“And you don’t think he knows?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. I talked to Cross.”
“Is it still for sale?”
“More than ever.”
João laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “That bastardo thinks he’s tough, but he is pudding. I’m going to use his little girl to twist his balls.”
“João, I don’t like this, she’s just a child—”
He slapped her, hitting her hard enough to slam her back against the door. “Puta! I am in this mess because of you. Just hope I don’t send him your ears, too.”
76
I picked up Cross and we headed east on Interstate 10, toward Palm Springs. Cross had set up a meet with a gangbanger there, Megan’s cousin. We were in my Bugatti EB110GT, a two-seater with flip-up doors and 553 horses that went from zero to sixty in less than four seconds.
“Why Palm Springs?” I asked.
“That’s where the man lives.”
“He runs a drug operation there?”
“He runs a drug operation everywhere—but he’s not out hustling drugs on street corners. Roberto is Columbian, from an old family, good bloodline, no money. He got into the drug business because he likes the same toys you do—expensive cars and women. But he’s strictly a manufacturer’s rep rather than retail.”
“He sells drugs to gangs?”
“No, he sells drugs by the truckload to distributors. By the time it gets to the street-gang level, it’s been through several hands.”
“That much coke ought to be good for about a thousand years in a federal pen if he gets caught.”
“The Robertos of this world never get caught,” Cross said, “because they never get their hands dirty. When you read about some big bust, even the five-hundred-kilo kind, those people have had no dealings with guys like Roberto. The way drug busts work, the cops catch the small fry and try to get them to roll over on the next level up. They never get to Roberto because he’s so far up the food chain, no one getting busted can lay anything on him. Cocaine comes across the border by eighteen-wheeler, airplane, and ship. Once it’s here, Roberto’s in charge of getting it ware-housed and distributed, but he’d never see any of the stuff himself unless it’s for personal use. Just think of him as the CEO in charge of American operations for a multibillion-dollar foreign company.” Cross shook his head. “Maybe I’ve been in the wrong business all my life.”
“And maybe the life expectancy tables for the Robertos of this world aren’t so great.”
“Yours don’t look so hot, either.”
We cut off the small talk, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Earlier, I had brought up the subject again of Cross working for me and he bluntly told me to screw off, that he was clipping coupons each month from his investments.
He had changed since Angola. There was more bullshit to him now, more “front” in the expensive way he dressed, the five-carat diamond on his pinkie, the gold Rolex watch.
Listening to him, I felt uncomfortable for the first time. I realized he lacked confidence, not in physical strength or guts, but in his own self-image. He made the killing he set out to get and blew it. From what Megan had told me, I gathered he made bad investments in stocks and real estate. Now, rather than shrugging it off and asking for a grubstake so he could tackle another fortune, he was hiding behind a facade of being successful.
________
The house crowned one of the desert hills along Highway 111 on the way to Palm Desert, east of Bob Hope’s enormous mushroom-looking mansion. Spanish-style, surrounded by a high, whitewashed earthen wall, the place had the look of a fortress as we drove up the narrow, single-lane road.
Once we reached the top, we pulled up to a tall wrought-iron gate with a callbox mounted nearby. Before I could call to announce our arrival, the gate started to open.
“Surveillance cameras,” Cross said. “They’ve probably been tracking us since we turned off the highway.”
We pulled into the courtyard where an amiable older man, wearing a straw hat to protect his face from the desert sun, came out to meet us.
“That’s fine, leave it there,” he said.
Cross was right about Roberto having a taste for fine cars—parked in the courtyard was a Corvette and a big Ford Expedition. As we passed by the open tailgate of the SUV, I saw scuba diving equipment.
“Good stuff,” I told Cross. “I used to dive. This stuff is what Navy SEALs use.”
“Even ex-SEALs,” a voice behind me said. The man held out his hand. “Welcome to mi casa, I’m Roberto Nunez.”
“How long were you in the SEALs?” I asked.
“One year. My father made me join. He said I was a worthless womanizing boozer who needed a lesson in life. The SEALs were the toughest thing he could think of. I survived the training but not the discipline. I don’t make clandestine landings on beaches anymore, but I keep in practice at my place in Malibu and go down to Cozumel or pop over to the Great Barrier Reef for real dives.”
He talked as we followed him into the house. We were trailed by a man with ten-ply arms who Nunez didn’t bother introducing. He didn’t have to. He was obviously a bodyguard. He was packing an Baretta 9mm semiautomatic tucked in his belt at the small of his back.
Nunez was about thirty, slender but muscular. He led us into a white living room—white walls, white couches, sand-colored carpeting, and introduced me to his wife, Maribel, a dark-eyed beauty. A five- or six-year-old smaller version of lovely Maribel came running into the room who she introduced as Elena.
“Elena was my mother’s name,” I said, “and the name of my girlfriend’s child.” On impulse, I pulled a small black velvet pouch out of my pocket. “This is for Elena,” I told Maribel. I opened my palm and showed her a small, rough, pink stone.
“All right,” she laughed, “what is it?”
I took out my loupe. “If you give me a little light and a piece of white paper, I’ll show you.”
