by Rick Murcer
Chapter-9
Salvatore Bobano looked down at the warehouse floor through the window of his mezzanine office. Cartons of rum were stacked in aisles as far as the eye could see. Bobano oversaw alcohol distribution in Miami for the Giancana Crime Family. They controlled all the major labels and their distribution throughout southern Florida.
He sat down at his desk and poured two fingers of Dos Cristo into a tall glass and threw it down. He smacked his lips and poured another. He pulled out a nylon duffle bag from beneath his desk and unzipped it. He checked the contents: a clean change of clothing, ten thousand in cash, bullets, and a Makarov PM pistol, a Russian automatic. He unclipped his waistband holster and locked his Colt in the desk drawer.
The phone rang. Bobano let it ring twice before answering. “Hello?”
“Sal, that you?”
“Yes, Momo, I’m getting ready.”
“Do you have the Russian piece?”
“Yeah, I’m checking it now. It’s seen better days, you know. I hope it don’t jam. Can I bring my Colt just in case?”
“No. You know you can’t. Don’t you think you should have checked the Russian gun before now? What time are you leaving?”
“After midnight. We’ve got an independent charter plane waiting for us. We should land well before dawn.”
“I don’t have to tell you that there’s a lot riding on this—no mistakes, Sal. Got it?”
“Yes, Momo, I understand. I’ll oversee it personally.”
“Good! Call me when you get back. We’ll celebrate.”
“Sounds good, Momo.” Bobano hung up the phone. Giancana was getting paid one hundred thousand and Bobano’s cut was forty percent. He smiled as he thought about the money. He ejected the clip and checked the slide on the Makarov pistol.
“No mistakes, Sal.”
Bobano was startled by a mocking voice. He instinctively reached for the clip but in his panic knocked it off the desk. He looked up and saw a gun pointed at him. “Who the fuck are you? How long have you been standing there?”
“No mistakes, Sal,” the stranger repeated.
“What are you, a fucking parrot? You’ll never make it out of here. I’ve got men—”
“Down at the pier? Unloading the ship? The warehouse floor is empty.” He pushed the door closed. He rapped on the glass panel that overlooked the warehouse floor. “This is double-thick plate glass to keep the noise from the warehouse out of your office.”
“Look, I don’t know who you’re working for, but I’ve got ten grand that says it ain’t worth all the trouble my death is going to bring you. It’s right here in the duffle bag.”
The gun spat twice—two bullets in the chest. Bobano wheezed as his last breath sailed past his lips.
Bobano’s murderer unzipped the duffle bag and checked the contents. “Your money won’t undo your insolence, but it will come in handy.” The Makarov was still in Bobano’s grip. He pried it free and dropped it in the duffle bag along with the clip that had been lying on the floor. He was on his way to the door before he noticed the open bottle of rum on Bobano’s desk. He replaced the cap and put it in the duffle bag. “Thanks,” he said. “Killing makes me thirsty.”
Chapter-10
John Angel saw two bright flashes of light come from the mezzanine window as he pulled up in front of the Caña de Cuba warehouse. He opened the glove box and grabbed his gun. He could see the forklifts moving freight at the far end of the pier. He could just make out the sound of their engines.
The warehouse was quiet. Cases of alcohol were stacked ten-feet high in aisles from one end of the warehouse to the other. From his vantage point at the entrance, he could see that there was no movement in the mezzanine office, but a man was slumped over in a chair by the desk. He held his gun at the ready as he made his way to the staircase that led to the office.
Angel moved slowly and cautiously up the stairs. The office door was open. He walked in and checked to make sure that he was alone. A dead man was sitting in a desk chair. There were two bullet holes in the man’s white shirt, which was stained with blood. Angel checked the man’s pulse just to make sure that he was gone. He pulled the man’s wallet from the pocket of his slacks. The wallet contained lots of cash and a Florida driver’s license. The victim’s name was Salvatore Bobano. A partially filled drinking glass contained an amber-colored liquid. Angel sniffed the glass. Rum. “This stuff will kill you,” he said to Bobano. “You’re the second one today.”
He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang four times before the operator at the Fontainebleau answered. “Roger Hollister’s room, please.”
“One moment,” the operator said.
“Hollister.”
“Bobano’s dead.”
“You’re covering a lot of ground, Johnny.”
“Did you hear me? I said that Bobano’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m standing over his body as we speak. I’m at his warehouse. I saw the muzzle flashes in his office window as I pulled up, but his killer took off—I missed him.”
“Interesting.”
“I don’t find murder interesting. I find it frightening. That’s two related deaths in one day. I want to get clear of this case before I become number three. My life is worth a hell of a lot more than five hundred bucks a day.”
“I completely agree. Do you have any idea who shot him?”
“None. I also don’t know who dialed my home phone number from Kristina Braun’s hotel suite. Any ideas, Roger?”
“None, Johnny. How do you know about this?”
“A Miami detective named Rojo stopped me for questioning. He said that he received an anonymous tip. Someone saw Kristina’s body being rolled out of her room. Whoever you used to remove her body was sloppy. Rojo checked the hotel telephone records just as I had and saw that a call was placed to my home. I tipped the concierge for a list of Kristina’s calls.”
