The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  Not ready to return to their room, they strolled along the sidewalk following the river. They were in the small industrial town of Peekskill along the Hudson River. Empty rows of warehouses in disrepair mixed with newer storefronts along a grid of cracked gray roads. The waterfront blocks showed some life: a few restaurants, a pub, a convenience store. But at 5:00 on a Tuesday there was hardly anyone out.

  Beyond the sidewalk, the Hudson River moved in a swift chocolate brown current. She stared at the water for a long time with an intense curiosity. Pieces of lumber, a boot, a beer can, even a car tire, swept by, caught in the seaward current. Nothing it seemed, could defy its strength. The evening air felt warm and humid, and she regretted her outfit. Her untucked shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, trapping the summer heat and humidity. Perspiration dampened her shirt back.

  They left the sidewalk and crossed a small park. Impulsively, they chased squirrels until they tired. She hadn't thought this entire life-on-the-road thing through. She wanted to laugh off her paranoia and believe this was all for nothing. People make mistakes all the time, she kept telling herself. A simple mix up, that was all. The men who circled the house earlier that day were indeed plumbers and for some reason, they wore jumpsuits for an electric company. She so wanted to believe that. But goddamn, that didn't sound right.

  When they were a block from the motel crossing a nearly-empty parking lot, a Mazda screeched to a stop before them, nearly hitting them.

  Two men jumped out. Immediately, she recognized the heavy-set bald man, his unmistakable torpedo shaped head shined with sweat. And this time there was no doubt. He held a black pistol in his hand. Up close, he had narrow-set eyes and a boxer's pushed-in nose. Dressed sloppily in basketball trunks and a sleeveless shirt, he rubbed his face and head with his hand. She did not recognize his partner who wore a red Adidas tracksuit and had a mean, bony face and bowl haircut.

  Both men moved forward, not saying anything.

  She grabbed Charles' hand and turned to sprint in the opposite direction. But their retreat was short lived as a metallic gray Audi A6 skidded to a stop behind them, boxing them in.

  Two more men jumped out. Dark designer suits, leather shoes. She recognized their features and Italian-ness immediately, which transported her back to her childhood. Horror shuddered through her like an electric current. When men full of bad intentions appeared, she had been taught to look the other way. But now, where else could she look?

  The bald-headed man said, "We just want to talk."

  Surrounded, Lucina bit her lip, looking like a cornered dog unsure of where to run. The boy squeezed her hand tight, reminding her she was not alone in this. Though more angry than frightened, she felt fear knot the pit of her stomach until she worried she might vomit.

  "You hear what I said? You mute? Where you staying? At the motel, right? We just want to talk. That's it."

  The motel room was now packed with six people. Lucina didn't know whether to stand or sit. Their closeness frightened her. She didn't know what these men wanted. She pulled Charles close. Swept up in a nightmare of faces, she felt herself wobble as the room started to spin and she struggled to understand her predicament.

  She sat on the bed farthest from the door, certain that three out of the four men now standing in her motel room were at the Larchmont home. The boy huddled close to her, whimpering. The room took on a strange scent of sweat mixed with cologne.

  The one they called Fat Mikey closed the shades and said, "I can't believe this took two fucking weeks." Grinning, he called a man named Rizzo on his smartphone and told him they had the nanny and the boy.

  In Neapolitan, Nino introduced himself and his brother, Vincenzo. Both men stood at the foot of the bed. Vincenzo stroked his thin beard, assessing the situation.

  Fat Mikey cranked the air conditioner and turned to Tony Pipes, who sat on the bed facing Lucina. Fat Mikey ordered Tony to get Lucina's phone.

  Tony Pipes mumbled something, his gestures severe. Lucina shrugged her shoulders, thinking he was acting like some of the discarded men in her village, who unemployed and half-starved, thought heroin would solve their problems. Like those men, Tony had deep-set gloomy eyes and was clearly a man capable of horror.

  Tony Pipes repeated himself, this time he thrust his hand out. Her stubbornness made him angry. He spoke through the right side of his mouth, the other remained nearly motionless. Spittle gathered in the working corner of his mouth.

  Bewildered, she said, "I don't understand."