“It’s quite beautiful,” she said, examining it with the magnifying glass. “Is it some sort of gem?”
“It’s a pink diamond,” I said. “In the rough.”
“A diamond in the rough.” She laughed again. “Like Roberto, but he is not pink.”
I liked her. If Roberto hadn’t looked like the type who would have killed me for breathing too close to his wife, I would have been sexually aroused. Hell, I was anyway.
“Colored diamonds are rarer and more valuable than most diamonds.” I was going to give the stone to Marni for her Elena, but decided on impulse that I might get myself in good with Roberto by sucking up to his kid.
“But it’s so much smaller than this one.”
She showed me a rock on her hand that had to weigh in at over five carats. I didn’t like big diamonds on rings for women. A quick glance told me that my much smaller pink, which was a carat, was worth many times more than her chunk. But I had to be careful, there was no doubt that it came from Roberto.
“That’s a different kind of diamond,” I said, cautiously, “very beautiful, it’s a white diamond. Much better for an engagement ring than this pink.”
“Tell me the truth,” Roberto said. “What’s the comparative value of the two?”
“Let me look at it more closely.”
Maribel took off the ring and I examined it with the loupe. You don’t get a complete picture examining a mounted diamond, but I could see the gem had flaws. I could imagine Roberto going into a jewelry store and slamming beaucoup bucks—twenty-dollar bills that would have sent a narc dog hitting the ceiling—paying several times what the gem was worth. He would not only have paid retail, but probably two or three times what the ring was worth. Jesus H. Christ, I had painted myself into a corner. I couldn’t get out of it without lying and I was sure this guy had a built-in bullshit detector. With my back to the wall, I punted and tested the waters with a version of the truth.
“The diamond has good white color, with a little blue, not flawless, but it’s okay, it has some mino
r inclusions.”
“Tell me in dollars and cents,” Roberto said.
“Yours, retail, less than ten thousand. My pink, three or four times as much.”
Nunez spun around to his shadow. “Go into L.A. and kill the jeweler who sold me that diamond.”
He laughed at my expression. “Just kidding.”
I wrote my store manager’s name on my business card and gave it to Maribel. “Call Cameron when you’re ready. She’ll arrange for you to select a cut and setting for the stone. I’d suggest a necklace, hopefully one Elena won’t lose in a sandbox. By selecting a personalized cut, Elena will have a diamond that will be unique, like no other one in the world. Just like her.”
Maribel thanked me and excused herself. I could see she was awed by my gift. So was I—but my life was at stake. Besides, I didn’t pay retail.
“What are you drinking?” Roberto asked.
“Corona, no glass, no lime,” I said.
Cross ordered the same. We sat on the couch to talk turkey. Roberto put his snakeskin cowboy boots up on the coffee table.
“Tell me what you want from me that is worth so valuable a diamond.”
“The diamond is worthless to me if I don’t live to enjoy it.” I gave him a capsule version of the situation with João, sticking mostly to the truth. “I’m certain he’s in town and he wants me dead.”
“Amazing,” Roberto said. “Lisbon, Africa, and now L.A.; I thought I led an adventurous existence.”
“It’s been more nightmare than adventure,” I assured him.
“So, what do you want from me? You want this man killed? You came to the wrong person. I don’t kill anyone—” He grinned. “Except when it’s family or personal.”
“I don’t want him killed. I understand you deal with a variety of people. I want a name, someone I can contact, to let him know that I have friends who are annoyed at the fact he’s planning to kill me.”
“Tell the police.”
“Give me a break.”
“Hire bodyguards.”
“I am. But I want to get a message to João. The kind he understands.”
Roberto shrugged. “I will ask around, see if there is anyone who can frighten the cojones off this dude.” Roberto took a long swig of beer, eyeing me over the bottle as he did. “It has occurred to me that diamonds might be a good investment. Do they hold their value?”
“They increase in value over time. Like oil, there’re market forces that control supply and demand to keep prices stabilized.”
“Perhaps you and I should talk. I have some loose cash that needs to be invested. I think diamonds may be the best way to go.”
“Loose cash” translated into dirty money that needed washing. I had no intention of getting involved in money laundering—that kind of money came with prison stripes on it. But I just nodded and made a listening response.
We got off serious subjects and talked about fast cars and our scuba-diving experiences. After a couple Coronas and small talk, Roberto walked us to my Bugatti and checked it out. Like guys comparing the size of their dicks, I told Roberto my car could beat his car. No more was said about the situation with João. I got into the car and Cross suddenly said, “Just a second.” He got out and went over to where Roberto was standing. They spoke outside my hearing and I could see Cross write something down.
“Got his phone number,” Cross said. “I’ve got a few stones left over from Angola. Maybe I can sell them to him.”
Yeah, and maybe next year I’ll go into selling pink elephants. I knew for a fact that Cross had no more Angolan stones. He called them his “grubstake” when he came back to the States and had been selling them off to me almost from the day he landed. I bought the last one a couple years ago. But Cross had some knowledge of the diamond business and maybe even a few contacts, besides me. My suspicious mind told me that Cross was getting desperate for money and was thinking in terms of playing with the kind of money that carries prison stripes.
