The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  "Now that you say that, I can see it." Cheung spent the next few minutes cleaning the wound with a small sterile pad and then using a pair of extended forceps. He probed the tissue beneath the skin. Satisfied, he placed the forceps down on a silver tray. With the tips of his fingers, he examined the wound. When he was done, he removed a large sterile pad from its wrapper and pressed it against Nino's neck. Cheung then took Nino's hand—Nino recoiled and shouted—but Vincenzo assured his brother it was okay. Cheung said, "Tell him to apply pressure."

  Cheung stepped back from Nino, wiped his hands clean on a dishcloth, and exhaled pointedly before sharing his diagnosis with Vincenzo.

  "The good news is this could have been much worse. If this had been with a straight blade, you'd be digging his grave. Or if a greater force was exerted, well, you get the picture. The bad news is that he has minor damage to the jugular sheath, which encloses not just the jugular, but a number of smaller veins all compacted in a small area. That corkscrew was like a wrecking ball in there. What I'm going to do is perform a ligation of the left jugular vein. This will prevent further bleeding, but will increase cerebral blood flow and blood pressure. I'm essentially reducing the diameter of the vein. I can give your brother aspirin, which will thin the blood. Of course, I have some sedatives available for pain management. But I have to tell you, this is a temporary solution, at best. Do you understand? He needs to be in a hospital. I mean I'm doing the best I can here. But I have my limits." Vincenzo stifled a cough with a closed fist. "And he needs rest. This is a bad wound. He needs to be off his feet for at least a week."

  "What happens..."

  "What happens if you don't listen to my advice? They always ask that."

  With tired eyes, Vincenzo nodded.

  "If I had a nickel every time someone asked me that. If you ignore my advice, the vein will eventually split open. He'll lose a massive amount of blood and he'll die. Do you get the picture?"

  Vincenzo carefully relayed what Cheung had told him. In mumbles and pantomime, Nino said to do whatever necessary to stop the bleeding. Cheung gave Nino a minor sedative and had Vincenzo support his brother's neck and head with instructions to keep still. Wearing a pair of special glasses with a focused beam of light and fitted with a magnifying lens, Cheung worked intensely and swiftly, and within an hour he stitched the wound shut and applied more antiseptic. The finished stitches resembled a question mark on Nino’s neck. Cheung dropped his instruments in a shallow metal pan of water. Instantly, the water turned bloody.

  Vincenzo thanked the man and offered to pay. Cheung refused.

  "Let me get you the medicine."

  He disappeared into his house and returned with three bottles and a device sealed in plastic.

  "The aspirin and Vicodin are for your brother. The aspirin will help thin the blood, like I said. Vicodin will help with the pain." He placed them on the workbench.

  Cheung studied Vincenzo. "How are you doing? I can tell by the way you're breathing you have some kind of pulmonary infection. Bronchitis? Maybe asthma? You mind if I take a look?"

  With glassed over eyes, Vincenzo agreed. The man slipped a stethoscope under Vincenzo's shirt and told Vincenzo to breath. Vincenzo took three deep breaths. Cheung listened knowingly. Next, he pressed the stethoscope against the soft area beneath Vincenzo's jawline. Last, he took Vincenzo’s temperature.

  “You have a slight fever.” He handed Vincenzo the remaining bottle of pills. "Take two every day in the morning with food. These are antibiotics for bronchitis, but there is a chance they might not help. I'd need X-rays to confirm what is going on inside. But if it is what I think it is, it's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. I don't have access to an X-ray, so this will have to do. Ibuprofen will help with some of your aches and fever. Drink water. This is an inhaler for asthmatics—it should give you temporary relief. If you're having trouble breathing, a hit or two of this should do the trick. But I must warn you. It will lose its effectiveness the more you use it. You understand?"

  Vincenzo nodded, then helped his brother out to the Audi.

  In the car, Vincenzo explained how he thought Fat Mikey planned to kill him today. But Nino's phone call saved his life.

  Vincenzo said, "They will kill us after we have the girl and the boy. I am certain."

  Nino swallowed four aspirin without water. He opted against the Vicodin until they returned to their hotel room. He still needed his wits about him.