  Suddenly, Tony Pipes’ left hand smacked Lucina across her face. He grabbed her by the throat. She tried to push his arm away. He swung Lucina to her feet. Slivers of pain rippled where he hit her. He intensified his grip and her eyes bulged. The boy shrieked.

  "Release her," Vincenzo said in a gravely low tone. "Remember the plan. The girl is not to be hurt."

  Looking at her sideways, Fat Mikey said, "Give him the phone."

  Pipes released his grip but not before glaring at Vincenzo. Lucina collapsed to her knees, coughing, rubbing at her neck. The room watched her recover and she returned to her seat on the bed.

  In Neapolitan, Vincenzo politely repeated Fat Mikey's demand and Lucina handed over her phone to Vincenzo's outstretched palm.

  Continuing the conversation in dialect Lucina asked abruptly, "What are you doing here?" She didn't have to ask where they were from. Their dialect betrayed their origin.

  "Signorina, just do exactly what we tell you. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

  She grew cold and stared Vincenzo in the eye. "You're Camorrista. There must be some kind of mistake or misunderstanding. Why are you here? Why did you come here? Do you know Gennaro Livio? He can explain."

  She had hoped to spot a glimmer of recognition in their faces invoked at the mention of Gennaro Livio but there was none. Nino shrugged his muscular shoulders, indifferent. Vincenzo's expression remained unchanged.

  Vincenzo said, "Signorina, there is no mistake. I'm sorry. This is your fate."

  Fat Mikey shouted, "English! I don't know what the fuck you saying. English. This is America."

  Nino's temper flared. "Let's finish this,” he said in Neapolitan. “I want to go home. These slobs exhaust me. I promise you I will kill them both if I have to work with them another day."

  Fat Mikey didn't need to understand dialect to understand when someone threatened him. "You think I like babysitting you damn FOBs? I don't. Now let's get this over with and we can all go our own happy fucking ways."

  Vincenzo asked, "What is this FOB?"

  Fat Mikey said, "Fresh off the boat. You guys don't know nothing. They told me one of youse knew English. Shit."

  Vincenzo said, "But we came by jet plane."

  In Neapolitan, Lucina clarified, "They're calling you a dumb foreigner."

  Fat Mikey, angry now, "Tell her to shut up. I don't want her speaking no Italian. Got it?"

  Lucina said, "I understand English. You can just tell me."

  "I can't keep it straight. Just shut the fuck up, okay? The only one who can speak Italian is Nino, and dat's because he no speak English. Got it?"

  Vincenzo, speaking rapid gunfire Neapolitan to Nino, translated the conversation. Nino stood up, pointed at Tony Pipes and then Fat Mikey, shouting, admonishing them both.

  Fat Mikey said calmly, "Listen, settle down. Don't listen to her. She wants us to fight. This is what she wants. She's laughing at us. Look at her."

  Tony Pipes asked Lucina a question. Frightened, she lowered her eyes to the tips of Tony Pipes' sneakers, unsure how to respond.

  Fat Mikey said, "He wants to know if you know what a buck fitty is?"

  Terrified, she shook her head no.

  Fat Mikey said, "When you cut someone's face from mouth to ear, you need about a hunnert and fitty stitches to stitch you up. You got that where you come from?" Both he and Tony Pipes laughed.

  When they stopped laughing, Fat Mikey said, "Tony, just fucking find the place will ya? You said
you was going to do that in the car and you didn't. Just do it for fuckssake. Enough with the fuckin' jokes."

  Vincenzo cleared his nose with a wad of tissue.

  Fat Mikey rubbed at his temple.

  Tony Pipes pulled out his smartphone and fired up a map app. He searched rural locations within an hour drive of their current location. After a few minutes, Tony Pipes told Fat Mikey he had something.

  "Vin, you ready? We're close to finishing this. We gotta focus on the end. Focus. C'mon. Pipes let's go. Vin, can your brother be trusted?"

  "You have nothing to worry about,” Vincenzo answered. “Why doesn't your friend stay here with my brother?"

  "He's coming with us."

