Green Monster

by Rick Shefchik

  “I don’t know. I guess Mink has his ways.”

  “Who’s Mink?” Bruce asked. Suddenly he didn’t sound so smug.

  “Sid Mink. He’s the cocksucker that killed my friends,” Frankie said. “Thanks to you.”

  “Do you have any guns in the house, Bruce?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. One.”

  “Get it.”

  Bruce got off the couch and ran down a hallway. Sam heard the sound of a drawer being opened and closed. He came back with something gleaming and metallic in his hand, though it was too dark to see what kind of gun it was.

  “Don’t get any stupid ideas, Bruce,” Sam said. “If you shoot us, there’ll be no one between you and Mink’s guys.”

  “Who…the FUCK…is Mink?” Bruce almost screamed.

  “L.A. mob. He’s very upset with you and Frankie.”

  Bruce groaned.

  Then a bullet shattered his front window and hit the portrait of Babe Ruth. A volley of gunshots ripped through the window and embedded into the back wall of the great room. Bruce dived for the floor, where Sam, Heather, and Frankie already were pressing themselves as flat as they could get.

  “Give Frankie the gun,” Sam said.

  Bruce slid the handgun across the wood floor to the spot where Frankie was curled up. Frankie looked it over as well as he could in the dark.

  “Smith & Wesson?” Frankie called to Bruce.

  “How the fuck should I know? I just thought I should have a gun in the house. I traded a ’56 Mantle for it.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Frankie pulled back the slide, got into a crouch and fired four shots at the car parked in front of the house, then dived back to the floor.

  “Do you have another clip?”

  “What’s a clip?”

  Sam knew this standoff wouldn’t last long. The mobsters weren’t going to stand at the end of the driveway and have a firefight in the middle of a residential neighborhood. The cops were already on their way. All he cared about was getting out of the house before the thugs could finish the hit. Whatever happened to Bruce and Frankie—well, they’d earned it.

  “Where’s your back door?” Sam said to Bruce.

  “Through the dining room, take a left. It’s off the kitchen.”

  “What’s in your back yard?”

  “A deck. A garden.”

  “Is it fenced?”

  “Yes. Six-foot redwood.”

  “Is there a gate?”

  “Yes. Off the garage, left side of the house.”

  “Locked from the inside?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Heather, let’s go,” Sam said. “I really hate getting shot at.”

  Sam crawled toward the dining room as another barrage of bullets screamed through the broken window. The portrait of the Bambino was hit again; it dropped off the wall, bounced off the couch and clattered to the wood floor. Heather stopped crawling until the shooting ceased, then crab-walked on all fours to the dining room. Frankie stood up and pumped several more shots toward the street.

  “You can’t leave!” Bruce yelled at Sam. “They’ll kill me!”

  “I hope so,” Sam said. “But I think Frankie can handle this.”

  “Thanks, amigo,” Frankie said, sounding like the action hero he’d always wanted to be. “But what about that ride to the airport?”

  “Some other time,” Sam said.

  He grabbed Heather’s hand and dragged her up to her feet. They sprinted out of the dining room and through the kitchen, which had utensils, pots and pans hanging from a chef’s rack above a center cooktop island. A sliding glass door led out to the deck. Sam glanced through the door and saw a dark figure coming around the left corner of the house toward the deck. He pulled Heather to the floor.

  “It’s Joey Icebox,” Sam said.

  Joey was holding a gun in his right hand and taking cautious steps up to the deck, trying to see into the house.

  “You go out first,” Sam told Heather.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because he won’t kill you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re a woman. Mobsters mostly whack guys.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Look,” Sam whispered. “To a mobster, there’s just two kinds of women: Madonnas or whores. Madonnas are off-limits when it comes to hits. Their mothers and sisters are Madonnas.”

  “What about whores?”

