He had also tasted human blood, and if the truth were to be known, he rather enjoyed the killing, regardless of whose side he happened to be on at the time. He missed the adventure and the excitement that a desk job could never provide. There was no greater thrill or pleasure than in the hunting of human prey; the victory kill merely became an impetus to do it again. So when McLeod sent him on this mission, he looked forward to it with relish.
Landing in Miami, carrying only a small pack on his back and dressed in the grungiest clothes he could lay his hands on, courtesy of the Salvation Army’s rejects, the first thing he did was to visit the Teamster Union’s local office to register. He was told that the docks were not hiring at the moment.
“Lemme level wid ya,” a beefy man in a stained, cheap suit sans jacket added. “You don’ come wid de right credentials. An’ you certainly don’ look the right colah. You Indian or something?”
Chino leaned towards the man slightly. “I am your worst nightmare.” Then he winked, turned, and left the building.
His next stop was the docks where he started nosing around, making himself obvious and hoping to attract some attention.
“Can I help you with somethin’?” a large, big-boned man challenged him.
“You the foreman?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m looking for a job. But they tell me at the local office that I am lacking a qualification or two.”
The big man appraised the shorter man, looking him up and down. “You ever worked a dock before?”
“I’ve done a lot of work similar to dock work. I’ve been a machinist and a welder. I’ve done some time lumberjacking. I’m good with my hands, and heavy lifting never bothered me. And, I know weapons.”
The big man grinned at him, but his demeanor was not friendly. He jerked this thumb towards his back. “No vacancy, Jack.”
Chino shrugged. “Maybe some other time.” He walked away, feeling somewhat dispirited by his first attempts to get noticed. Apparently, he thought, I’m gonna have to stage some action to prove to whoever is controlling the dock that I’ve got just the right credentials.
He checked into a nearby YMCA under his own name. He did not have to worry about someone checking his background. In fact, he was counting on it. Any relationship with the U.S. District Attorney’s Office should have been erased from his file by now. His room was nothing to boast about, but then he had survived under worst conditions, sleeping in the jungle with nothing but snakes and scorpions to keep his bedding warm. He laid down on a bed no better off than a cot and slept for two hours. Then he returned to the docks to stake them out, keeping the big bully foreman under observation. When quitting time arrived, he saw a group of dockhands gather together and walk down the street to a local watering hole. The bar looked like it had possibilities for his grand debut; he could not have choreographed the scene better.
The pub did not disappoint him for a waterfront dive, and in a way it did not differ from similar fly-by-night establishments he had frequented in other parts of the world. Its patrons were rough and tumble men who liked their whisky raw and their pool tables with a slant. The latter made the games more interesting and the fights that often resulted from arguments during play more legitimate. A half dozen women serviced the bar, and they matched the demeanor of the men with their own brazen sexuality and coarse talk. He sought out the big man and found him sitting at the bar guzzling a boilermaker. He strode towards the man as if he owned the joint.
The big man looked down at Chino and leered. “I thought I had told you to get lost.”
“Free country,” Chino responded. “Gimme a beer, Maltavo Red,” he told the bartender.
“Maybe in some places,” the dockhand rejoined after guzzling a third of his drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You gotta earn the right in others.”
The bartender set the bottle of beer, a South American import, and waited for Chino to pay for it. He was used to trouble in his establishment, and the last thing he wanted was to have some four-flusher to get his ass beat into a pulp and thrown out into the street without paying his tab.
Chino took a long swig on his beer and set it down on the bar with his left hand, but he held onto it. “What makes you think I haven’t? I’ve earned my right, buddy. More than you’ll ever know.”
The big man grinned widely, his teeth showing a few gaps from previous brawls. “What do you really want, shrimp? You smell like a cop, you know that? No, worse. Like a cock-sucking Fed. I take that back. I’ll bet you like the faggots. Lemme guess: with a dick as small as you probably got, you like to play the receiver, huh?”
“I’ll tell you what. You tell your momma that when she wants a real man, I’ll be most happy to oblige.”
The dockhand gaped in shock at the insult. “Why you mother—”
In one swift motion Chino jammed his beer bottle into the larger man’s mouth just as he was forming the “f” sound, breaking what was left of his four front teeth. With his right hand he snapped the jaw shut, and the man ate glass. Instinct warned him to protect his back, and with the jagged remains of the bottle, he swung around behind him and opened up to the bone the right cheek of a second man moving in to jump him.
Both men were howling with pain and moving away from him when three dockhands stood up from a table across from him and fanned out, trying to flank him. The man on his right withdrew a billy club from his back pocket. The man in the center removed a six-inch blade from his boot. And the man on his left reached over one of the pool tables and picked up a pool stick.
Chino looked at the bloodied, broken beer bottle and whipped it behind him to catch the bartender, who thought he could end the brawl in one quick bop on Chino’s head, unawares right in the forehead. He did not appreciate undue interference when he was having fun. The bartender staggered back into a stack of glasses and hit the back of his head against the counter. He slumped down onto the floor, out of action.