  Vincenzo had to agree with Fat Mikey. They had to focus on the job at hand. But focus would prove difficult. His fever ran up and down. He wanted to get this over with and crawl into bed and close his eyes. The sooner he finished the job, the sooner he could rest. He didn't want to argue. He spoke to Nino and explained he was joining Fat Mikey and Tony Pipes while they scouted locations for the nanny and the child. The plan was so simple yet he couldn't believe it was taking so long. Shoot the boy first, then the girl does herself.

  In the Mazda, Tony Pipes and Fat Mikey spoke about the upcoming NBA seasons and how the new coach for the New York Knicks would handle the shitty roster he inherited. Vincenzo had interpreted such useless banter as a distraction. Tony Pipes drove, taking them through windy country roads with tree limbs arching high overhead. Vincenzo sat in the front passenger seat. From the back, Fat Mikey didn't stop talking about the Knicks and their defensive shortcomings. Vincenzo's right hand periodically disappeared into his jacket, first retrieving his phone, then his smokes, then went there again discreetly touching the molded plastic grip of his Heckler & Koch MK 23 pistol. Each time, Vincenzo positioned the direction of his holstered pistol until pointed at Fat Mikey's gut. Vincenzo sat upright with his right hand close on the center of his chest, inches from the trigger.

  Vincenzo grew anxious with every passing mile. The job, originally slated to take only a few days, had swelled into weeks and counting. His cold, dismissed by Fat Mikey as allergies, had blossomed into something much more sinister. Burning with fever, his insides ached and he wasn't thinking straight. His phone rang. Everyone in the car was surprised.

  Vincenzo answered.

  The faint voice on the other end half dead, "They got away."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BACK AT THE motel an hour later, Nino was spread on the floor, his head propped against the wall near the bathroom with a bloodstained towel wrapped around his neck. Used bloody towels circled him. His pale eyes, hooded and sleepy, watched Fat Mikey, Vincenzo and Tony Pipes race into the room.

  "What the fuck happened here?" Fat Mikey demanded, not really a question, but a statement of disbelief. Tony Pipes pulled out a Saturday Night Special and checked the bathroom, the closet, under the beds. The Price is Right blared on the TV. A contestant, as if chosen by God, sprinted down the aisle to high-fives and applause.

  Vincenzo rushed to the Audi and returned with a small black bag. The clan wars had taught him reliance and the disciplined art of revenge. The small black bag—a medical kit with antiseptics, bandages, sterilized needles and thread—was something he always traveled with. Inside was a palm-sized notebook with detailed steps to treat a variety of wounds. He flipped through the pages until he found a page labeled "knife wound."

  After removing a towel wrapped around his brother's neck, heavy with blood, Vincenzo inspected the wound. Blood pumped from beneath the tissue. Shaken, Nino looked pale and frightened. Neither of the brothers had ever been injured like this before.

  Tony Pipes mumbled something, his tone irritated.

  Fat Mikey said, "We're not going anywhere. I want to understand what happened here."

  Hunched over his brother, Vincenzo shifted his eyes to Fat Mikey and said, "Please, just a minute here. He's badly wounded."

  Tony Pipes and Fat Mikey again spoke in a heated manner, and Vincenzo understood the gist of their banter: Leave Nino behind.

  Vincenzo sat back on his knees, his hand wiped at his nose, then dipped into his jacket and when it appeared, he held his pistol. He aimed at Tony Pipes and said, "I'm not leaving my brother. I'll split your head open before you can aim."

  Fat Mikey gave Tony Pipes a cold look. "Go wait outside. Start the car."

  After Tony Pipes left, Fat Mikey said, "No one is leaving anyone behind. Understand? I just wanna know what happened here. Does he have any fucking clue where she went?"

  "You can find out—”

  Fat Mikey cut him off as he picked up Lucina's phone charger.

  "This is why I need him to tell us everything. When that phone dies, they go off the grid. They go dark."

  Nino coughed, thick saliva lathered his lips, his face lacquered in a sickly cold sweat. Vincenzo asked Nino to explain what had happened.

  When Nino finished, Vincenzo translated: "He had the girl put the boy in the bathroom. There was a knock at the door. Then voices outside. She said it was housekeeping. She told them to go away. But they wouldn't go away. She went to the door and he followed her. She opened the door, spoke to them, and when she closed the door, she attacked him."

