The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  Both Will and Rizzo looked at the roll then at each other, confused.

  "Honey, I don't understand?" said Will.

  "Don't ‘honey’ me. Albert, you idiot. He bought cheap, single-ply toilet paper. You didn't notice? Just like the fucking Soviet Union."

  "Honestly, I don't see what the big deal is."

  "What's the big deal?" She squinted at him. "What's the big deal? You don't see why this is a big deal? The big deal is that he doesn't think he should be buying the best for us. That we're not good enough. That we won't notice. That's the big deal. We're stuck up here eating with plastic spoons on fucking paper plates, and now this?"

  "I think you're reading into this. Suppose that's all they had?"

  "Then he should know better and drive until he gets the best. Go to the next town and the one after that until he finds what I explicitly demanded. I don't fucking care if he has to go back to the City. Where is he? I've tried him on the walkie-talkie and he's not responding."

  "Who?"

  "Albert."

  Rizzo said, "Remember that thing we talked about? It's done."

  Her face slackened, her voice softened. "Just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Isn't it what you explicitly demanded? The gun range is quiet ain't it? I'll send Fat Mikey to confirm."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  FAT MIKEY LEANED against the deck railing, a pair of binoculars pressed against his face as he scanned the wood line and nearby forest. The sky at this hour was a bright copper.

  Rizzo joined him at the railing. "The queen finds the cheap toilet paper unkind to her delicate cooch and ass."

  Fat Mikey, bewildered, lowered the binoculars, "What are you sayin'?"

  "I had Vin clean up the staff. Can you check if he didn't fuck that up?"

  Fat Mikey nodded.

  As Fat Mikey started to head out, Rizzo stopped him and handed him the keys to his Cadillac parked out front. "Do me a favor, go get the shotgun from the trunk." Rizzo liked Fat Mikey because he always took his job seriously and was a good earner.

  In the driveway, Fat Mikey opened the trunk to Rizzo's Cadillac. Inside, beneath a blue terry cloth towel was a Franchi SPAS 12-gauge combat shotgun with a folding stock with a cushioned butt-plate and a flat black Parkerized finish. What made it special was the pistol grip, which made shooting easy. He shoved eight shells into the pockets of his tracksuit, lifted the gun with one hand and closed the trunk with the other. And that's when he saw Rizzo standing there. Fat Mikey jumped.

  "You scared the shit out of me. You're like a fucking cat. You trying to give me a heart attack?"

  "Listen, I've seen the way you eat. I won't be the one giving you no goddamn heart attack. I need you to do one more thing. It's real simple. If you see Vincenzo out there, you drop that fob bastid. Capisce?"

  "I figured this would happen."

  "That's why you my boy."

  "You sure?"

  "This is coming from up top. You drop him. You find yourself with a chance, you drop him. We'll disappear the body after we deal with the broad and the kid. This has spiraled into a mess and we gotta start picking up the pieces. But if you don't get a chance right away, we do him after we do the boy and the nanny. Make sense?"

  Fat Mikey gritted his teeth and nodded.

  "And Albert?"

  "Dead. They're all dead. Vin took care of that."

  "I see. Maybe he is good for something. Where is he now?"

  "Out there. He's going to push Lucina to us."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "See how I did that?" Rizzo winked.

  "Big deal. Now what? Let's say she's dumb enough to get near the house, then what?"

  Rizzo reached into the trunk and pulled out a silver brief case with a black handle.

  "Whadya got there?"

  "A surprise. I brought it along as a backup, hoping it wouldn't come to this. I'll tell you what, it pays to be prepared."

  "Like a fucking Boy Scout."

  Rizzo returned to the house with his silver case and a big shit-eating grin.

  Fat Mikey loaded six shells into the shotgun and walked the immediate grounds, periodically calling out for Vincenzo. He heard cicadas. The dusk air was hot and muggy like exhaust expelled from a dryer vent. He saw the bodies in the clearing, did a U-turn, and then walked the perimeter of the house. He returned to the driveway hoping to catch either Vincenzo or the nanny doubling back. Nothing.

