[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Something on Carla’s face must have registered with Francesca, because she hesitated before answering. Then she drew herself up, as if she could not allow any challenge to her authority, especially from the mother of her son’s child. “You think I caused this?”

  There was no time for prevarication. “My daughter has been kidnapped. Her boyfriend is lying in a pool of blood. I want to know what you did to bring this on.”

  Francesca’s stare tore into Carla. When she finally replied, her voice was ice. “When this is resolved—and it will be—you and I will have a conversation.” She paused. “A conversation we should have had twenty years ago.”

  But Carla had had enough. “No. This time you are wrong. I want my daughter. Call the police.”

  Francesca sat back in her chair. “No police. We will handle this.”

  Carla rose angrily. “Then I will call. This is my daughter. Mi vida. Not some—some territorial dispute between mobsters.” She started to storm out, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Francesca nod at a bodyguard outside the study. He blocked the door.

  Carla whirled around and faced her. She wanted to tear Francesca apart. Instead she glared, her body rigid with fury.

  Francesca flinched. It was a slight movement, and very subtle, but Carla knew for an instant that Francesca had let down her guard. And in that instant Carla knew her mother-in-law was as frightened as she. Ironically, that knowledge triggered no empathy. In fact, it scared Carla more. If the head of one of the most powerful Outfit Families was cowed by fear, what hope was there for her daughter?

  Events intervened before their conflict escalated. Francesca’s consigliere arrived, looking sleepy and disheveled. The cook prepared food, and a maid brought in a tray of freshly baked croissants, sandwiches, and a pot of coffee.

  Francesca asked Carla to go into the living room and made sure a security guard stayed with her. Carla curled up helplessly on the black leather sofa. Though the door to Francesca’s study was closed, Carla heard the trills of the phone and the low murmur of conversation.

  The activity inside the Barrington enclave sped up. Several burly men arrived and went into the study. Carla knew they were waiting for orders from Francesca. Her throat tightened. All she wanted was her daughter, but she was increasingly afraid that wasn’t going to happen. Francesca DeLuca would turn it into a battle royal between herself and her enemies. Like her father before her. And his father before him. Luisa would end up as collateral damage. Carla wanted to be wrong, but nothing about the situation inspired confidence. Her earlier composure evaporated, and her stomach roiled. She ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  • • •

  Frankie was all nervous energy and motion, as if to slow down or stop was to admit defeat. When Nick called, she flew out of her chair, grabbed the phone, and started to pace.

  “Thank you for calling. I am so sorry, Nicky. Had I known this would happen, I would never have involved you. This is a—” She cut herself off. “But we’ll make it right. I promise. I already have—”

  “His mother, my daughter, is—well, you can imagine…” His voice cracked. “He’s in surgery. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

  Francesca bit her lip. She hadn’t asked how Ham was. She tried to cover her blunder. “Nicky. I know the doctors are doing everything they can. And you can rest assured that I will too. I am going to get to the bottom of this. We will prevail. Ham’s—injuries—will not go unavenged.”

  Nick kept his mouth shut.

  Francesca leaned against the front of her desk. “I know you’re thinking you should never have gotten involved in this. But there was no way to predict this would happen. And as I said, we will—”

  Nick cut her off. “If anything happens to Ham, I will never forgive myself.”

  “Nicky, you can’t think like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  “I get that these are terrible people who will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

  Nick didn’t answer.

  Taking his silence as acquiescence, she blathered on. “Attempted murder? Kidnapping? All for a shitty little mine in the asshole of the world? Not a chance.”

  “Who, Frankie? Who’s behind this?”

  “Well, actually, that’s where I might need your help. To be honest, at first we thought it might be our own people. Or the other Families. Or the government. Someone tapping the phone, bugging our meeting. But…” She cleared her throat. “After we… uh… investigated…” she hesitated “…we’re confident it’s not. Our people are actually pretty satisfied since the Family reorganized.”