  “Look, we’re running out of time. You distract him, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Heather got up from the kitchen floor and grabbed the handle of the sliding door. Joey saw her in the window and pointed his gun at her. Heather smiled at him and opened the door, walking out onto the deck.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Joey said. Then that look came over him again, the one where he began visually stripping her, in anticipation of doing it for real.

  “I’m getting out of there,” Heather said. She walked past him toward the steps that led down off the deck. “I don’t want to get killed.”

  Joey turned to grab her arm as she walked by. He put his hand on the strap of her tank top and began yanking it downward. Heather tried pushing him away, and as they struggled, Sam stepped quietly through the open door, out onto the deck, and swung the metal skillet he’d taken from the chef’s rack. The sound of cast iron hitting skull was a mixture of a clang and a crunch as Joey collapsed in a heap on the deck.

  “Why didn’t you just shoot that slobbering pig?” Heather said as she pulled her tank top back into place.

  “Strict office policy at the Skarda Agency: Never shoot a mobster. It’s grounds for instant dismissal.”

  They heard more gunshots coming from the front of the house. Sam grabbed a folding chair from the deck and carried it over to the fence. The best way back to the car was through the adjoining yards. He wasn’t going to give Mink’s boys another chance to take a shot at him.

  Sam braced the deck chair against the redwood, stood on it, and boosted Heather to the top of the fence. Before dropping over into the neighbor’s yard, she turned to look at Sam.

  “How did you know that stuff about mobsters never shooting women?” she asked.

  “I think I read it somewhere.”

  They heard several more gunshots, and then the sound of sirens wailing in the heavy coastal air, getting closer.

  Sam followed Heather over the fence. They ran through the adjoining back yards, got into the BMW, and drove away just as several police squad cars rounded the corner and converged on Bruce Kenwood’s house.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The flight to Caracas was three-quarters full. The seats were mostly occupied by families, many with children and babies, but it was so late that most of them were asleep. Sam was rarely able to sleep on a plane, but this flight would be an exception. He expected to be out cold by the time the plane leveled off. The adrenaline rush he’d felt when the bullets started flying at Bruce’s house had subsided, and the desperate weariness of the long week began settling over him again.

  They’d had enough time to get back to the hotel, pack their bags, and meet Miranda at the United terminal. On the way to the airport, Heather called Lou Kenwood and filled him in on what had happened that night: His supposedly deceased son was Babe Ruth; the mob had tried to kill Bruce, though he might have survived; and the plot had been broken up, but they still had to keep Alberto Miranda’s mom from being killed or it would all hit the papers anyway.

  “One other thing,” Heather had said. “Bruce told us Paul O’Brien is in on the plot. Fire him.”

  Kenwood had been almost too stunned to reply. He said he’d fire Paul immediately.

  “Be careful, please,” Kenwood told her. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Don’t worry, Lou,” she said, though there was plenty of reason to worry.

  Caroline h
ad managed to reach someone at Homeland Security, who had reached someone else at the State Department, who had in turn reached someone else at Homeland Security who had secured clearance for Heather to fly. As they boarded the plane, Miranda told them he had called some friends in Caracas who promised to help him track down Guillermo Llenas—Jefe—and rescue his mother from the byzantine shantytowns surrounding the city.

  Sam sat next to the window, with Heather in the center seat and Miranda on the aisle. Sam was still awake when the drink cart came by. He ordered a Scotch to help himself settle down.

  “This is the first time I fly coach since they call me up to the big leagues,” Miranda said.

  “Sorry, but this is what’s left when you book at the last minute,” Heather said. “We couldn’t wait.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he said to Heather. “The seats are small, but no big deal. We have to get there.”

  “What did you tell the skipper?” Sam asked. He was concerned that Miranda going AWOL from his team would be a big story in the L.A. media, leading to more questions.

  “No problem. I call him and say I must go home for a family emergency. My mother is very sick.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “Oh, yeah—he say, ‘Go be with your family, Alberto. I understand.’ We are out of the race, man, so it don’t matter.”