  "Attacked him? With what?"

  "A corkscrew."

  "A corkscrew? You mean to tell me that that broad got the jump on a Camorra assassin with a fucking corkscrew?" Fat Mikey spun around. He raised his voice, skeptical of the alleged events recounted to him, and said, "Something don't add up." He paused, interested in the details of the room. The unmade bed. Nino's position. "You know what I think? You know what I think? Look at where the wound is. That broad didn't sneak up on him. No way she swung on him and he didn't see it coming. They were close to each other. Whad'ya think he was up to? I'll tell you what I think. Your dumbass brother tried to get his nut on with that bitch and she got the better of him. He dropped his guard. Does that sound right? Shit. You guys don't know nothin'."

  "Nut?"

  "He was trying to get his dick wet. Do you understand that?"

  Vincenzo returned his attention to his brother. Nino grit his teeth when Vincenzo poured antiseptic on the wound. After a few attempts to stitch the wound, Vincenzo gave up; the damaged skin tissue was like damp toilet paper. Instead, Vincenzo cleaned the wound and applied an adhesive. What Nino needed, Vincenzo could not do. He needed a doctor. Vincenzo wiped his hands in a towel and said, "In our clan, we have a code. We do not behave like this toward women."

  "No, but you're about to kill that same girl. Don't look at me like that. What kind of code is that? Fuck you and your old-world ways. What I want to know, where the fuck did the corkscrew come from?"

  "He thinks she found it in the room."

  Fat Mikey shook his head and growled while he scratched the back of his neck. "Did you at least get the prints?"

  The brothers spoke and Nino pointed to the nightstand. Fat Mikey's face brightened. He held up a Ziploc bag and inspected the Sig Sauer inside. "At least somethin' went right."

  Vincenzo stood and said, "The job continues. There are other ways to track them. Do not forget. The credit card. The trail is not dead if her phone dies. She was given a credit card for this purpose."

  Fat Mikey's face relaxed, relieved at that revelation. He forgot about the card. The scowl on his face softened. Looking down at Nino he said, "I know this guy down in Tuckahoe. He helps us out from time to time. He can help your brother. I'll give him a call and tell him to expect you. I'll text you the address. Call me when Nino’s patched up. I gotta call Rizzo. He's not going to like this. He said his boss was getting nervous about how long this was taking. And now this. Shit."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ON THE DRIVE to Tuckahoe, the brothers argued. Nino admitted in a roundabout way that he had let the woman seduce him. That act alone didn't upset Vincenzo. No, what really bothered Vincenzo was Fat Mikey was right. Fat Mikey's quick assessment of how the e
vents transpired in the motel room proving spot on.

  "Not only did they get away, they have your pistol. That could be a problem."

  "Don't worry." His voice cracked into a throaty whisper.

  Vincenzo gave him a tense look and said, "Was she worth it?"

  "What do you think? She could have killed me."

  "What did you expect? You have to laugh. Brother, you cross the Atlantic to screw a girl from Casa di Mora? At least I can get some fucking quiet now."

  Nino smiled with his eyes.

  Nino slept with his head against the window, while Vincenzo drove the speed limit in the southbound lane. The miles passed in silence with Vincenzo deep in thought, while Nino, sweaty and pale faced, tried to rest.

  "What did you say did this?"

  "A corkscrew."

  Bill Cheung, a Harvard Medical School dropout with deep-set brown eyes and a sizable paunch, inspected Nino's neck with gloved hands. By day, Cheung worked as a pharmaceutical analyst for an investment firm in White Plains. But his love for the ponies and his penchant to bet on long shots had him owing money to the wrong people. Threatened with his life, an arrangement was made and now he maintained special after-hours appointments like this in his garage, in an effort to pay off his debt. He lived in a quiet wooded neighborhood in upscale Tuckahoe. None of his neighbors considered the guests he entertained at all hours of the night unusual.

  Vincenzo loomed close, his gun in hand. His grim expression made clear what was at stake. Cheung didn't flinch and went to work with a business-like manner, obviously accustomed to performing in the presence of loaded firearms. Nino sat on a workbench stool, a white smock draped over his bare torso.