The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Blank Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Afterword

  THE ORTEGA GAMBIT

  J. Palma

  Punch Press LLC

  2019

  The Ortega Gambit by J. Palma

  Published by Punch Press LLC

  www.punchpressbooks.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Joseph Christopher Lepis

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For information regarding permissions please contact the publisher: contact@punchpressbooks.com

  Cover by Extended Imagery.

  ISBN: 978-1-7340407-0-8

  As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,

  They kill us for their sport.

  King Lear

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE FIRST DAY of summer of this year, Lucina D’Alessio walked the cobblestoned streets—dusty and worn gray in the heat—until she came across the Global Travel Agency, noteworthy only for its azure blue door.

  "America is a long way from here," said Gennaro Livio, visibly out of breath as he plopped down in his chair. Stubby and disheveled in an ill-fitting suit, he exhaled as though he shouldered perhaps not the weight of the world, but at least his corner of Casa di Mora, Italy, a small town in the Campania hinterland, east of Naples. In one hand he held a blue folder and in the other, a lit cigarette.

  This was her second time inside this room and Lucina clocked its steady sense of disrepair before settling into a metal chair beside an emptied desk. A cracked old-school cathode ray monitor and stacks of cardboard boxes lined the water stained walls. Long shadows stretched on the fractured tiled flooring. Out of place, a whiteboard hung on the wall opposite her seat, with a list of names in one column, and then in another, a column labeled city/country. Her eyes returned to Livio as she started asking questions about details of her new life, but she was interrupted.

  "I have a nephew who moved to the Philadelphia. You know this city? He works all the time. He says America is very expensive. I think he likes this new life but he has nothing. He's 'bout your age. Campania too small for your generation, eh?"

  A peculiar looking man with dark unblinking eyes, Livio tapped his cigarette against the edge of a glass ashtray and the gray ash finger disappeared.

  Gennaro Livio, her father had once said, would answer their family prayers. Four weeks earlier, she had visited Livio and sat in the same chair. She handed over a resume, a headshot her friend Carlotta snapped with her smartphone, and 1,500 euros, about the last of the money her father left her. Livio took these items, grunted, and disappeared to a back room where he placed three phone calls. For the last one, he spoke proper Italian, switching from the Neapolitan dialect. She imagined him speaking to someone in Rome or Milan, in a proper office with people dressed in sleek suits doing important things. When he had returned to his desk, he told her to come back in a month.

  "I knew your father a long time. This was his last wish."

  "He never told me about such a wish. It's expensive, no?"

  He made that great Neapolitan face where his brow increased in weight, driving all other features toward his chin. The sagging lines of his face said, "Everything has a price."

  He then spoke for a long time about her father, about their shared youth, and how Naples kept changing but remained the same, prisoner to its past. Lucina refused his nostalgia, and said abruptly, “Papa was a coward." Her eyes shimmered with flecks of different colors, but remained dark. Now, the light picked up golden spokes radiating from their centers, but her eyelids narrowed on Livio. "He killed himself and left me and Nonna alone,” she said. “What kind of man does this?"

  "No, no, no, no, signorina. He loved you." Livio made the sign of the cross. "Sending you to America is his act of contrition."

  "How much is your cut? You're not doing this out of kindness."

  "Signorina, there's always a small fee. How do you think I keep this place open?" Before he could justify the services included with his fee, she insulted her father again, calling him a coward among other vile profanities.

  "Signorina, how can you say such things?"

  "He's sending me away. Away from here. Away from Casa di Mora."

  "You don't want to go?"

  How should she answer? That she loved the smell of burning trash that sometimes stung her eyes. That the occasions of violence, kidnappings, shootings, and bombings lulled her to sleep? That the constant noise of her neighbors engaged in an endless, frightful argument was a delightful melody to her ear? This was not a region edging to civil war. This was her home. Of course she wanted to leave this worn-out land, but change made her uncomfortable and uneasy.

  Livio continued. "You don't like me, do you? Okay. But listen to me, for Papa. This was his dream, his last wish to get you out of here."

  "Please," she said, rolling her eyes. "He did this out of guilt, out of shame, not love."

  "After what you did..." He paused, glancing at her. Her eyes flared and her brows arched just beneath her bangs.

  "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

  "Signorina, you make all of Campania uncomfortable." Averting his eyes from hers, he said, "You threatened to burn down a restaurant in the piazza."

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm better."

  "How are you better? People don't change who they are. Never mind this. Ancient history. We talk good things about the future." He waved his hands, erasing from an invisible board.

  "How is your English? Good?"

  "Yes, Signore. It's excellent."

  "You watch American television and you think you can speak like—”

  "Mama taught English in school. And she spoke it at home."