Hollister was quiet for a moment. “That doesn’t make sense, Johnny. Who would call you?”
“I don’t know; someone who’s trying to set me up for the murder, maybe.”
“I understand what you’re inferring. It wasn’t me, Johnny. You’ve known me a long time. I don’t operate like that.”
“You’re a spy, Roger; you’d do anything to protect the Crown. That story about setting Kristina up with Kennedy falls a little short too. I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”
“I don’t set my friends up as patsies, Johnny. I—” Hollister heard a thud on the other end of the line. “Johnny? Johnny? Are you there? Johnny?”
Chapter-11
Angel awoke to see Detective Rojo staring at him. “What the hell is going on?” he said. His head ached. He touched the back of his head where his hair was damp and then examined his fingers—they were covered in blood.
“You were cold-conked,” Rojo said. “The phone was hanging off the desk. It looks like someone came up behind you while you were on the phone.”
It took a moment for Angel to put his thoughts together. “Sounds about right.” He sat up and winced. “I thought I was alone.”
“Guess not,” Rojo said. “So while we’re on the topic, what are you doing here with a dead mobster?”
Guess I have to give him something. “I got a copy of Braun’s phone calls, just like you. This was the first number on the list. That’s why you’re here, right?”
“That’s right. You should have come clean when I stopped you before. I could have your license pulled for that.”
“It’s a sensitive case. My client wishes to stay anonymous.” Angel got to his feet.
“Screw your client, Angel. You’d better spit out some information. You were found alone with a dead man. Your leverage is pretty weak. What do you know?”
“The girl is dead. I went up and checked her hotel suite this afternoon. Someone had stuffed her into the refrigerator.”
“So where is she now?”
“I left her where I
found her. I don’t know who moved the body. I was hired to find out who killed her and why. I’m running down leads just like you.”
“Any idea why Bobano took two in the chest?”
“I’ve got nothing for you, Rojo.”
“Who are you working for?”
“You know I won’t tell you.”
“I can get a subpoena and force you to tell me.”
“Sure, go ahead. In the meantime, I’ve got a case to work on. You’re not holding me, are you?”
“No. Your gun hasn’t been fired, and I’m reluctant to believe that you were able to knock yourself out cold after you shot Bobano. No one is going to miss Bobano. He was a slug.” Rojo stuffed a business card in Angel’s shirt pocket. “I want a call if you come across anything, and I’m not kidding.”
A case of rum was lying on the floor near the door. Angel pulled out a bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig. “That’s two dead today. I wonder how many more bodies we’ll find before midnight.” Angel toasted Rojo with the bottle of rum. “See you around.”
Chapter-12
Sonny was still on duty when Angel pulled up in front of the Fontainebleau. “Long day,” Angel said. “Pulling a double shift?”
“Management asked everyone to stick around. Someone robbed the office.”
“Really, what was taken?”
“I’m not sure. They found the door lock busted about an hour ago. I think they’re still taking inventory.”
“Are the cops here yet?”
“Haven’t seen them. I guess they’ll be here soon. You’ve got some blood on your shirt collar.”
“Yeah, I bumped my head. It’s nothing. Can you leave the car out front? I won’t be here very long.”
“Sure thing, Johnny. No problem.”
Kristina Braun’s hotel suite was not yet an official police crime scene, but it would become one as soon as Rojo returned. Angel had confirmed for Rojo that Braun was, in fact, dead. It was now an official homicide investigation. He unlocked the door to her room and switched on all of the lights. There’s got to be something that I missed. Something killed that girl. Angel spent the next fifteen minutes going through the room, examining the contents of the drawers and closets. He went through all of her clothing and checked her suitcase and pocketbook. Nothing. I guess a spy knows better than to leave information just lying around.
The bottle of rum was still lying on the floor near the bed where he had first seen it in the afternoon. He lifted the bottle using the bed sheet to prevent leaving his fingerprints. He sniffed the rum but did not detect an unusual odor. There’s nothing else, he thought. He replaced the bottle in the same spot it had originally occupied. He stepped back and felt something under his shoe. His toe was under the bed. He got down on his knees and found a large, burgundy-colored pill buried in the pile of the carpet. “What’s this?” He examined the pill. It was an oblong tablet that was marked B-080.
Chapter-13
Angel found an unoccupied payphone in the lobby and inserted a dime. He pulled out his “little black book” and dialed his friend Stan Belsky.
“Hello?”
“Stan, it’s John Angel. I’m sorry to call you so—”
“John, it’s almost eleven. I’m in bed.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You know the next time you need some penicillin, you’ll have to go to a doctor. You can’t call me every time your piss burns. I could lose the pharmacy.”
“My johnson is just fine. Is it worth fifty bucks for you to look up a pill for me?”
“Fifty bucks?”
“Yeah, fifty bucks. Can you help me?”
“Hold on. I’ll grab my reference book.” Angel pictured Belsky fumbling in the dark for his glasses. “Okay, describe it for me.”
“It’s distinctive. It looks like a small, burgundy football, and it’s marked B-080.”
