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Terrific.”

  —Scott Turow

  “I believe no one has written more lyrically of the Gulf Stream since Ernest Hemingway…a wonderful reading experience.”

  —James Lee Burke, author of Bitterroot and Purple Cane Road

  “Sleek and relentlessly propulsive.”

  —Dennis Lehane

  “With beautiful prose and a heavily muscled story, it moves with the grandeur and unpredictability of a hooked marlin. Make that a killer marlin.”

  —Michael Connelly

  ROUGH DRAFT

  “A thoroughly satisfying thriller…Strong and engaging characters.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Good, old-fashioned, hideously violent fun…. remarkably original…The creepy hit man Hal is one of Hall’s best psychos.”

  —Miami Herald

  BODY LANGUAGE

  “Body Language seduces you, then it grabs you, and it never lets you go. This is a first-rate thriller by a masterful writer.”

  —James Patterson

  “Alexandra Rafferty is a fabulous addition to the ranks of law enforcement. She is smart, competent, the consummate professional, and her job as a Miami P.D. photographic specialist places her at the heart of the crime scene, with a cold eye for detail and a passionate commitment to justice.”

  —Sue Grafton

  “Body Language is a sizzling tale of sex, blood, and obsession.”

  —Stephen Coonts

  “Hall fans will be more than reimbursed by his poetic imagery in the landscapes and love scenes. Alex is a heroine with enough endearing attributes to sustain yet another long-running character series.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Suspense and forensic detail with a near-flawless grasp of character.”

  —Booklist

  ALSO BY JAMES W. HALL

  Forests of the Night (2005)

  Off the Chart (2003)

  Blackwater Sound (2001)

  Rough Draft (2000)

  Body Language (1998)

  Red Sky at Night (1997)

  Buzz C
ut (1996)

  Gone Wild (1995)

  Mean High Tide (1994)

  Hard Aground (1993)

  Bones of Coral (1992)

  Tropical Freeze (1990)

  Under Cover of Daylight (1987)

  Hot Damn! (2001)

  MAGIC CITY

  JAMES W. HALL

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  For Les, brother in arms

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Michael Carlebach’s wonderful photographs of South Florida were my original inspiration for this story, and they continue to inspire to this day. A special debt of gratitude goes to Geoff Colmes, the best damn fishing guide in the Keys and boon companion. Thanks to Charlie MacNeil for his assistance in all things medical and to Richard Schaffer for his excellent lessons on search-and-rescue dogs. And to the citizens of South Florida, wherever they may currently reside. Never has there been such a stimulating, spicy, and marvelously weird collection of folks. And to Evelyn, a true Miami original.

  On the flat coastal swamps of South Florida…there has evolved…a settlement of considerable interest, not exactly an American city as American cities have until recently been understood but a tropical capital: long on rumor, short on memory, overbuilt on the chimera of runaway money and referring not to New York or Boston or Los Angeles or Atlanta but to Caracas and Mexico, to Havana and to Bogotá and to Paris and Madrid.

  —JOAN DIDION, Miami

  CONTENTS

  MIAMI 1964

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MIAMI 1964

  Outside Snake’s window a slice of Miami moon hung like the blade of a freshly sharpened scythe. It was February 25, 1964, the night a dozen armed men in stocking masks came for the Morales family.

  Snake was twelve. Christened Manuel Ricardo Morales, early on he was tagged Culebra, or Snake, for his long, sinewy body. A lean kid with a quirky brain. At a clinic on Calle Ocho a Cuban médico put a name to his condition. The boy recorded everything he heard or read or saw and could recite it back flawlessly. Its scientific label: eidetic memory.

  “A gift from God,” the medic said.

  His cross to bear, Snake would come to believe.

  Snake’s joys: the everlasting Miami heat, lush ocean winds. Exploring the city streets on his Schwinn Sting-Ray, circling out from his Little Havana neighborhood mile by mile. But more than anything: the golden hours he spent in the company of his sister, Carmen. A girl devoted to Christ and the purity of her soul. She and she alone could ease Snake’s lonesome heart.

  After midnight on that airless February night, Snake lay awake. Beside him in the dark, the radio buzzed with Cassius Clay’s triumph. The brash Clay had humiliated Liston, exposed him as a clumsy oaf and quitter.

  Clay was Snake’s idol, had been for the past few months while he trained on Miami Beach and showed up daily on the sports pages of The Miami Herald. A tall young man, handsome to the point of prettiness, a loudmouth, unafraid of any man. Everything Snake was not.

  As the announcers babbled about the new champ, Snake reran the six rounds, every punch and duck, Clay taunting, backpedaling, side-wheeling, jabbing, jabbing, staying just out of range. Two cuts opening around Liston’s eyes in the second round. Slinging blood, he struck wildly. Clay danced and punched, jab, jab, hook, right cross, straight right hand, smearing the bloody face, his own eyes wide. Liston striking air and air again. Jab, jab.