  "How do I know? Is that what you want to ask? How do I know they will kill us?" Nino nodded stiffly. "The Five Families historically have ties to Sicily. So why didn't Rizzo use Cosa Nostra assassins? Because we're expendable, that's why. No need to jeopardize their Cosa Nostra connections for a job like this." Revealing this aloud made him nervous and jittery. Nino, in too much pain to attempt speech, dismissed his brother's fear with a slight shake of his head.

  Vincenzo felt his throat and chest constrict. His hands fumbled peeling the clear plastic package apart for the inhaler. Only when he put the small device to his lips and took a double hit did his normal breathing return. He started the car, but before he pulled away he dialed the numbers committed to memory, his list of contacts provided to him when they first accepted the job. Each number produced the same response: a non-working or disconnected number. This was unexpected.

  With nowhere else to go, they headed toward their hotel in White Plains, a Howard Johnson remarkable only for its orange roof.

  While driving, Vincenzo sometimes glanced at his brother. Trying to keep him awake, he talked about soccer and his favorite team Napoli SSC. "They'll win both the Scudetto and Champions League in five years. You just wait and see." In the end, Nino fell asleep, snoring. And just talking of his Napoli only further depressed Vincenzo, for deep down he knew he would never see his beloved Naples again.

  At the last minute, Vincenzo decided against returning to their room in White Plains, now suspicious of Rizzo. Instead of their prearranged accommodations, he drove towards the City, changed his mind and direction again, and headed northbound, and found himself on the Taconic State Parkway.

  Driving worsened Vincenzo's mood. He powered down all the windows. The warm air rushed into the cabin, invigorating his senses. Soon he found a rest stop and pulled in, backing into a parking spot. He killed the engine. He reclined in his seat and settled into the soft contours of the leather bucket seats.

  In the approaching dark, Vincenzo felt sluggish and sick, but somehow, he discovered he still had a sliver of hope. Just finish the job, he told himself, and he'd restore confidence in his American handlers and all would be forgiven. Nino reached for his brother with a shaky hand. The suddenness left Vincenzo frightened.

  Nino swallowed hard and made a bitter face. His voice came at Vincenzo raspy and pained. "I'm sorry." And then Nino closed his eyes as though for the last time.

  "Nino, Nino, wake up!"

  When Nino started to snore, Vincenzo relaxed.

  At 8:00 p.m., Fat Mikey called Vincenzo.

  "Where you been?"

  "Driving."

  "How's Nino?"

  "He's alive."

  "The doctor said he's pretty fucked up."

  "He'll be okay.”

  "They checked into the lodge at Bear Mountain. You know where that is? What am I saying? Of course you don't. I'm such a dumb bastid sometimes. I'll text you the address. Let's settle this tonight."

  "What kind of place is this?"

  "It's a state park overlooking the river. It's got a lake, a big lodge, trails. I took a Puerto Rican I was banging there a few years ago. Nice place. I know the layout. We should be able to find them pretty easily. The best part: there is only one way in or out."

  Vincenzo closed his eyes.

  "Maybe we wait until the morning?"

  "No. We do this tonight."

  A few moments later, Fat Mikey texted the address. Under an hour away, Bear Mountain was just on the other side of the Hudson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-
TWO

  WHEN THE WOMAN behind the counter asked if she needed help with her bags, Lucina looked down at her feet, remembering Nino's pistol buried in the bottom of her fabric shoulder bag sitting on her toes.

  "No, I am fine," said Lucina.

  The young receptionist was wearing a sheer blue long-sleeved top and looked just a few years younger than Lucina. While the printer spat out a copy of her receipt, she asked, "Where you from?"

  "The City."

  "I mean, your accent, what is it?"

  Lucina raised her eyebrows, alarmed at the inquiry. "Napoli."

  She gave Lucina a keycard, receipt and a series of details. The room was on the third floor. The elevators were through the lobby. The restaurant stayed open until nine and the carousel closed at ten.

  Before Lucina left the reception area, she hovered in front of a rack of guidebooks and maps of the region and collected a few, playing the part of a clueless tourist, interested in the activities the area offered. She stuffed random brochures and regional maps in her bag.