“Did you say B-080?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t need my desk reference for that. Any pharmacist worth his salt knows what a chloral hydrate tab looks like.”
~~~
Angel was on his way out of the hotel when Detective Rojo’s car pulled to a stop outside the lobby entrance. “Angel, you seem to be one step ahead of me all day. What were you doing inside?”
“I paid my girlfriend another visit. I usually like a late-night pop before I go to bed.”
“Fine,” Rojo said dismissively. He checked his watch. “Not quite midnight. I hope you don’t become the third fatality of the day.” He tossed his keys to Sonny. “Leave it right there. Got it, kid?”
“Sure, detective,” Sonny said.
Rojo walked into the hotel without looking back at Angel.
“Ready for your car, Mr. Angel?”
“Sure am.” Angel pulled out a pair of twenties. “You think you can help me out with a little information?”
Sonny’s eyes lit up. “You bet.”
“Who would I talk to at the hotel if I wanted to score some drugs?”
“Drugs?” Sonny replied nervously.
Angel gave Sonny a playful slap on the cheek. “Hey! This is me you’re talking to—don’t play cute. Uppers and downers, where can I get them? Who’s dealing?”
Sonny looked around nervously.
“It’s okay, kid, we’re the only ones out here.”
Sonny was only five-foot six. He stood up on his tiptoes and whispered into Angel’s ear.
Chapter-14
Hollister parked his rental car a quarter mile down the road and made his way through the dark using a pen flashlight. The house he was looking for was in a rough area of Dade County on a gravel road without street lamps.
The house was dark when Hollister came upon it. The driveway was empty. He crept up to the window and used his flashlight to look inside. The living room was unoccupied. He used a pocketknife to shimmy the window lock and went inside.
He kept the lights off and used his flashlight to search the house. He didn’t want to alert anyone that he was inside. Hollister was a well trained agent. He knew that he had to get in and out as quickly as possible. The fact that the house was currently empty did not mean that it would be empty for long. He went from room to room, quickly and efficiently checking each one. He found several prescription bottles in a dresser drawer in the bedroom. The ceiling fan had been left on. Hollister found the breeze refreshing, but the noise of the fan was loud and distracting. He put the flashlight beam on a prescription label and was about to read it when a bullet hit him in the back and passed through his chest.
~~~
Angel heard the shot. He pulled his gun and scrambled out of the car. A Chevy Nova was parked in the driveway. He could feel the residual heat from the engine as he squeezed past it in the driveway and knew that it had just been turned off. The house was dark. He listened attentively for a sound that would disclose where the shot had come from, but the house was now silent. He checked the side of the house. A window was open. He climbed through it without making a sound.
Angel’s eyes quickly adapted to the dark. He was silent as he peered through the living room doorway down a long corridor that led to one of the bedrooms. He could hear the sound of someone in distress, someone injured. The sound of labored breathing reached his ears. He could just barely distinguish the large, shadowy figure of a man pointing a gun at someone on the floor. The breathing of the man on the floor was becoming more erratic.
“Be a man. Pull the trigger.”
Hollister? Angel recognized the Brit’s accent.
“You’re English?” the other figure said. “This is not your fight.”
“Any good fight is my fight,” Hollister said. “Why did you kill the girl?”
“Why did I kill the girl? It was a warning, like the last time. Maybe this time our warning won’t fall on deaf ears.”
“Like the last time?” Hollister said.
“Don’t play stupid. You know what I’m talking about. That was my work too. How close do we have
to get before the message is understood? How many have to die?”
“How many will Castro kill with Russian missiles if he’s not stopped?”
“He won’t be stopped. We proved that when we defeated the American forces in the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Here is the bullet you asked for.”
Angel heard the rotating of the gun cylinder as the hammer was cocked. He aimed at the shadowy figure and fired. He heard a thud as the man hit the floor.
Angel flipped on the light switch and raced forward to cover the fallen assailant. His bullet had found its mark. It hit Santo near the left shoulder and had severed the brachial artery before exiting his throat. Blood was gushing from the wounds.
“He’s a Cuban revolutionary,” Hollister said. “He killed Kristina; probably Bobano too.”
Life was fading in Santo’s eyes. He tried to speak but was choking on blood.
“Why, Santo?” Angel asked.
“Tell Kennedy,” Santo said, “the next time America comes for Castro, Cuba will come for Kennedy.” His mouth froze while it was still open, and then he was gone.
Epilogue
Angel found Roger Hollister’s hospital room at the far end of the critical care ward of Jackson Memorial Hospital. Hollister had been hanging on by a thread when Angel left the hospital the night before. He was surprised to hear Hollister’s strong voice echoing in the hallway as he approached his room. It allayed any fears he had about his friend’s serious condition.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day . . .” Hollister noticed Angel standing in the doorway. “Johnny!” he boomed in a hearty voice. Hollister’s hospital gown was pulled up, exposing his chest wound. A bed sheet covered him from the waist down. A young candy striper was giving him a sponge bath. Hollister’s chest was heavily bandaged. The candy striper was carefully cleaning around the bandages.