  “Investigation?” Nick asked. “You mean a police investigation, right? You called them, didn’t you?”

  It was Frankie’s turn to keep her mouth shut.

  “Well, don’t worry about it. I will.”

  “Why, Nicky? I can handle it—”

  He cut her off. “Frankie, like you said, this is a kidnapping. And attempted murder. You can’t cover it up. ”

  “I don’t intend to. I want whoever did this to burn in hell. But I must insist that you not call the police. I need to figure out who’s behind this. I want to deal with them myself,” she said. “And I don’t have much time.” She went back to her chair and sat. “OK. Here’s where I’m at, Nick. My people are clean. Which leads me to think your side leaked it.”

  Nick’s voice went hard. He was getting riled up. Good, Frankie thought. Anger could be an excellent motivator.

  “You know me better than that,” he spat out. “No one at my firm would go behind my back.”

  “Nick, I believe you,” she said. “I’m sure your people are loyal. But it might not be an employee. It might be someone your people talked to. Someone who knew something, put two and two together, and passed it on.”

  “I don’t care who it was, Frankie. Let the police handle it. I can’t leave the hospital anyway.”

  “Nick. Help us find out who your people talked to and what they said. Before the police get involved. Please. Just this once.”

  Despite the word “please” and the tone of her voice, Frankie could tell he knew this was not a request.

  He sighed heavily.

  “It’s as much in your family’s interest as ours,” she added, trying to soften the order. “I know you want to find out who attacked Ham. Make sure he—they—pay. The police won’t do that. But I will. You know that.”

  Nick started to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Was he going to attack her? Tell her what he really thought of her? Frankie wondered if he was mentally thanking God he had never married her.

  But all he said was, “All right. I’ll make a few calls.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Tom Corcoran slept in that morning. Yesterday had been abnormally warm for spring in Toronto, and the forecast today was for another. Because it had been such a brutal winter, he and three colleagues at the bank decided to play eighteen holes instead of going to the office.

  Tom couldn’t wait to get back on the greens. He’d planned a golf trip to Bermuda last January, but he’d broken up with the woman he was planning to take, so he hadn’t been on the links since October. The first outing of the season was always special, even if the ground was still brown and bleak.

  He smiled as he shaved, then put on his golf shirt, dockers, and windbreaker. He gulped down coffee, and grabbed his wallet. His gear was stowed in his locker at the club; he would buy a box of balls and tees at the pro shop.

  He was rinsing his coffee mug in the sink when his doorbell chimed. Reflexively, he checked his watch. Barely nine. Probably the Korean dry cleaners delivering his shirts. Or the man on the desk downstairs with a package that wouldn’t fit in his mailbox. He threw the door open, about to offer a genial good morning, when two burly men rushed in. One, wearing a peacoat, grabbed him, while the other, in a down jacket, pinned his arms behind him.


  “Hey!” he cried. “What the fuck—Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  Peacoat closed the door to the apartment. The man in the down jacket tightened his grip.

  “Who—What is this?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Peacoat muttered.

  Tom winced and tried to squirm out of DownJacket’s grasp, but the goon had at least fifty pounds on him. Then he started to twist Tom’s arms in a way no arms should ever be. Agonizing pain shot through Tom. “Okay, okay,” he gasped. “Stop! I’ll give you my money. I have a wall safe. Just—stop.”

  Peacoat moved in close and watched Tom writhe. His expression was detached, even bored.

  “Please—make him stop.” Tears welled in Tom’s eyes. “You’re killing me.”

  Peacoat arched his eyebrows, his face still wearing the same dispassionate expression. Then he nodded at DownJacket. Tom felt the pressure on his arms ease. He sucked in air.

  “Does that mean you’re ready to talk?”

  Tom blinked. “Who are you?” His voice was ragged. “What do you want?”

  Peacoat seemed to consider the question. A tiny smile curled his lips. “We’re—investigators.”

  Tom stared at the man, uncomprehending. “What—what the fuck does that mean?”