“Who wants to be first?” Chino taunted the trio, opening his hands to prove that he was unarmed and taking a step towards them.
Apparently each of them wanted to be first for they rushed at him as one. Chino took a running jump and kicked the man on the right in the face, the man in the middle in the hand that wielded the knife, and grabbed the pool stick as it arced down on top of him, using his assailant’s movement to flip him over his head and into his companion opposite him. He then used his newly acquired weapon and jabbed the man in the middle first in the left eye and then in the right eye and finally across the bridge of his nose. He had not damaged the man permanently, but it would be some time before the dockhand would be able to see again.
While the remaining two attackers picked themselves up off the floor to regroup, two more patrons decided to join the fracas. Chino merely whirled around and caught the first on the right ear with the small end of the stick, downing him, and the second in the mouth with the larger end, breaking the pool stick.
His original opponents had regained their feet, but Chino did not give them time to think or react. Wielding the two halves of the pool stick, he let go a war whoop and started beating them around the head and shoulders. One of the women cried out and tried to jump him from behind. He dropped his makeshift clubs and whirled to meet her, grabbing her by the hair as she lunged past him. He jerked her around and forced her to her knees.
“You know, usually I don’t make it a habit to hit a woman. In your case,” he told her with a feral smile, “I’ll make an exception.” He punched her in the nose, and she went down crying and screaming about her nose being broken.
The bartender groggily rose to his feet. Four of the dockhands who had not joined in the fight moved back into a corner. They had just witnessed one man—a man smaller than they—wipe the floor with seven of their coworkers.
“I just wanted a job,” Chino declared to no one in particular. “Now maybe there’ll be some vacancies.” He strode out of the bar as if nothing had happened. Well,
he had made the first move. Now it was up to the boss man running the show.
As it turned out, he did not have long to wait. He could almost feel the tail furtively following him as he took his time in returning to the YMCA to clean up. As long as the person or persons did not try to ambush him, he was glad for the company. He figured someone more important that the dock foreman would be paying him a visit before long. As it turned out, he had barely washed his face and his hands when he heard the rap on the door.
“Yeah?” he yelled.
“I’d like to talk to you if you got a moment,” the muffled reply answered.
“Just a minute.” Chino tiptoed across the room and keeping his back against the wall he unlocked the door. Then he stepped away from the doorframe and assumed a protective stance. “Door’s open. Come on in.”
The door opened slowly. A slender man in his mid-thirties wearing a three-piece, dark brown suit pushed the door wide open and reconnoitered the room before stepping inside. A second, more opulent man similarly dressed walked in behind him. Chris figured the backup was present for nothing more than moral support. The hood opened his jacket to reveal a weapon in his waistband, meaning he was there to insure that there would be no repeat of the bar incident.
“Gentlemen. Please do come in and make yourself at home.” Chino stepped away from them and walked towards the bed and sat down, as if he were entertaining dear friends.
“You’ve got a pretty smart mouth, Mr. —?” the first goon declared unfriendly.
“Call me Chino. Now, what can I do for you?”
“You made quite a mess back there in the bar, friend.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Some people get a little upset when an upstart like you starts hurting valuable workers on the dock.”
“And I get a little pissed when certain people start talking about my dick size without checking first.”
“I was wrong. You don’t have a smart mouth; you’ve got a filthy mouth.”
“Well, I’d offer to pay for any damages, gentlemen, but the truth is I’m flat broke. I blew into town to find a job. And all I got was the door slammed in my face. Then when I thought I could make some influential friends, if you catch my drift, all they did was insult me.”
The first goon sized Chino up for a few minutes. “Someone wants to meet you. You impressed him. It isn’t everyday when a one-man army can take on seven of the burliest, toughest dockhands and walk away without a scratch.”
“Wasn’t exactly that good. I scraped my knuckles on that bitch’s teeth.” He displayed the reddened marks on his fingers.
“Just get your bags.” Chino could see that the man wanted to add the word “dirt bag,” but refrained out of fear of setting him off in another tirade. Apparently, someone wanted to talk him with his body more or less intact. “You’re checking out of this place.”
Chino shrugged and picked up his pack from off the bed. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Part of his training had taught him that there were times when brawn spoke more succinctly than words. Then there were times when the right wordsmithing opened more doors and elicited more cooperation than belligerence. He accompanied the pair with the attitude that he had invited them, which was more to the truth, actually. They, in turn, led him to a waiting black sedan and pushed him into the backseat. The larger goon slid into the back from the other side to flank him. Two more hoods sat in the front seat, the one on the passenger side training a weapon equipped with a silencer on him.
“You have to wear a blindfold,” the first goon told him, throwing a black hood into his lap. It was not a request but an order that had to be obeyed with the implication he had to comply if he wanted to remain healthy.
“Okay,” Chino said nonchalantly. “I haven’t had a wink of sleep all day.” He pulled the hood over his head and then settled back into the seat. He felt the car pull away from the curb and began to relax. A few minutes later he was snoring. He calculated that he had slept for about an hour and a half before his escorts nudged him awake.
