The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  Dot sat at a wrought iron garden table encircled with rose bushes. Lucina, her face reddened and her hands trembling, lowered the tray on the table.

  "Well?"

  "Excuse me, Signora?"

  "Child, your etiquette is ghastly. Is it too much to ask for you to serve me a cup? Be careful. It's an extraordinarily rare blend. From Peru."

  Dot's impudence was something Lucina had to accept, a part of settling into her role. Lucina bit her bottom lip and poured Dot's coffee without spilling a drop. Dot seemed pleased, or something close to it. Lucina found Dot's bland expressions hard to gauge. Dot had a stiff, tense manner in everything she did, and this conveyed a coldness in her personality.

  "This is very nice," said Lucina.

  "Dear, you'll know when I want your opinion. Going forward, let's assume I don't." Dot brusquely dismissed Lucina with the back of her hand. Lucina started for the house when Dot gave her a long sideways glance and said, "A word to the wise. I suggest you change your attitude. I can send you back to that third world city you call home. Or better yet, I can call Homeland Security and tell them I have a terrorist in our midst. Do not forget that I have your passport in my possession."

  CHAPTER TEN

  LUCINA BURST INTO the kitchen and said, "Is this what you do all day? Sit around getting fat, waiting to be called?" The cook, the driver, and Albert looked up from their coffees, phones, and newspapers, surprised.

  Albert asked, "Was there something wrong with the coffee?"

  "I don't want to hear about this coffee."

  Albert said, "We usually start our day with breakfast and coffee. Not the Peruvian blend of course. That's seventy-five dollars a bag. You're welcome to join us."

  The cook said, "The table is too small."

  Albert said, "Surely we can all fit."

  "Not today," he said, shaking his head. With his head cocked back, he considered the newly hired nanny and said, "You didn't like my dinner? I made a typical Italian meal for you at Dot's request and she tells me you were unimpressed. Is this true?" He pocketed his phone, folded his arms, and pushed back into his seat. He set his eyes on her with menace and anger.

  No one at the table fathomed the hell she endured for the last five years of her life and now she emerged on the other side of the Atlantic and faced a table of downcast idiots. Did he really think she would be cowed by his stare alone?

  "Yes, you are correct," she said, her hands on her hips. "You say typical? There's nothing typical in that meal unless typical here means shit. The risotto and the peppers were overcooked. The sauce lacked life and taste. There was nothing Italian about that meal. You cook as if it were a chore and not an expression. With those hands, you should be laying bricks. Building walls. Something like that would suit you better."

  His face reddened. The driver started to laugh, pausing from reading the morning paper. The cook gave a hot look and the driver stopped.

  She opened the oversized Wolf refrigerator, and while staring into the cavernous opening said, "I've never seen one this big. Enormous! Perhaps bigger than some apartments in Naples." The cook jerked to his feet and crossed the kitchen, standing over her shoulder.

  He said, "The staff fridge is in the utility room. You're not to touch the items here. Do you understand?"

  Calmly, she closed the door. "Yesterday was Charles' birthday. Did you know that? Anybody? I am making him something special for his breakfast."

  "We have nothing that he'd want." The cook didn't hide his dislike for the child with his tone.

  "Why is that? Aren't you the cook? Why does he eat shit? Have you seen how fat he is?"

  "Never refer to me as the cook. Understand? I am a chef. I am a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. Do you even know what that means? I have studied and worked under the best chefs in the country."

  "And yet you are here. Doing nothing. If what you say is true, then you have not a single excuse for last night. You are a servant. Like me. Like him. Like all of us."

  "What do you know? You're just a FOB."

  She wrinkled her nose. "FOB? What is this word FOB? I do not know this word."

  The driver raised an eyebrow at the cook, returned to the paper, sighed and shook his head.

  "Of course, you don't. Fresh off the boat. You understand what that means?"

  She faked a laugh. "This is an insult, no?" Her eyes were riveted on the cook.