  Peacoat smashed his fist into Tom’s face. The pain exploded. He heard his nose crack. Blood filled his mouth and spurted out his nostrils. A tooth came loose. He screamed and sagged against DownJacket. Peacoat’s face was only inches from his. Tom smelled sour coffee breath.

  He coughed up blood. The tooth came with it. “Oh, Christ…” He was almost crying.

  “Tell us all about your conversation with Hamilton Snower.”

  Tom’s brain was fuzzy with pain. He couldn’t think.

  DownJacket tightened Tom’s arms behind him. Tom whimpered. “All right. All right. Lemme think.”

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” Peacoat hissed. “Snower’s an analyst from Chicago. Nicholas Financial. He called a few days ago to ask you about coltan.”

  It came to him slowly, like a train rolling leisurely over the tracks, and despite his misery, Tom made the connection. Coltan. Schaffer. Something about a map. He’d called Schaffer after the conversation. What the hell had Schaffer done? Tom tried to think it through, but the pain made all but the most basic thoughts impossible. Still, something told him not to admit what he knew. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then let me remind you.” Peacoat nodded to his partner who gripped Tom. Peacoat slammed a fist into Tom’s midsection.

  Tom folded like an accordion. He would have collapsed if DownJacket hadn’t been holding him upright. Excruciating pain crowded out any thoughts.

  “You ready now?”

  Tom grunted.

  “Good.” Peacoat nodded and looked around the living room. His gaze lit on a sliding patio door. “Since it’s such a nice morning, why don’t we go out on your balcony?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Take him out,” he told DownJacket and slid open the door.

  It was a small balcony, just big enough for two loungers and a grill. A couple of flowerboxes hung over the railings, but they were bare, filled with hard, cold dirt. The men pushed and dragged Tom outside. Peacoat sat on a recliner and motioned for DownJacket to drop Tom on the other.

  Tom groaned at the movement, twisting back and forth until he found a position that didn’t make him want to lie prone on the cement.

  “So, let me give you some news about the man you spoke to,” Peacoat said. “He’s in critical condition. Someone shot him late last night.”

  Tom stiffened in shock. But along with the shock came something worse. A premonition. “What—what happened?”

  “We think you told someone about your conversation and we want to know who.”

  Tom had enough presence to understand if he admitted calling Schaffer after he talked to the analyst, the shit he was wading in would get a lot deeper. He tried to recall his conversation with Snower. The kid was from Chicago. Tom had told Schaffer that. Again he wondered what Schaffer had done—or arranged—that aroused the wrath of the Outfit. Because that’s who these people had to be. He blinked his eyes shut.

  How could the Outfit be working with this guy Snower? Thugs were supposed to keep to thuggish business. Not insinuate themselves into legitimate concerns. Although no one would ever argue that mining in Africa was legitimate. Dirt begot dirt. And corruption. No matter where you were. Tom’s thoughts were cut short by Peacoat.

  “Well?”

  Tom tried to shake his head, but it wouldn’t move.

  DownJacket cleared his throat.

  “It will go easier if you tell us now. You know you’re going to eventually.”

  Tom tried to figure out what to say to the mobsters. Before he could, though, they pulled him off the recliner and leaned him against the porch railing. Tom felt as flimsy as a ragdoll. His muscles were loose and rubbery. This was silly. He should be able to stand up. At least lean against the railing. He almost laughed.

  Peacoat raised his eyebrows again. “Glad you’re finding this funny, Corcoran. Look, I know you want us to leave. And we will. All we want is the name of the person you called after you talked to Ham Snower. How tough is that?”

  The men began to close in on him again. This time he was able to shake his head. He tried to speak but all that came out was a squeak. Then he felt the railing sway. People didn’t realize that winters in Toronto were warmer than Chicago. Even so, mountains of snow and frigid temperatures had put the words “climate change” on everyone’s lips, and a sudden warming, after a solid freeze of three months, wreaked havoc on wood and metal. That’s what Tom’s porch railing was made from.

