“That don’t figure.”
“What’s that?”
“I had you for Puerto Rican or Dominican. Cassir sounds like an oil sheik.”
“Cuban, if it matters.”
It did to Sonny. He hadn’t been fond of Cubans since a beautiful one with long legs left him for a younger man. “That your last name?”
“Far as you’re concerned.”
Sonny was stalling, trying to figure why his son hadn’t surfaced. Injured or scared were the obvious choices. “Name like that, the way you look, I’m figuring there’s a lot of ingredients in the sauce.”
“Mom’s from Cuba. I’m told Dad’s got a little Moroccan and French Jew in him. You?”
“Always been free to choose.”
Cassir nodded. “Here’s how we’re playing the next few minutes. You’re being easy, so I’m lowering my gun. You don’t think I’m shooting you anyway. Michael’s going to come out and we’re going to have a civilized conversation. Like real gentlemen.”
“How much he into you for?”
“That’s number one on the agenda.”
With a hand up for Sonny to stay put, Cassir turned on his heel and disappeared behind the dumpster. Michael emerged out the other end, Cassir prodding his ass with the shotgun. Michael had his father’s sturdy build and long arms. He also sported a looser belly, hair he couldn’t keep out of his eyes, and the gleam of an addict accustomed to rescue.
“Say hi to your pops,” said Cassir, shoving him hard between the shoulder blades.
From reflex, Sonny extended a steadying hand. When Michael regained his footing and opened his mouth, Sonny shook him off. The last thing he wanted was an apology or more lies.
“I told you I needed help,” said Michael, ignoring the guidance. Sweat had soaked all four sides of his Tommy Bahama shirt, and his left eye was swollen. “When I called you in Philly, my time had run out. I didn’t have a choice tonight.”
“Enough of the family reunion,” said Cassir, stroking his ponytail like a swimmer squeezing out the pool water. “Why don’t we head to your sailboat? I’m thinking a big shot like you has some beer.”
Sonny told them to keep their mouths shut until they got on board. It wasn’t in anybody’s interest to get the cops called, a distinct possibility with Cassir and his shotgun. “Leave it here,” Sonny suggested, half serious. “You won’t need it on the boat.”
Cassir winked, shook his head, and flipped his chin for Sonny to take point. On the far side of the parking lot, the crushed shell gave way to a strip of grass and wide-planked stairs leading to the boat slips. A light breeze was blowing offshore, just enough to keep the lines and lanyards chirping like little frogs.
Passing a dozen slips, Sonny was glad he’d left the pistol under his car seat. Shooting time had expired, and the gun would be a distraction during the upcoming negotiation. Cassir was another in a long line of black market shysters Michael had burned, and since Michael was still alive, the next hour was all about the numbers.
Boarding the fifty-two-foot Hinckley Sou’wester, Sonny made sure everyone knew where to step before unlocking the cabin. He flipped on the lights, pulled three beers from the fridge, and set them in the middle of the galley table. Not keen on fueling Michael’s high, he also didn’t need the boy crashing or going red hot.
Cassir set the shotgun on the dining table so he could use his hands to sit and scoot around the semicircular bench. Once settled, he grabbed the nearest beer, twisted off the cap, and took a long pull. “Word is you were some kind of gangster back in the day.”
Sonny waved off the notion like an old man disappointed in the brisket.
“Come on, don’t be shy,” said the gunman, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You one of them rumrunners?”
Sonny turned on the stereo before taking an open seat at the table to Cassir’s right. He wanted background noise in case any big-eared sailors wandered by. “All you need to know is I’ve been dealing with assholes since I was seven. Time will tell if you’re the biggest. Haven’t ruled it out yet.”
Cassir finished his beer with another long pull and tossed the bottle against the partition above the fridge. The sound echoed in the tight quarters as shards exploded and rained down on the surrounding countertops. “How do you like that?”
Despite the ringing in his ears, Sonny refused to flinch or break eye contact. For him, the display was a predictable young-bull-versus-old-bull moment. All gunpowder, no shot. Fifty years earlier, he’d done it himself a few times. Wasn’t all that effective then either. “I think you’re overplaying the part. Less is more.”