  Sunset came very fast. The distant ridges glowed neon yellow. He paused and lit up a smoke as the sky faded to cobalt.

  "Vin! Vin! Where are you? Do you see her? Do you copy? Over." The walkie-talkie voice came from nearly above him.

  Vincenzo jumped back and fired instinctively in the direction of the sound. His shot snapped into a tree branch with a dull thud. His eyes focused overhead. He missed, but not by much. Simultaneously, Lucina lost her grip on a thin branch and dropped her shotgun as she recoiled backwards and slipped off the limb. Both gun and nanny fell to the ground in a demonstration of physics. The shotgun landed butt first and discharged, illuminating the forest in a harsh bright orange flame. Just ten feet away, Vincenzo caught half the blast, riddling the right side of his body with shot. He fell to the ground, screaming.

  Fifteen minutes later Vincenzo got to his feet and regained his bearings and concluded Rizzo's voice had saved his life. Lucina had pinched a walkie-talkie from the cook and hid in a tree. How did he miss that? His fever skyrocketed and his eyes glazed over while he clawed at his right arm and shoulder for birdshot. In all, he removed seven pellets.

  Far from abandoning his promise to his brother, he recovered his pistol, tried to aim but could not. The shredded muscle and ligaments in his right arm required a sling. He took off his jacket, loosened his top button and removed his tie. With his tie, he constructed a makeshift sling around his neck, keeping his right arm close to his body, the elbow bent at a right angle. All his muscles ached. He held the gun with his left hand and again attempted to aim. He put his jacket back on.

  Why didn't she finish me off, he wondered? Nearby, he examined the discarded shotgun and found it empty. The fall reduced the walkie-talkie to pieces. The penlight, clenched between his teeth, flickered, and then died, but not before revealing traces of her boot prints in the earth until they disappeared again. In the near dark, he heard his breaths coming in hurried, pained gasps. He glanced down the mountainside in the direction of her last set of tracks, unconvinced she was done with this place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  WHAT GOT LUCINA this far were her instincts. She stood beneath a twilight sky on the edge of the millpond at the base of the property and smoked a cigarette. When she finished, she flicked the butt into the water and sat down, her shoulder bag between her feet. Tall grasses and reeds edging the water rustled and swayed peacefully in a brief night breeze. Fireflies collected over the water. The cicadas sang their night song. A bullfrog croaked somewhere nearby. She had left behind an empty shotgun. The walkie-talkie was busted and she'd been shot. Her fingers slipped beneath her bloodstained shirt and found the entry wound, but she couldn't find an exit point. Blood leaked down her side, wetted her leggings and pooled in her boot. But a quick inventory renewed her sense of hope. She had a lipstick, brochures, a .357 Python, and the cook's phone. Where was the corkscrew? She couldn't remember where she misplaced it and, for some reason, a sadness punished her for its absence. If she couldn’t safeguard a simple kitchen tool, what hope did she have with a child?

  Lucina did not move from her spot for a longer time than she wanted. Troubled by her gunshot wound, she had no choice but to rest. She remembered when Carlotta's father was shot for an unpaid loan—that was when she first learned how long bullet wounds took to heal. She didn't have weeks. She had a few hours at best.

  Almost on a whim, she called the police with the cook's phone. She had taken many risks and considered this her greatest so far. Unsurprisingly, the dispatcher di
dn't believe her and before she could repeat her story, the call dropped.

  She swiped through the contacts and called Dot.

  It rang for a long time before Dot answered.

  "Hello? Hello?" The sound of Dot's voice distressed Lucina. Quickly, the voice became garbled and then the call ended. She tried again, with the same result. Frustrated, she threw the phone in the water.