  Next round, cuts repaired, Sonny came out brawling. Clay ducked and dodged. Punch after furious punch grazed Cassius but did no damage. Falling back, falling back, Cassius let Liston tire himself out.

  Les Keiter’s radio voice called every feint and bob, every thudding strike.

  Between rounds four and five Cassius rubbed furiously at his eyes, complained he was blinded by something evil on Liston’s gloves. The goop used to seal Liston’s cut, the wintergreen liniment on his shoulder, or something more devious.

  Eyes on fire, Clay wanted to quit, but Dundee dragged the stool away, shoved him into the ring, Dundee screaming this was his chance, his one and only. Blind or not, he had to fight.

  Clay stumbled out and Liston attacked with chopping lefts and rights, trying to finish it. Cassius wiped at his stinging eyes, backpedaling, stiff-arming, but getting hit again and again. Biggest, baddest heavyweight of all time throwing bombs at a sightless man. Liston stalked and Keiter cranked his voice higher, Sonny was close to a knockout, body blows, fists slammed chin and nose.

  But Cassius survived. Somehow he held on, survived.

  In the sixth his eyes were clear and it was his turn. Snapping left after left, jab and hook and straight right hand, smacking Liston. While the champ, flat-footed, gasping, could only paw at Clay. An empty shell. Done.

  When the bell rang to start the seventh, Liston stayed on his stool.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Howard Cosell yelled. “Sonny is not coming out, he’s not coming out. Clay’s the first one to see it. It’s Cassius Clay, Cassius is the winner and new heavyweight champion of the world.”

  And Clay roared, “I am the king. I upset the world. Give me justice.”

  Snake pumped a fist, joining with Cassius in celebration for all newcomers, all outcasts, all those who were gravely underestimated.

  Later during the postfight chatter Snake heard noises outside, and rose to see. Two cars rumbled into the driveway and doors flew open and men poured out. Glint of metal in their hands. They swarmed the house.

  He woke his brother, Carlos.

  “It’s happening,” Snake said. “Get up, it’s happening.”

  Over and again his father warned that Fidel’s reach was long. Snake’s dad was from Varadero, Cuba, an exile strangling on hate, enraged at the injustice, the terrible disaster at the Bay of Pigs. Forever ranting. Happy for Kennedy’s assassination. That traitor, he said. That coward.

  Snake’s dad was no dad. His mom, no mom. No baseball in the backyard, no Saturday trips to the beach. Not a kiss good night or questions about his day. A father who spent every free hour organizing a militia. Dozens of exiles rode with him into the Everglades each weekend in boots and camouflage to target practice, rehearse assault plans.

  Back in Cuba, Jorge Morales was a machetero. A simple cane-cutter who swung his long blade twelve hours a day down the endless rows. Now earning his wage as a barber on Flagler Street, but his real work was commanding his two dozen men, each on fire with the same fury. Crush the tyrant this time. Liberate their homeland. Do it without the gutless Americans. Snake’s mother went along, cooked for the troops and smiled, fighting for a place in Jorge’s heart. Nothing left over for her children.

  “There’s another woman,” Carmen told Snake. “I hear them through the walls, fighting about her.”

  “Another woman?” Snake was bewilder
ed.

  Carmen shook her head. Snake too innocent to hear more.

  If it weren’t for Carmen, Snake would not have known love’s name. She was two years older, fourteen. Asleep down the hall. Long raven hair, brown eyes glistening with confidence, a faithful glowing smile, a body swelling toward womanhood. Carmen recited her prayers and saved her pennies for Sunday candles at St. Michael the Archangel. She had surrendered her heart to God. In the Morales house, that residence of rage, guns, and camouflage, Carmen was the soft, true core. The shine, the goodness. Snake’s soul.

  So certain was Snake’s father that Fidel would one day try to crush him, he rented a room in their cramped house to two brothers in arms. Always a sentry awake by the front window, gun in hand, waiting for just such a night.

  But on that evening his father’s bodyguards had gathered by the radio, listening to young Clay dethrone the brute Liston. Hours later all of them were still lounging in the Florida room at the back of the house. Drinking rum, puffing cigars, paying no attention to the dangerous night.

  As Snake brought his brother awake, the intruders broke inside. Blasts in the living room. Screams and howls and answering gunfire. A crater exploded in the boys’ wall and a chip of plaster carved a bloody groove across his brother’s forehead. Before Carlos could wail, Snake clamped the boy’s mouth and stood listening to the thunder of handguns.

  Beneath his feet the terrazzo trembled. Snake hissed Carlos quiet, then went to the window, pushed out the screen.

  One man stood guard, stocking over his head. Snake ducked.

  “Under the bed,” he said. “Get under the damn bed. I’ll get Carmen.”