  And then Albert was between them, a hand on the cook's shoulder.

  "Let's calm down. No need for this to escalate."

  She whistled at the driver. "You're taking me and Charles out. There is only shit here to eat."

  The driver finished the last of his coffee and said, "Finally. Something to do."

  Albert looked relieved.

  The car, a jet-black Mercedes-Maybach S Sedan crawled up to the curb. Lucina held Charles' hand and waited for the driver to open the door.

  Charles said, "I don't want to go."

  "You cannot stay indoors your entire life. That is not healthy. Now shut up and get in."

  As he slid into the massive rear seat, she looked away, admiring the house. She glimpsed slivers of the Sound though the trees. Perfect and beautiful and fake all at once, like a postcard. Charles gave her the middle finger, made a face and thought he got away with his rebellion. After they left the driveway, Lucina drew him in close and promised she would break his finger if he did that again.

  The driver took them to an IHOP on Central Avenue in nearby Hartsdale.

  Charles ordered three pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and a side of sausage links. Lucina ordered toast with grape jelly and a coffee.

  When the waitress, a plump redhead with freckles, brought out the food, Lucina was amazed at the plates spread on the table before them. "Is there a mistake? There must be a mistake. Is his order for one or two people?"

  "Just one ma'am. That's how we do it."

  "Mamma mia. You better not get sick on me. Or else." Something occurred to Lucina. There was no “or else.” Nobody loved him. Nobody cared. A semi-drunk Darlene was as good as he had it. When she belted him last night, he had no recourse but to suffer. And he knew that too.

  The waitress slinked off.

  Lucina said, "You better not get sick." Undeterred, he drowned the pancakes in maple syrup and ate as if he had not been fed for some time. "You're a funny little shit, aren't you?"

  Charles didn't look up from his plate, smacking his lips and snorting as he ate.

  "Don't choke. Slow down. Slow down. Chew. At least taste the food you put in your mouth."

  After he finished one pancake, he paused, as if getting air.

  With his mouth full of food, he said, "Do you like olives?"

  "Yes, I like olives. Why do you ask?"

  "I dunno. Just wanna know if you like olives. I like olives too."

  "What kind of olives do you like?"

  "The black ones with the holes in them."

  "Pitted."

  "Whatever."

  He speared another chunk of pancake and shoved it in his mouth. Left to his own instincts, she was convinced he would eat with just his hands.

  "Where I came from they grow the best olives in the world. Grapes too. You like grapes?"

  "I don't like grapes." Forcefully, he shook his head and his stomach jiggled.

  "What's it like living with Will and Dot?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. They leave me alone, I guess. They're usually not around."

  He finished a second pancake and doused the next one in blueberry syrup.

  "How do you like school?"

  "I don't."

  "You don't? I didn't either. Why you no like it?"

  "They make fun of me. Call me names."

  She easily imagined the opportunistic brats at his school, cruel with such an easy target as an overweight Charles.

  He finished his pancakes. But still not full, he mopped the remaining syrup on his plate with the bacon and when that was done, the sausag
e links.

  "I want more."

  "How do you ask?"

  "Please, I want more."

  "No. That's enough for two! No more for you."

  He raised his voice: "I want more I said."

  "Don't talk to me like that." She waved her index finger at him and her eyes darkened. "You'll throw up if you eat more."

  He changed his tone. Whiny. "I want more. Please. Please. Just another pancake. Just one more."

  "What do the kids call you? Fat? Piggy? C'mon. No more. You don't want that. Don't give them something to tease you about."

  "They make fun of my dad for crashing his car. They call me Speed Racer. And they tell me I should have been in that car too."

  "Fuck them." She waved her hand, as though brushing something away with the back of her hand.

  Charles's head snapped straight.

  "So what? I said it. You know whose parents died too?"

  "Yours?"

  "I told you that already. Besides mine."

  "I dunno."