  Earlier that evening, Rizzo made two mistakes. He misjudged the ruthlessness of a dark eyed peasant girl from Campania and he used the walkie-talkie to share his plan with everyone who was listening, reminding Vincenzo of his previous order.

  Lucina recalled the gist of the conversation:

  After Vincenzo drove the nanny close to the house, Rizzo would be waiting with a surprise.

  Fat Mikey: "That's your surprise? A fucking dart gun? Over.”

  Rizzo: "I used to drop thoroughbreds from two hundred yards. Over.”

  Fat Mikey: "I didn't know that was a thing. Over.”

  Rizzo: "It can be very lucrative. Over.”

  In the dark, she lay against the dirt and closed her eyes. She placed the stainless-steel pistol on her chest, her hands gripping it the way a child holds a teddy bear. She spent most of the night in the same place at the edge of the mill pond, listening to the cicadas until the air cooled until almost pleasant and the fireflies disappeared. Overhead, the stars pinwheeled in the sky and disappeared from view. Undisturbed at the possible outcomes for today, death or jail, she had resigned herself to either.

  Rizzo said, "She's stalling."

  Fat Mikey said, "She's close by."

  Rizzo said, "I couldn't hear what she was saying."

  Dot had put the call on speakerphone so that all three of them could hear.

  Dot said, "She didn't say anything. She was just listening."

  Fat Mikey said, "What do you think she wants?"

  Under the kitchen lights, they all just looked at each other without an idea of her location.

  Rizzo repeated, "She's just stalling."

  Fat Mikey said, "I bet she's taking off. I would. Sayonara, bitches!"

  Dot said, "We don't even know if that's her."

  Rizzo said, "Well, it ain't the cook calling from the afterlife. Who else could it be?"

  Dot said, "Let me understand this. You think after Vincenzo did his thing, she picked over the bodies?"

  Rizzo said, "You can't say it can you? Yeah, after Vin killed your servants, she came back and picked over the bodies until she found something useful. And I don't think we've seen the last of her. She's coming back for the kid. We just have to be ready for her."

  Fat Mikey, "Man, now you sounding like Vincenzo."

  "You can't underestimate the love a mother has for her child."

  Dot said, "But she's not his mother."

  "She loves the boy as a mother would. And the boy looks at her as a mother. I saw the surveillance photos. An Italian mother's capacity to protect her children knows no bounds. Their relationship is a special case. The two were thrust together and have forged a bond, much like a blood bond."

  Fat Mikey said, "You know what? You're full of shit. She's jus' a fuckin' guinea nanny."

  Annoyed, Dot no longer wished to participate in the conversation. She shouted for Will.

  When Will appeared, she said, "Go check on the boy."

  Fat Mikey slipped out and decided to try his chances searching again for the nanny or Vincenzo, unsure who would be easier to kill.

  From where Fat Mikey stood beneath the deck, he could see the edge of the woods all lit up bone white from the floodlights attached to the corner eaves. He tapped out a cigarette, lit it, and stood there for a moment, cradling the SPAS-12 combat shotgun. It was nearly eleven.

  Fat Mikey worried about staying alert in the summer heat and he hoped the caffeine from the shitty coffee would be enough. He'd been running all over the property perimeter and now his legs hurt. And for his troubles, he was no closer to finding either the nanny or Vin, and he was a hot, sweaty mess.

  Would he kill Vincenzo on sight? No. He couldn't. He wanted to. Boy, did he want to. But he couldn't. Not yet. In the end, Fat Mikey realized he needed Vincenzo more than anyone else. Fat Mikey didn't have the stomach to kill the boy. No sane mind could tolerate that on their conscience. Nino had been primed for the job. Tony Pipes could do it out of necessity. That's why he was brought along, as a backup. Now both were worm food. Vincenzo would have to be the one. Vincenzo would have to obey, or else. Fat Mikey never thought he'd have to deal with this shit. This was the last chance to make it right. If the job went wrong now… he didn't want to think about that.