  A few couples loitered in the lobby. A mom pushed a stroller. One kid chased after another holding a kite. Amongst potted plants and deep sofas, families deciding how they were going to spend their stay.

  In the elevator, Lucina read about the hotel from a blurb printed on the back of the keycard sleeve. She learned that the Bear Mountain Inn was built in 1915 in the Adirondack style, with stone and timber collected from the surrounding countryside. The Inn sported panoramic views of the Appalachian Mountains, the Bear Mountain suspension bridge, and the Hudson River. Family fun for every season.

  The suite, a generous improvement over their earlier motel accommodations had a queen-sized bed, TV, a pair of sofa chairs with casters, and a view of a huge stretch of lawn with the Bear Mountain Carousel at the other end. Beyond the property, humped green mountains marched in every direction.

  Charles found the remote for the TV and instantly started flipping through the channels. Lucina fished her phone out of her bag. Seeing that she had no new messages, she immediately phoned Dot. No answer. She tried Will. No answer. She tried Albert, the cook, the driver. No answer.

  She dropped into the sofa chair, only to spring right back up when she felt a stabbing pain in her right buttock. Again with the damn corkscrew! She removed the corkscrew from her back pocket and sat once more. Again she examined the corkscrew, but this time the silver was sticky with Nino's blood. She rubbed her fingers together until the blood, now a dark rust color, smeared her fingertips.

  Comfortable, she closed her eyes and soon, nodded off, the corkscrew protruding from her clenched hand. Thirty minutes later, Charles tugged on her sleeve until her eyes opened. Getting to her feet, she expelled a deep sigh, then stretched. Knowing they’d had a difficult day, she accepted his plea for dinner when all she wanted was sleep.

  Almost at the door, Charles pointed at her. "Your face." She moved before the bathroom mirror. Crimson streaks ran across her cheeks and forehead. She had touched her face with her blood-smeared fingertips while she slept. Before she washed, she stared at herself and for a moment she didn't recognize the shape reflecting back. The contours and lines seemed to belong to her mother, a figure that only existed in her memory.

  At the restaurant, an elegant establishment with white linen tablecloths, waiters dressed in black descended upon the table with small talk and menus. Neither Lucina or Charles said much.

  Lucina ordered the daily fish special—a whole trout, served with fennel and brown rice. Charles ordered a hamburger, no lettuce or tomato, and extra fries. They nibbled on a basket of bread until the food arrived.

  Neither seemed hungry. She picked at her plate. The boy complained about his hamburger. He wanted McDonald's.

  "Do you see a McDonald's? You have any idea what kind of trouble we're in?"

  He pushed his plate away.

  "You better eat." She wanted to say: you don't know when we'll eat like this again. But she did not wish to frighten him more. And while it didn't matter if Charles ate or not, she found herself worrying about every detail. Suddenly she wanted to ditch the car. But then how would they get around? When the cook returned home and found his door busted open and his car missing, wouldn't he call the police? She continued thinking like this for some time, stirring herself up. Aware that her fears threatened her focus, she tried to eat.

  Charles said, "This is gross."

  "What don't you like about it?"

  "It's not McDonald's."

  "There you go again." She shook her head and raised her voice. "You always want what you can't have. Must be very difficult to accept for a boy who grew up with everything."

  "Can I play on your phone?"

  "You want the phone? Will that shut you up?"

  Brusquely, she slid the phone across the white linen tablecloth. He seemed hurt by her gesture.

  After dinner they walked through the lobby and Lucina stopped at the front desk to ask the receptionist if there was a gift shop or a store nearby. Lucina explained she needed tampons.

  The woman pointed to the sundry shop across the lobby. "If they don't have what you're looking for, there's a pharmacy just outside the property. Can't miss it." When Lucina reached the sundry shop it was closed.

  The pharmacy had a big red neon sign overhead that said “Drugs.” In the parking lot with the motor off, Lucina whispered, "They sent Camorra assassins here. They meant to kill us."

  Charles wasn't listening, his face nearly pressed into the pages of his Batman comics.