Cassir’s shoulder shrug and smirk indicated he wasn’t taking the critique too hard. He grabbed the shotgun and used its barrel to tap one of the two remaining beers. “What, you guys not thirsty?”
Michael had responded to the flying glass by dropping down and covering up. Hearing Cassir’s question, he looked up, grinned, and returned to his feet with too much forgiving levity for the circumstance. Sickened at the need to please, Sonny handed him a beer and waved at the gunman to do what he wanted with the last one.
“Enough of this getting to know each other. How much does Mike owe?”
“Two hundred grand.”
“Fuck sake.”
Michael took the number’s disclosure as his cue, pitching nonsense about a financing crunch at the dealership and how he really only needed one hundred as a bridge loan to cover a late summer shipment but with the vig and then the air-conditioning unit in the showroom blowing up, and property taxes and, well, it just got out of hand, you know?
Sonny listened with closed eyes, a defense mechanism to remove his son’s face from the folly. “It’s okay. None of that really matters right now. Let me handle this.”
“Oh, yeah, I just thought—no, you’re right. I get it, man.” Michael took a drink to either camouflage or minimize the irrelevance, crossed his arms, and leaned against the galley sink.
His attention solely on Cassir, Sonny said, “So two hundred is the number?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I don’t know who’s the bigger idiot—Mike for borrowing the money or you for providing it. What kind of shylock does business with a drug addict, and for that kind of dough?”
Cassir twisted so he’d have the room and angle to slid his left leg onto the bench. “That wasn’t my call,” he said, scratching a bug bite on his ankle. “I’m just the Repo Man. My guess—if you’re asking—is that he posted you as collateral.”
Watching for any interplay between them, Sonny tacked into the wind. “Here’s one I’ve been wondering about. Call it a hunch or maybe paranoia. How do I know this isn’t a shakedown? Half of me thinks you two are drug buddies and I’m the mark. That there wasn’t ever a loan. No two hundred grand, just a couple coke heads hanging in a dance club tossing around ideas for easy money.”
“Damn,” said Cassir, laughing in Michael’s direction. “How many times have you screwed this guy? I’ve seen abused ex-wives less jaded. A Cuban shows up with a shotgun in your back, and your own father—your flesh and blood—is thinking it’s a game of charades. That’s some dysfunctional-ass family shit right there, man.” Turning back to Sonny, he said, “Straight up, this thing here between him and me—and now you—is what it is. If you insist it’s a robbery and that I’m not owed two hundred grand, I’ll walk Michael outside, shoot him in the face, dump his ass in the canal, and follow up with you in a couple weeks.”
Knowing the conspiracy was unlikely, Sonny was still glad he’d raised the issue. There was advantage in showing the gunman nothing could or should be assumed during the confrontation, including the bond between father and son.
Cassir put the shotgun across his lap with the barrel aimed at Sonny before flipping it in the other direction. “Fact of the matter is I was chasing him down when you called. Wanted to explain his options.”
“Which are?”
“The money he owes is long overdue. Last week Micha
el was given an opportunity to work down the debt. A good-faith gesture, you could say. There’s a car that needs to be delivered to New Orleans every week. He picks it up in Miami, drives over to Louisiana, drops it with a close friend of mine, and takes a bus home. He does that a few times, there’s value to the service.”
Sonny watched his son slide back to the floor, his head beneath the sink’s edge, and wondered if the move was anchored by shame or pretense. “Look at me,” he said. When Michael cleared his hair, Sonny jabbed a finger in his direction, then tossed a thumb at Cassir. “Don’t ever drive a car for this guy. Okay? You mule his garbage, you’ll either die or spend the rest of your life in jail. Half of those runs are sacrificial lambs anyway, gifts to get the police believing they’ve solved the riddle.”