  "Right. She's Americana?"

  "She was born
in Livorno but lived in the States for some time. She moved to Campania when she was twenty and that’s where she met Papa.”

  He pretended to spit. "I'd rather she Americana. Your mother, that's where you get…"

  "Get what, Signore?" Her eyes squinted at him.

  "Nothing. Nothing." He shifted in his seat. "Okay then. I have something. Nanny job for a family in New York. You work six days a week. You like kids?"

  She nodded and lied. She hated kids. A botched abortion insured she could never have children; the possibility of motherhood scraped away with the fetus and with it any chance of a male suitor in a culture proud of motherhood.

  "How much does the job pay?"

  "How much you make now? Nothing? Well, this job pays more."

  He handed her a thick blue folder secured with a red rubber band.

  "If you lose this, you may as well step in front of a bus. Inside, you have your passport, ticket, work visa, and CV. Please review and memorize every detail of your work history. This is now who you are. Understand?"

  With a dry erase marker, he added her name to the whiteboard. And in the next column, he printed USA. Her heart soared and a smile found its way to her lips then spread across her face.

  When she exited the travel agency armed with a one-way ticket in hand, a great gust of wind raked across the street as though all of Casa di Mora sighed in great relief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRANCESCO DENUZZI WAS putting away his groceries. His back ached from the three flights of stairs to his simple two-room flat and his mind was on his afternoon nap. After all, he was eighty-three years old.

  He heard the sound of footsteps outside. Francesco moved to bolt his door, but it was too late. A second later, the door burst open, rattling on its hinges. Francesco staggered backwards. A sleek headed man entered the room, olive skinned, dressed in a sharp suit. He drew close to Francesco, and struck the old man square in the nose with a gloved fist. Francesco staggered backwards, blood spurting from his nose. Before he could crumble to the floor, the man grabbed the front of Francesco's shirt, lowering him into a kitchen chair. The man tossed him a dishrag.

  With the rag pressed to his nose, Francesco focused on another man who entered, similar in appearance to the first. Each man wore black leather gloves.

  "You should really lock your door," the second man said as he closed and bolted the door. His hard, lead-colored eyes were unforgiving. "I am Vincenzo Abbandonato. That is my brother Nino. We apologize for the work we are about to do."

  Francesco dropped the dishrag into his lap, and crossed himself. He said, "I know nothing."

  Nino went through the bag of groceries and, thirsty, removed a bottle of milk. Drifting through the small one bedroom flat, he drank from the bottle. He returned to the kitchen where he replaced the lid.

  Francesco quickly realized he was powerless to alter the next few minutes of his life. Blood stained the front of his shirt. Vincenzo, elegantly featured with a thin nose and a trimmed beard, said, "Do you know why we're here?"

  "I told you, I know nothing."

  Almost playfully, Vincenzo cupped the old man's face with his leathered hand, gently slapping him twice, urging the man to relax. "I'll only ask this once." He waited a short moment. "Where is your nephew, Toto DeNuzzi?"

  "I don't know."

  Vincenzo frowned sympathetically. "Are you right handed?"

  "Yes."

  "Stand up. Put your left hand on the table. Spread your fingers."

  Puzzled, Francesco did as he was ordered.

  Vincenzo pinioned the old man's left wrist and hand to the table, and with his other hand, grabbed the man's elbow. The victim started to protest. Suddenly, Nino smashed the milk bottle against Francesco's left forearm.

  A sharp crack pierced the stillness of the room, like the snapping of a branch. The old man sucked in his breath and went limp, then shuddered violently. Vincenzo adjusted his hold on the old man's wrist and kept the man upright by hooking his fingers through the man's belt. Vincenzo signaled his brother to continue.

  Nino brought the milk bottle down again and again, mashing the forearm until bone splintered and popped from the old man's arm. The milk sloshed noisily in the glass container with each strike.

  After Vincenzo released his hold, Francesco collapsed into a kitchen chair. Cradling his badly broken arm, his pain was neither subtle nor original.

  The brothers stood over Francesco and waited, as though the old man would suddenly confess the location of his nephew, but nothing came. Ribbons of tears unspooled down the old man's face.

  It was almost 3 p.m. in Casa di Mora in Campania and the brothers had one more appointment before they met their boss.

  The next job, the brothers found themselves in the Spanish Quarter in Naples. This was a quiet neighborhood. Many buildings were dismantled from within, awaiting a new facade. Many of the side streets were pedestrian traffic only. Many cafes were closed. On the opposite side of the street, a building striped down to its skeletal floors and beams, awaited its flesh. The old city appeared to be eating itself but not changing at the same time, like a snake devouring its tail. In a stolen black Alfa Romeo, Nino flipped a coin. Vincenzo called tails.