  "They were going to kill us. Nino was his name. In the motel he said I must have a taste of the lamb before the slaughter. That’s what he said when he had me put you in the bathroom. But why would they want to kill us?”

  She left Charles in the car with his comics. At the cash register, she set down a pair of scissors, rubber cleaning gloves, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a shower cap.

  The cashier, a teenage girl with a nose ring, scanned the items and said, "You having an identity crisis?" She laughed at her own joke.

  "Are the jokes extra? Just ring it up."

  Driving back up the winding hill to the Inn, Charles looked up from his comic and said, "They're sick of me."

  "Who?"

  "They never loved me. They never did. Same thing with Dot and Will. She's always whispering when I'm in the room. Saying things like, ‘When this is mine…’"

  Lucina started to defend Dot but stopped. It was right there in front of her the entire time. The rushed interview, the sudden trip to Europe that wasn't Europe, the electrician crew that showed up at the house but wasn't an electrician crew. And, finally, the nanny that wasn't a nanny. Now it made sense.

  She parked the MG and raced through the lobby holding Charles' hand, pulling him despite his resistance every step of the way until they reached their room. She couldn't open the door fast enough.

  After she locked the door and dropped the plastic shopping bag in the bathroom sink, she paced the room while Charles nervously looked on. Her thumb wedged between her lips like she was trying to pry them open. She said, "I mean, they weren't trying to kidnap us for a ransom. No, they meant to kill us. And they were going to do it right away." She retraced her steps in the motel room, recalling her conversation with Nino, when it was just the two of them. "There was no attempt to contact Dot. No ransom. No, they were preparing to kill us. But why?"

  Again she called Dot. And Will. And the others. Again, no reply.

  Ready to fire off a salvo of texts to Dot and her staff, that's when Lucina saw it. According to her text history, she had already texted Dot earlier that same day. Her eyes struck wide in disbelief. She read the message: "I have your kid. Don't try to follow me."

  The confrontation in the Peekskill motel room replayed in her head. Tony Pipes smacked her around. She handed her phone over to Vincenzo, naturally, so she couldn't alert the police. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember what they did with her phone.

  After
wards, when they were alone in the motel room there was the episode with Nino and the gun. Her mind focused on the details. She put the boy in the bathroom, and when she returned to the room, there was a pistol, left on the bed. She grabbed it, like he knew she would. Then what did he do? She noticed he wore black leather gloves. He ripped the gun from her hand and delicately placed it in a clear plastic bag. She wiped her hands on the bedspread, slick with gun oil. But she hadn't thought about that moment until now.

  Staring at the message, it seemed to grow until it had a life of its own. Then her phone died. She stared at the black screen, tired, expressionless. Her free hand covered her mouth.

  The truth slid around her, hardening like wet cement. Christ. There was a gun with her prints on it. Then there was a threatening text message from her phone to Dot. She was the kidnapper and now, from the looks of it, the killer too. Charles said he had overheard Dot say, “When this is mine…" Dot wasn't just in on it; she was the ringleader of this terrible crime.

  Lucina roared obscenities in Neapolitan and English. Charles dove under the sheets, terrified. Then she stopped.

  In the bathroom, she slammed the door behind her. She howled in anger, tore off her clothes, and cried. Her hands grabbed the corners of the vanity sink. She breathed in heavy gasps. Robotically, she reached into the plastic bag she had dropped in the sink, removed the items one by one, and lined them up on the sink counter. The screaming felt good, resetting in her mind with what was important. She had intended to add highlights to her hair, maybe trim her bangs. After tonight's revelation though, highlights and a trim were much too tame. She picked up the scissors and began lopping off handfuls of her hair. When she finished, there wasn't a strand left longer than an inch.

  Next, she opened the bottle of hydrogen peroxide solution. She pulled on the oversized yellow cleaning gloves. They went up to her elbow. She wrapped a towel across her shoulders and neck, stuck her head in the sink, and poured a small amount of the hydrogen peroxide solution on the back of her head. She massaged the liquid into her scalp. She did this a few times. She gently toweled off the excess and sat on the toilet. She waited for almost ten minutes then rinsed her head in the sink with cold water. Concentrating on something else other than her predicament calmed her.