  "Bruce Wayne."

  "Bruce Wayne? The name sounds…"

  "Batman. He's the Batman."

  "That's right! Batman."

  "Can we watch the movie?"

  "Maybe later. But you like the Batman?"

  "Yeah. He's cool."

  "No one messes around with Batman. Remember that."

  "Lucina, you like Batman?"

  "Of course. Who doesn't." At this revelation, his face lit up, brimming with a smile. Not a complete lie, she had watched the movie on her flight from Rome to New York and found it entertaining in the way that American movies can be.

  "I can't believe you like Batman. How do you say Batman in Italian?"

  "Il Batman," she said in a deep exaggerated baritone voice.

  They both laughed.

  "Do you miss your parents?"

  The waitress returned to the table. "You want anything else?"

  "No."

  She dropped the bill and said, "Pay at the front."

  After breakfast she took him to a nearby park, and then a toy store. For his birthday, with her own money, she bought him a Batman costume including a Batman mask and utility belt. They passed through North Westchester County—Hartsdale to be exact—leafy streets, busy people, and affluence everywhere she looked.

  The driver said, "You should call the cook if you plan to eat lunch at home. He doesn't like to be rushed."

  "He doesn't like to be rushed? Is this a joke? This cook is a pain in the ass. Do we work for him?"

  The driver laughed. "Cut him some slack. He's not a bad guy. I can text him and tell him the usual for the boy."

  "What's the usual?"

  "Hotdogs and fries."

  "No. Shame on you for letting the boy eat such disgusting and unhealthy food. No more. He ate that last night. No more. No, no, no."

  "That's what the boy…"

  "His name is Charles. Charles. Of course that's what a child will want to eat. As adults, we should encourage him to eat better. Unbelievable I have to say this."

  After a few minutes of driving in silence, the driver asked, "So, should I call him? Order the usual?"

  "What did I just say? No. We'll buy something at the grocery store. Something healthy."

  Charles said, "But I want ice cream. You promised."

  "I did promise. You have a very good memory for ice cream. Can you wait?"

  He shook his head no.

  "Ay. Okay. For your birthday, yes. Only today."

  To the driver, "Hey, we're getting ice cream."

  The driver stopped at a Baskin Robbins in Hartsdale across from the train station. Charles ordered a chocolate sundae.

  They sat in a molded plastic booth. "How old are you?"

  "Ten."

  She wished him a happy birthday and pinched his cheek.

  After a few bites, he said, "Can we go home? My stomach hurts."

  She glared at him with eyes that could melt glass.

  In Hartsdale, Vincenzo parked the A6 at the curb across the street from a Baskin Robbins. Nino had moved to the passenger seat behind his brother with an SLR camera equipped with a telephoto zoom lens. Vincenzo picked at his Burger King fries with one hand, a Whopper in the other.

  Vincenzo inspected the hamburger—an American fave, with its layers of indeterminate meat, wet lettuce, unripe tomato. Slathered in ketchup, mustard, mayo, it tasted better than what he got back home. He stared into it as if understanding this food would provide insight into this strange place called America. He finished his burger, wadded up the greasy wrapping paper and tossed it on the floorboard beside him. He checked the driver side mirror, almost expecting to find someone approaching.

  "We're nobodies here. Brother, stop your worrying," said Nino.

  "I can't relax."

  "You know what makes me relax? The job. When I cracked the old man's arm with that milk bottle, a symphony played in my head and I was its conductor."

  "I didn't like that."

  "This is war."

  "I don't like war."

  "War tells us who we really are."

  "Now you're a philosopher?"

  "War gives me a purpose. Besides, it's a good job."

  "I don't like this funny business of going after civilians."

  Vincenzo checked his hair in the rear-view mirror. Parted to the side, he looked clean cut and handsome. A baby-faced killer. He kept the engine on for the air conditioning. Neither of them had any idea, not a single hint, at the constant damp pressure that awaited them each morning, clamping about their bodies like a heavy wet robe. The ill-mannered climate further complicated Vincenzo's developing cold, now spreading into his chest.