“Well,” said Cassir, tilting his bottle at a forty-five-degree angle, “he must have heard you whispering in his ear, because he no-showed the pickup. Now I’ve got a guy who owes me money, won’t lift a finger to pay it off, and a car still needing a driver. So you know how these things work. I’m embarrassed, and my boss is all over my ass about my accounts. Says your boy Michael is a threat to my future with the company. Oh, man, this gets me stressed. All this anxiety starts building in my neck and shoulders. I mean, you know Mike, he’s a lovable guy and all, but would you stake your career on him? I had no choice. Had to put him on the top of my honey-do list, make him a priority. But here’s the funny thing. You’re going to laugh. Technically, tonight is my night off. This whole thing was penciled in for tomorrow. Then I’m out with my girl, having a couple cocktails, trying to relax away from the office, and lookie lookie here comes the cookie. Michael sneaking past the bar and out the fire door.”
A sailboat motoring down the canal paused the conversation. As they waited for it to pass, Cassir’s attention shifted to a piece of teak trim above his head. “Must confess,” he said, running a knuckle over the wood, “I’ve never been on a sailboat. Nice. More of a motorboater myself. Nothing too fancy, just something to take the kids out for a day trip or maybe some fishing. Boat like this, all the fancy rainforest wood, what’s it cost?”
“You’re not getting my boat.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Wouldn’t want you sacrificing so much to save Michael. Besides, I’m not sure it’s yours to give. Hustlers rent, never own. I was just wondering out loud because this cabin smells like a Rolls-Royce. My guess? I’d say a list price of a million dollars. Leasing, I’d speculate your monthly nut, including slip and insurance, is probably twelve grand.”
Sonny felt out of rhythm, his timing off. The typical modus of collectors was cracking skulls and leveraging fear. In most organizational hierarchies, they were a disposable asset harvested for their testosterone-fueled willingness to serve as both hammer and shield. To that point, Sonny half-expected Cassir to blast off Michael’s hands in the parking lot just to set the minimum table bet. Yes, there was the bottle incident and Michael’s swollen eye, but those were starting to look like low-cost props. While he didn’t doubt Cassir’s willingness to go rough, Sonny decided the man also had discretion and some skills on the verbal side of the ledger.
Palms up, Sonny said, “I need a whisky. I’d be happy to pour you one or grab another beer from the fridge.” When Cassir answered by shaking what little was left in his bottle, Sonny slid out and stepped over his son’s legs.
Returning, Sonny handed over the beer and raised his highball glass. “To good health.”
Unsure of his host’s sincerity, Cassir chortled half-raising his own brew. “No guarantees.”
“Oh, I don’t know. With the exception of that shotgun, you strike me as a man I can do business with. You’ve only got one scar on your face, which tells me you don’t do much fighting. And that tells me you’re smart enough to know dead men don’t pay their bills.”
Cassir rubbed his eyebrow. “This one here? That’s not even from my day job.”
“I’ve got one on my brow, too. Can’t see it any more with the wrinkles. A prison guard wanted to kill me when I was a kid. Split me open on the sidewalk. You?”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child was my old man’s favorite poem. This here,” Cassir said, pointing to the rubbery stretch, “doesn’t make his top ten. Knocked the hair clean off my eyebrow and he was all hahaha, that’s funny-ass shit.”
“Sounds like a sweetheart.”
“Next day, his move was to come into my room, try convincing me his methods were making me a man. I’d nod and say, Yeah, Dad, you’re right. I get it. Whole time though, in my head, I was like, How does getting smacked around make you a man? Doesn’t matter. I got even. He was my first.”
The meaning wasn’t lost on Sonny. Michael—never one with sensitive antennae—didn’t blink.
Sonny tossed back what remained in his glass, wondering what was worse—no dad or one using heavy hands to inflict pathological damage.
“How about your guy?”
Sonny’s uneven brow said he didn’t understand the question.
“Your guy, the prison guard—the one that bashed you when you were little. I’ve said what my scar gave rise to, now I’m asking about yours.”
Sonny’s easiest play was spinning a story about how he too had killed his tormentor, how he’d plotted revenge until he was strong enough to plunge a knife through the guard’s belly. He could run that yarn out an hour, until Cassir drank his last beer and Michael passed out cold. But even if it’d been true, a dated story of violence retold by an old man achieved nothing. Every word in the negotiation had to count, like dollars tossed into a contested pot. Anyway, as far as Sonny was concerned, the truth was almost as good.