“What’d you think of your meeting with Roberto?” Cross asked.
“I don’t know, I have to think about it.” I wasn’t sure what to think. I just dropped a stone in his lap that was worth plenty. I hoped he came through for me. He struck me as an honorable guy—as honorable as any international drug dealer could be.
Cross suddenly broke into my thoughts. “Hey, bubba, if I need some diamonds on credit, you gonna let me have them?”
“Sure. But just remember, pal, that the feds have to be notified about large cash transactions . . . so make sure you pay by check when you settle up.” I wasn’t going to get involved in money laundering.
“Hey, you know something, dickhead, I’ll just take my business elsewhere.”
77
It was Thursday. Marni’s housekeeper, Josie, picked up Elena at school. Fifty years old, Josie was a native of Mexico. She had come across the border illegally over three decades ago, brought across by “coyotes” with twenty others in the back of a closed truck, frightened in the pitch-black sealed interior of the truck, nearly suffocating, and ingraining in her psyche a lifelong fear of the dark that caused her to sleep with a light on.
Her older sister, who came over before Josie, got her a job at subhuman wages working in an L.A. sweatshop that made cheap knockoff sports clothes of major brands. The woman who owned the shop spotted Josie’s kind and gentle disposition and began using her to care for her children. Ultimately, she gained a green card and eventually citizenship through an amnesty for illegals. She never had any children of her own and found satisfaction in taking care of other people’s children. Like most people of her culture, she was hardworking, honest, and loyal.
She came to work for Marni after a friend of hers who had cared for Elena during the child’s first year had to return to Mexico to care for her mother.
Entering the apartment building with Elena, Josie smiled and said hello to Tony, the manager, who was exiting. “I let the cable people in for you,” Tony said.
“Thank you,” Josie said. She didn’t know why cable people needed access to their apartment. Marni hadn’t said anything, but Josie was not particularly sophisticated when it came to anything electronic. She hoped that the TV was working—it was time for Oprah, her favorite show. Josie’s English was still a little rusty. Even after a couple of decades in the country, she lacked that ability to parrot back words some people have, but Oprah wasn’t difficult for her to understand, the woman’s communications skills transcended mere language.
Two men wearing uniforms identifying themselves as cable TV employees were waiting in the living room when she walked in. They were not working with the television set, but were sitting in the living room drinking beer.
Josie frowned at them. “Why you here? What wrong with TV?”
“Nothing,” one of them said.
He picked up something from the coffee table. It took a moment for Josie to realize he was pointing a gun at her.
78
I was going over sales figures for my Paris store when I heard a commotion in the other office and my door flew open. Marni came in looking haggard and in shock. I raised up out of my chair as she said, “They have her.” She spoke the words quietly, anguished. Her face was pale and drawn. My secretary came in behind her.
“I’m sorry, Win, she—” the secretary started.
“Get out.”
Marni stood in the middle of the room. I came around the desk and to her. Her words still hung in the air. “What do you mean?” I asked, but for some reason, I knew the answer, I just didn’t want to face it.
“They have her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They have our daughter, they have Elena.”
“I—what?”
“You fucking bastard, they’ve taken her, they want the diamond. Give it to me!” She swung at me, wildly, her fists hitting my face and chest. I grabbed her wrists and held her, pulling her to me.
My secretary came running in. “I’ve called sec
urity.”
“Get out of here!”
Marni sobbed against my chest. My heart was pounding. I spoke calmly, firmly. “Tell me what happened.”
She sobbed and I shook her by the shoulders. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I got home, Josie was tied up, taped up. She said two men took Elena. They want the fire diamond. They’re supposed to call you. They’ll send her back in a garbage bag in pieces if you don’t give it to them.”
My cell phone rang. I froze for a second, then answered it.
“Listen carefully and don’t say a word,” João told me. “I hear anything in your voice I don’t like and I cut off an ear—to start. And I’ll keep cutting.”
I kept quiet.
“What?” Marni asked. “What?”
She tried to take the phone and I brushed away her hand.
“I’m going to give you precise instructions,” João said. “Pacific Coast Highway, there is a dirt road down to the beach exactly seven-point-seven miles from the last petrol station. Tonight, midnight exactly. Bring the diamond. If you want backup, bring your old friend from Africa. No one else. Tell the police—and you know what I will do.”
He hung up.
“Tell me!”
“It’s arranged. I’ll make the switch. I’ll get Elena back.”
“You sonofabitch.”
“Stop, just stop it. I didn’t know they’d go after her.” But even as I said the words, I knew that deep down João would figure out a way to hurt me. It had occurred to me that he could try to harm Marni, but I had eliminated the idea because I figured he wouldn’t risk it. But I had underestimated him.
She refused a drink and I swallowed down three shots of Jack Daniels. My hands were shaking. Elena was my daughter. I had heard the words but there was too much shock for them to have any effect. I should have known it anyway. I was too busy and too stupid to see it.
“We have to call the police,” she said.
I shook my head. “No, you don’t know João, he’s dying and he hates me. He wouldn’t care if I showed up with the police, he’d kill Elena in front of me.”
Heat of Passion Page 35