  He tried to straighten up. The railing swayed again. He ignored it. “Look, guys,” his voice sounded almost normal, he thought. “I don’t know what you want.”

  “I’m losing patience, Corcoran,” Peacoat said. “How much plainer can I make it?”

  “How do you know it’s me? Your people in Chicago talked to a lot of other people, too. Snower said so.”

  Tom realized his mistake as soon as he said it.

  “So you did talk to him.” Peacoat’s chin jutted out. “Okay. We’re making progress. Now tell us who you called afterwards.”

  Schaffer was Tom’s only respectable client. He’d been lucky to land him. To be honest, Tom knew he was only average. Maybe a bit of a douchebag. He’d never had much talent. But he couldn’t tell these guys. They’d go after Schaffer, and it would only take a second for Schaffer to figure out who’d led them to him. If he lost Schaffer, he was done.

  He shook his head.

  That must have been the final signal, because the men flanked him on both sides. Then they lifted him up by his hips and tilted him up and over the railing. His head hung below his feet, anchored by nothing. They held him by his torso. Air was all around him. Blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. For some reason, he smelled fresh earth. But he was eighteen floors above ground. Where the hell was that coming from?

  “Wait, wait!” he shouted. He started to panic.

  The men’s response was to tilt him farther over the railing.

  Now he could see the sidewalk below. The cars looked tiny, but morning sunlight glinted off their bumpers and shot up eighteen stories. He had to squeeze his eyes shut. Maybe this was a nightmare. When he opened them again, he was still in mid-air.

  “Okay, okay.” Tom was hyperventilating now. “I’ll tell you.”

  “That’s better,” Peacoat said.

  He nodded to DownJacket and they tightened their grip on Tom and started to pull him back onto the porch. As they did, though, a loud crack exploded from the balcony railing. It splintered and collapsed. The men’s grip on him came loose and Tom began to fall.

  “Oh Jesus. Help me!” he yelled.

  They tried to grab him, but everything happened too fast. Tom’s body, already halfway over the railing, slipped out of their reach. DownJacket lost his
balance and staggered backwards. Peacoat tried to grab Tom—at least afterwards he swore that he did—but it was too late. They heard his terrified shriek as he fell.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “So you never got a name?” Burning with rage, Frankie felt her vocal cords go tight. This had been her one chance to find out who was behind the kidnapping, and her men had screwed up. She slammed down the phone.

  It was ten past noon in Chicago, twelve hours since Luisa had been snatched, twelve to go until the deadline. She propped her elbows on her desk and covered her forehead with her hand. Her head felt like it was caught in a steel vise.

  She forced herself to take stock. They wouldn’t kill Luisa before they got the map—that was a no-brainer. And Frankie might have to surrender it to them. But they had to realize she would make a copy before she handed it over. So what was the point? Unless she was wrong. Maybe it was a rival Family flexing their muscles. Or another organization racing to mine the land. Whatever the case, if she was forced to surrender the map, this wouldn’t be the last battle. A lot could happen after Luisa was safe.

  Still, this was her granddaughter. And now it was personal. What’s more, if they’d been searching for the map for decades, as she now suspected, they had to be behind the murders of Luis and Michael. Which made it more personal. Who were they? Did they know who she was? She tried to imagine what her father would have done. He would have gone full bore attack, assuming his enemies were Mob. But what if they weren’t? Would he be that aggressive? Would he save Luisa at any cost?

  Frankie wondered if her enemy thought that because she was a woman, she would capitulate. If they did, they’d made a serious mistake. Frankie had watched her father before her. Male or female, as the head of a powerful Mob family, she knew the consequences of war, and she was on intimate terms with death. She would go after them with everything she had. If they thought she would break, they had the wrong woman.

  But first she had to find out who they were. The most frightening part of any battle was the unknown. Once you knew your enemy, could put a name or a face to them, you could formulate a strategy. Implement a plan.