“He’s Mike’s godfather.”
“Wait,” said his son, suddenly awakened and engaged by the declaration. “You’re talking about Uncle Dickie? I never knew he tried killing you.”
Hating an empty glass at story time, Sonny quick-stepped to the bar and returned with the whisky bottle. “I was a street kid running loose, trying to find where I belonged. One morning, I lipped off to a prison guard on his way to work. Should have known better. Should have figured the guards used those minutes to get their minds right so they could survive shift work inside a penitentiary. Good lesson, though. Taught me to respect timing.”
Cassir spoke up. “So this guard smacks your around—that’s a long way from becoming Uncle Dickie.”
“He busted my ribs and was two seconds from jawboning me on a stoop. Might have been lights out—I was a hundred pounds and he was every bit two fifty. Anyway, another fellow stepped in and saved me.” Sonny took a sip, lost for a moment in the long-ago memory. Despite his recent visit, the streets of Philadelphia seemed so far away. “Back then, before they had lottery, we made money running numbers. Turns out, I had an aptitude for the occupation. A calling, you could say. The fellow who saved me had connections. He introduced me around and lined up a route. We doubled the business every year until we controlled numbers for half of Philadelphia. I was eighteen and moving more money than a bank truck. Whispers started up about competition and me being a target, so I hired the nastiest son of a bitch I knew to be my bodyguard.”
“You’re talking Dickie—that’s so upside down, man,” said Cassir, his face open to play up the enthusiasm.
Sonny nodded with a sheepish half-grin. “Yeah, a little unorthodox, but once Dickie came on board, I never got robbed or even hassled. Not once. And he wasn’t such a bad guy. We ended up working side by side for twenty years. Point is, for the men I answered to, business was all that mattered. Not feelings, not vendettas, not some goofy code of revenge or retribution. Get paid and move on. Everything else is expensive horseshit. And they were right. Dickie was a million-dollar move. Those first moments meeting a man tell part of the story. The rest plays out over time.”
Figuring they were paging toward the evening’s last chapter, Sonny poured another snort and pushed the bottle in Cassir’s direction. “You catch the name painted on the back?”
“This boat? Missed it.”
“Eastern State,” said Sonny. “That’s the prison from my neighborhood. The one Dickie worked in.”
Cassir hoisted the bottle to his lips and drank with level eyes. “I thought boats were supposed to be named after prostitutes or the broad who took your virginity.”
“It’s a reminder. Living near a prison, watching men delivered and released, all disoriented, you get pretty wise about the consequences of half-ass hustles. My take was do it right, with the proper people, or get out.”
The room fell quiet, all three understanding the time had arrived to hash out their deal. Cassir spoke first. “Wish we’d met earlier, could’ve avoided a lot of aggravation. At this point on the calendar, not many options. You pay like Mike says you can, he gets a new lease on life. You can’t—or won’t—well, we don’t need to imagine.”
Sonny tapped the table to make his point. “When the money is passed, it’s a blank slate. Like Dickie and me, there’s no lingering animosity. Not friends, not enemies. We’re business acquaintances with no grudges or festering wounds. I see you in a bar, I buy you a drink and compliment your girl. Hey, Cassir, looking good, man. And your lady friend, what a knockout.”
“But we’re not talking you and me, are we?”
“Principles apply to all of us. Me and you, you and him. It’ll take three days to get the money. Once Michael hands over the dough, you two separate with one absolute truth. Your doors are closed to him. No more loans, no nothing. He calls, you hang up. He begs, you get in touch with me. Under no circumstances do you loan him money again. Or supply drugs.”
“Dope ain’t my thing.”
“That car heading to New Orleans full of citrus?”
Cassir smiled. “Okay, now it’s my turn. I’m here to get paid and you’re talking three days. Extensions aren’t on the house.”
“Screw your vig. It’s two hundred grand.”
“Not what I’m saying. Two hundred is still the number. The change is you’re now party to the deal. You want us to be professionals? You want your boy having a clean slate? You want another three days? Fine, you’re cosigning the paperwork.”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 14