  If they could find Jefe by nightfall on Friday, maybe they could still keep a lid on everything, Sam thought. But it was beginning to look like a long shot. Miranda’s friends were their only hope. Without them, finding Elena in the shanties would be like looking for a specific blade of grass in the outfield at Fenway Park.

  Sam woke up several hours into the flight and glanced to his left. Miranda had his arm around Heather’s shoulders, and her head was nestled into his chest. A blanket covered both of them from the neck down. Sam put his head back on his pillow against the window and thought, They’re good for each other. He soon fell asleep again.

  They landed at Maiquetia Airport at about three in the afternoon. They retrieved their bags from the carousel and walked out to the street in front of the terminal to hail a cab. The cabbie who pulled up and got out to help with their luggage had a black armband on his short-sleeved white shirt. He immediately recognized Miranda; he smiled, shook the ballplayer’s hand, and they conversed for several minutes in Spanish. At one point, Miranda pointed to the armband, and the cabbie became serious as he spoke. Then they all got in the cab and headed for Caracas.

  “What’s with the armband?” Sam asked Alberto.

  “One of the airport cab drivers was murdered last month,” Alberto said. “He was our driver’s cousin.”

  “Was anybody arrested?”

  “No. But our driver thinks it was the police who shot him.”

  “The police?”

  “We are not in America anymore.”

  That became obvious when the cab emerged from the tunnels and entered metro Caracas. Sam was stunned to look at the smog-shrouded hillsides surrounding the city and see the endless shanties, stacked to the sky like discarded birdhouses. The squalor of those dwellings could be felt from the freeway that cut through the floor of the valley, miles from the hillsides. Yet the modern glass and steel buildings of the central city seemed impervious to the encroaching shanties. The scope of the poverty represented by those shanties made Sam wonder how human beings could live that way—or let others live that way.

  Heather was unable to take her eyes off the shanties. She was the first to collect her thoughts and overcome her speechless amazement.

  “Alberto, how long has Caracas been like this?” she said.

  “As long as I have been here,” he said. “My mother and father tell me the shanties began in the ’60s. My own home, when I was a boy, was not much better. They are made of tin, of brick, scrap wood, anything the people can find. When the heavy rains come, many wash down the hills in landslides. In the dry season, many are destroyed by fire. Chavez has promised 100,000 new housing units each year, but they build maybe 25,000. Meanwhile, more babies, more people…more shanties.”

  All three fell silent while the cab made its way into the central city. Alberto asked the cab driver to wait while they checked into the Gran Melia, a modern high-rise hotel that was apparently the favorite of most rich visitors to Caracas. Heather changed into a pair of shorts and a sweater, and then they returned to the cab. Alberto asked the driver to take them to Parque del Este, a public park in central Caracas. When they arrived, Alberto gave the driver a huge tip, for which the cabbie began crying in gratitude.

  Parque del Este was a series of gardens, lakes, and open spaces, shaded by deciduous trees and punctuated by palms. It reminded Sam of a tropical version of the Public Garden in Boston. They passed a small zoo, an aviary with exotic birds, a planetarium, and a cactus garden. Thousands of locals and tourists wandered among the gardens and reflecting pools; many recognized Alberto and pointed him out to their companions. Some walked close to him and patted him on the shoulder; others just smiled and said, “Hola, Alberto!”

  The shanties weren’t visible from the park, but there was a spectacular view of the Avila Mountains to the north. Between the hotel and the park, it was possible to think of Caracas as successful and modern, with all the comforts of an American city, rather than the landfill it appeared to be during the drive into town.

  They came to a fifty-foot replica of Columbus’ Santa Maria floating in an artificial lake. Four young men in light-colored short-sleeve shirts and blue jeans waved to Alberto from the dock near the ship and walked quickly through the crowds to reach him. Though not well dressed, they looked strong, healthy, and capable of hurting someone. Finally, Sam thought, we have guys, too.