“We’re here,” the first goon announced. “Rise and shine.”
“Thanks for the wake up call, fellahs.”
“One piece of advice: Mr. Cortez isn’t as understanding as we are. You watch your mouth when you talk to him. He expects respect. I don’t think I have to explain the consequences.”
The car finally came to a halt. Chino was allowed to remove his hood and step out of the car behind the larger goon. He waited until the first goon rounded the back of the car to escort him into the house. Chino did not need a tourist map or a brochure of the rich and famous to tell him that he had been brought to the infamous home and nerve center of the Mendendez family. His only disappointment was that he would not be meeting with the illustrious Mr. Mendendez himself.
The interior of the house was a world unto itself. A light oak flavor permeated everything. The hardwood floors shone like mirrors. A winding staircase led up to a second floor, naturally dividing the front of the house into half. The walls were decorated with the finest paintings from masters past and present. And the furniture and furnishings were top quality, adding warmth and a lived-in look rather than like a museum or armed camp.
“Remove your shoes,” the first goon told him. “Use the house shoes.”
Chino found the custom rather novel, more Oriental in nature than Hispanic. He kicked off his boots and slipped into a pair of brown slippers. He noted that the custom applied to his escorts as well. Death represented by the weapons they carried was accepted; the dust and reality of the world outside was not. What an interesting dichotomy, he thought to himself.
“Okay. Now we gotta pat you down. No sudden moves, okay? This is strictly protocol.”
Chino parted his legs slightly and suffered the quick pat down. The only weapon he carried was inside his boots anyway.
They led him through the interior of the house towards the immense rear yard that was obviously tended by a team of expert gardeners. He met Cortez on an expansive veranda overlooking an Olympic-sized pool. Dressed in white slacks and an open white golf shirt, which showed off his deep tan, he sat at one of the six white-painted iron tables covered with decorative linen tablecloths, sipping absently at a wine cooler while reading the day’s newspaper. He looked up only when Chino and his escorts stopped within a couple paces of the table.
Cortez eyed Chino with the look of a cheetah savoring an easy kill. His wavy black hair was clipped short around the ears and slicked down in the style of the current fashion. Chino observed several crowfeet lines around the eyes and thought the man might be in his mid-forties. A thin mustache decorated his upper lip but accentuated the perpetual pout of his mouth, adding a hint of cruelty to the man’s personality. The man exuded a kind of ruthless authority, and he got the impression that this man was one of Mendendez’s underlying pinions that caused anyone dealing with the family to be awed and fearful.
The first goon introduced Chino in Spanish to the mob centurion—or lieutenant as some might call him. Chino caught enough words to understand the gist of the speech.
“Mr. Chino,” Cortez spoke directly to him in perfect English, “you made quite a spectacular entrance into my city.”
“Señor,” Chino began, his tone submissive to the point of being polite, “I meant no offense, but certain individuals made some rather insulting remarks to me that demanded an honorable response.”
“And just what was said that you felt your honor insulted?”
“Ah, forgive me for being so indelicate, señor, but these insults were directed towards a certain part of my anatomy as well as my preference in the matters of affection.”
Cortez’s eyes widened slightly. Then he began to laugh. It was a throaty laugh but not forced. “I believe I can appreciate the circumstances. Where I come from, those men would have been entertaining in the morgue, not the emergency room. Now, tell me about yourself. I am very curious as to why you have come to our fair city.”
Chino provided a cu
rsory history of his military background and training, along with a few anecdotes of his adventures in the jungles of South America. Wisely, he left out his current position. He knew that someone would—if not already—be conducting a background check on him. They would find that he had been unemployed and a drifter for the last five years—whereabouts unknown, in other words. Other than that, his story would check out.
“If I were to say that I could use a man like you, what would you say?” Cortez baited him.
“With all due respect, señor, I would probably accept. I haven’t held a steady job in the last few years, so I don’t have much of a position to negotiate from.”
The lieutenant gave a feral smile. “I believe we can use a man of your talents, Mr. Chino.”
“Please, just call me Chino.”
Cortez bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “All right, Chino. What do you say to my offer of a job?”
“I came to Miami for a break. It’s an offer I would be foolish to turn down.”
“Good. Benny here will be your supervisor.” He indicated the first goon. “He will explain to you your duties, how much you will be paid, and the other benefits of the job.”
Chino bowed deeply. “You won’t be disappointed Mr. Cortez. You have my word on it.”
“Around here, we do not take the word of a man lightly,” Cortez drilled a lesson. “We value honor, honesty, loyalty, and dedication very seriously.
“Benny,” he addressed the first goon but did not take his eyes off Chino, “take charge of our new employee and start the training. And find him some decent clothes. We have a dress code to uphold around here.” He sniffed with a look of disgust on his face. “And find him a decent bath before you bring him around me again.”
“Yes, Mr. Cortez. Consider it done.” Benny laid his hand on Chino’s arm, but one disparaging look from the Deputy Marshal made him think better of his action, and he withdrew his hand. “Follow me,” he said simply.
White Wolf McLeod Page 11