  Nino asked, "How long they been in there?"

  "Ten minutes?"

  "That kid doesn't need any more ice cream. You know what I heard?"

  "What did you hear?"

  "Toto had his mansion built just like Tony Montana's mansion in Scarface. With the globe and everything. He even hired the architect who designed the original and then had him killed."

  "Who told you that?"

  "And he has a tank full of piranhas from South America. And sometimes when he gets really mad, he sticks people's hands in it for fun."

  "Who told you that?"

  "If I saw Toto, you know what I would do?"

  "What would you do?"

  "I'd shove my gun up his ass and fire until my gun was empty. He's why we're here. You know that right?"

  Of course Vincenzo knew that. Toto, a man they had never met and had only seen in the news, was the leader of the DeNuzzi clan and the reason for their sudden trip to New York. The war had starved their clan of any reliable income; loaning out their hitmen to one of the Five Families was just another business opportunity. There was no brotherhood between the Camorra clans and the Five Families. If anything, the clans looked down at them as gaudy and broken. But desperation made for strange lovers.

  Vincenzo held a picture of the boy in his hand. Freckled and overweight, the boy stood on a dock with a yacht behind him, frowning in a red polo shirt and khaki shorts. Vincenzo shook his head. "I've never done a kid before."

  Seventy-two days had passed since they last killed someone. Their boss, The Shoe, had assured them with this job, their dry spell would come to an end. A job in a strange land was always daunting and their boss’ assurances did nothing to quell their nerves. The boss had taught Vincenzo patience and Vincenzo had grown to respect the man the way a son respects his father, and thus obeyed without question. If The Shoe said this job would end their dry spell, he had every reason to believe him. But with each passing day, their self-doubt increased.

  Dispatched to beat an old man and shoot a dog were the highlights of what should have been an exciting time. The clans were at war. There were car bombings. There were assassinations with anti-aircraft machine guns. Someone even used an RPG to obliterate an apartment balcony where three rival Camorristi played cards. This and other stories hung over the br
others like storm clouds, and each refused to be drawn into discussion of their possible meanings.

  Nino, lowering the camera, said, "We are paid to do these things. The fat shit doesn't bother me. At first, maybe a little, but not anymore, not now. We are not paid to think. Remember that. But the woman, this nanny, she's something else. If I get my hands on her— "

  "Remember, we can't touch her that way. She can't be bruised or hurt at all. That's the plan." He turned in his seat and looked in his brother's eyes.

  "The plan. Right."

  "Don't touch her. If the boss finds out..."

  "How will he find out? His fat ass is in Campania."

  "He has his ways. We're better than that."

  "Yeah, yeah.”

  "I mean it."

  "The boss, how would he know?"

  "He is not where he is for being a fool. I bet they must be paying the boss a lot of money to send us here."

  "Or they don't care."

  "Why would you say that?"

  A Metro bus stopped abruptly before moving again. And when the bus passed, Lucina and Charles were on the sidewalk.

  Nino and Vincenzo alert now.

  "Bellisma," said Nino as he focused the camera and clicked away.

  Diagonal and across the street, a jet-black Mercedes pulled up to the curb. Lucina opened the door for Charles, her raven hair briefly whipping behind her, and then she too vanished inside. And just as quickly as the car appeared, the oversized Benz sped into traffic, soon out of sight.

  Nino put the camera in his lap. "Aren't you going to follow them?"

  "Patience," said Vincenzo. "We cannot grab them off the street like we had planned. We cannot take them without making a big scene. Big scene. All it takes is one person to call the police. This isn't Naples. We can't trust people turning away and we can't bribe our way out of a problem or to a solution. And all these smartphones, they are cameras too. And everyone in America has one. We do this clean and discretely. This will require more planning."