  One of the young men, who had a goatee and a thick bush of black hair, reached out to his old friend and put him in a playful headlock, saying “Albertito!” The five men bantered in Spanish for a few moments, but there was an underlying look of determination in the eyes of Miranda’s friends. Soon the talk turned serious. Miranda introduced Sam and Heather to his friends. Something about the way Miranda introduced Heather, and the body language they both projected as they stood close to each other, sent a signal to his friends that Heather was to be treated with respect.

  Another of the young men, who had dark hair parted in the middle and hanging below his cheekbones, said in English, “We have a car. Come with us.”

  “Can we all fit?” Alberto asked.

  “Si,” his friend replied.

  “Adonde vas?”

  Once again the group began conversing in Spanish. Miranda listened intently, asked a few questions, and then turned to Sam.

  “They think they know where my mother is,” Miranda said. “Pedro here knows many Caracas police officers. He found out the station where Guillermo Llenas works—the man called Jefe. Pedro and Eduardo waited for him to leave the station this afternoon and followed him to a hillside barrio called Antimano. Jefe went to a house owned by another man—people in the neighborhood say the man is named Hector. They see Jefe come and go—he brings food and other supplies. Pedro can take us there.”

  Sam looked at Miranda and his friends, slapping each other’s backs and grasping hands as though headed onto the field for an important game. They’d grown up together, all products of the Caracas slums, now separated by Miranda’s supreme athletic gifts and his residence in another country, where he lived in luxury that these young men couldn’t imagine. Yet there was a palpable bond between them, a blood-brother relationship forged when none of them had anything but the shirts on their backs and, perhaps, some old baseball equipment to share. Sam could see it in the eyes of Miranda’s friends: They loved him, idolized him, and would give their lives for him. Miranda would no doubt do the same for them.

  Sam knew it would be almost impossible to control what happened when they found Jefe. Would Miranda’s friends be any use in a fight with a trained police officer, who also happened to be a kidna
pper, probably a murderer, and who stood to gain $1,000,000 if Kenwood paid the extortion money? Miranda’s friends were vigilantes, ready to storm the house in their righteous anger, but not the kind of force Sam wanted with him if things got complicated. They had no training, no discipline—and their loyalty was to Miranda, not to Sam and Heather. If he wasn’t able to direct them, and perhaps give them a short lesson in SWAT procedures, they could all end up dead.

  “What do your friends have for weapons?” Sam asked Miranda. Miranda asked them in Spanish, and Sam understood the answer.

  “Machetes.”

  “That’s it?”

  Sam had his Glock 23, but he didn’t want to use it. He wouldn’t be able to get back to Boston any time soon—or ever—if he shot a local police officer. It was a stretch to believe an untrained bunch of machete-toting Venezuelan street punks would be enough to do the job, but he had to find a way to work with what he had.

  “Maybe they could find a handgun or a rifle,” Miranda said.

  “No time,” Sam said. “We have to go.”

  It was nearing six, and the sun was descending over the western shoulder of Mount Avila. Sam would have preferred to wait for nightfall to attempt the rescue, but the deadline for Kenwood to transfer the money had passed. Jefe might be willing to wait a few more hours to hear from Bruce, but Sam couldn’t count on that. They had to find Elena now.

  They followed Pedro, the young man with the goatee, to the eastern edge of the park, where his dented delivery van was parked on the street. There was a back bench seat, and behind that the floor of the van was covered with old newspapers, sacks, ropes, and a half-dozen machetes with two-foot-long blades. Sam and Heather sat down on the floor behind the back seat, while Miranda got in front with Pedro, and Eduardo and the two others sat in the bench seat.

  “Alberto, we can’t just rush the house,” Sam said. “We need a plan, so no one gets hurt.”

  “Jefe will get hurt,” Pedro said over his shoulder. The others nodded.

  “Listen to me,” Sam said. “When we get to the house, drive past, come around again, then park the van down the block. When I see what the layout is, I’ll decide what we’ll do. No one goes running in unless I say so.”