  Vincenzo said, "Bah! Looks like you win."

  Nino rubbed his hands together, his face cheerful.

  A small flatbed truck passed, loaded with shovels scabbed with dried cement. The workmen, muddied and gray, slouched in the cab drawing on their cigarettes.

  In the rearview mirror, the truck turned a corner and disappeared.

  "Just the job," reminded Vincenzo. He had dinner on his mind. Work always made him hungry, but Nino had a tendency for showmanship and dragging things out.

  From beneath the car seat, Vincenzo handed his brother a folded blue bath towel. Swaddled inside, Nino found a 9mm silenced Beretta with the familiar odor of gun oil mixed with sweat.

  He didn't try to hide the pistol. He checked his watch. On an adjoining side street a block away, Giuseppe DeNuzzi walked the family Pomeranian. Nino didn't trust his aim to hit the small dog from the car and risk hitting the small boy who walked the dog every day at the same time. Vincenzo called his brother a pussy for his lack of confidence. The job was uncommonly specific. Just the dog. And as with any of their assignments, they followed the instructions to the letter. Nino hopped out of the car and took the sidewalk in big strides with the pistol on his right, his finger poised on the curve of the trigger. Vincenzo started the car and the Alfa Romeo engine came to life with a low purr.

  The leather soles of Nino's shoes slapped against the sidewalk. His pace slowed, and ahead, the toy-sized dog appeared on a green leash with a diamond-studded collar. As Nino passed beside the dog on his right with the pistol on the same side, he fired a single shot and blew the prized animal’s brains out.

  He said to the ten-year-old boy, "This is for your uncle Toto." The boy began to cry staring at the dog's small head turned inside out.

  6:30 p.m. Nino and Vincenzo arrived for their meeting on time. Fifteen minutes later, their boss appeared in a modest suit and dark glasses. Known as The Shoe, he smiled at the brothers as they rose from their seats but The Shoe seemed embarrassed at their demonstration of respect and motioned for them to sit. He sat opposite them in a narrow table in an unnamed cafe on the piazza Seconda in Casa di Mora. Nino and Vincenzo were roughly the same height and resembled each other. They had been born only ten months apart, with Vincenzo the older of the two. Nino, stocky with a broad nose, was nearly bald; Vincenzo resembled a Spanish conquistador with a thick head of oil-black hair diligently kept and a matching trimmed beard.

  The Shoe grunted.

  Salvatore "Toto" DeNuzzi, boss of the DeNuzzi clan, the largest in Campania, was in hiding. Half the clans wanted him dead; half the clans wanted him sainted. No one knew Toto's whereabouts, and any individual with a DeNuzzi surname was now fair game. With over six hundred killed, papers in Naples called the conflict a Camorra civil war. The reasons for the
war were forgotten and lost. Some said the conflict started over a woman Toto desired. Others said boredom was the reason. A new generation forgot their history of the Years of Lead, and had turned the dusty hinterlands into a war zone.

  Blood members of the Lazzaroni clan since they were thirteen, the brothers had never seen killing like this before. The Lazzaroni were one of a half dozen clans pitted against the DeNuzzi and their allies. Every day brought a report of an assassination, a bombing, a shoot-out. The State, intent on sitting this one out, offered no solution.

  "I have something new for you. But before we start," The Shoe raised his hand and whistled, summoning a waitress. A young girl appeared, nervous, about twenty.

  He ordered an espresso and dismissed her and she quickly disappeared in the back.

  The Shoe began: "The job will be very difficult."

  Nino spoke first and said, "When have we let you down?"

  "This is very important to us. The payout for this job will be enormous. As you know, with the ongoing fighting, our income has fallen to almost zero. Without money, it makes things very hard. This job will help raise funds to use in our battle. Does this make sense?"

  Between the soldiers who left for the other clans and those who turned pentito for the State, the boss had limited resources and had considered his move carefully.

  The brothers nodded.

  The Shoe pushed a blue folder across the table.

  Nino was a great partner in the direst of circumstances, but given a new order, he usually deferred to Vincenzo. Today, Nino snatched the folder off the table. Clipped to the left-hand side, a paper with several hand-written addresses. Attached to the right, a series of photographs. Nino removed the photographs from the folder and flipped through them. One caught his eye and he shared it with Vincenzo.

  After studying the photograph, Vincenzo finally said, his voice grave, "Americano?"

  "Very good, Lupino." The clan elders called Vincenzo “Lupino,” Italian for “The Wolf.” He half smiled at the compliment as a son might when congratulated by his father. Nino, on the other hand, hadn't earned a moniker and this bothered him to no end.