  Never straying too far from the steady glow of the house lights, Fat Mikey walked the perimeter of the property again. After an hour, he returned inside. He leaned the shotgun against the wall beside the sofa in the living room and went into the kitchen and found no clean cups. The empty mugs stunk of rum or wine. He gave up his pursuit and tilted his head under the faucet and let the water sluice down his throat.

  Never had it been so dark. Not since before the Big Bang when there was nothingness. Not since there was first God and the Devil when they disputed the importance of man. In the darkness of the basement cedar closet, Charles had screamed himself hoarse. Once used to house winter weather clothing, its barren shelves only offered a fine layer of dust and mold. The similarity with the closet in the Larchmont estate was uncanny and cruel.

  Tired, Charles fell asleep on the linoleum closet floor and when he awoke, his eyes still blinked futilely in the absence of any light. His shirt was off. He didn't remember that. He had pissed himself while he slept. He certainly didn't remember that. He wondered if he had slept for five minutes or five hours. There were no shades of black or gray in here. The darkness was absolute, and he was disoriented. He couldn't find the door. He sat against the wall of the closet. Wet with urine, the backs of his legs stuck to the flooring of the overly warm closet. All he could do was concentrate on the one thing that would keep him alive. Lucina. His heart raced a little at the thought of her. Despite her absence, she was here, helping him. Sometimes, in his mind, she sang lullabies from her childhood. Lullabies of poverty, insanity, and evil. And recalling her translations, he realized it always could be worse. He just wanted to see her one more time, even if to say goodbye.

  Suddenly he heard movement outside the door. Then a spear of light pierced the closet darkness as the door cracked open. With a drink in hand, Will and his pale face looked in on him.

  "Why do you do that to yourself? You know, if you knew how to keep your mouth shut and do as you were told you wouldn't be in this mess." He regarded the puddle of urine the boy sat in with a frown. "Dot just sent me down here to check on you. Damn, it smells like a urinal in here. And I should know."

  He slammed the door shut.

  Charles flung himself against the door with all his weight and strength, kicking and pounding until he tired.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  LUCINA NEARED THE cabin with half her toes wet with blood. Blood had trickled from her wound down her leggings and into her boot, soaking her sock.

  Spotlights illuminated a large area of the backyard, extending until the forest edge in a stark uncompromising white light. She crouched at the wood line and waited in the shadows.

  More than once, she realized, the description did not match the reality. The cabin, the country house, the TV room. All these items belied their true luxurious nature. She wondered if this reflected the Howells’ detachment or perhaps a false sense of modesty? After a while, a single figure appeared on the deck. He moved along the railing, a lonesome sentry with a rifle in hand. The rest of the house seemed eerily peaceful.

  Snaking silently through the woods, she approached. She entered a tin flat-roofed shed adjacent to the house and kept the door slightly opened. A cadaverous light from the outside spotlights gave the interior a dull glow. Fishing poles, nets, and a fishing vest hung overhead from the ceiling beams. A John Deere tract
or with a wide mowing deck looked like it still saw some action. Landscaping implements hung on a wall. Along the wall facing the house, a row of propane tanks. She looked around and found a damp Yellow Pages book on a shelf. She found several more, some with bullet holes. In every case, the rounds did not pass through. This gave her an idea.

  Frantically, she split the Yellow Pages open down its spine. She yanked the fishing vest off its hanger and removed the lures and flies still attached to the mesh webbing. Each lure, painstakingly crafted, contained a sharp curved hook, barbed at the end. Some had a small piece of cork pushed on the tip. She removed her shirt and leather jacket and slipped on the fishing vest. Then she shoved the opened book between the vest and her body, cinching the vest tight while keeping the book close to her chest. She pulled her t-shirt back on and then her leather jacket.

  At the propane tanks, she opened all the valves. She placed a lit a cigarette on the hood of the mower and slipped out of the shed. By the time she closed the shed door behind her, a faint oniony smell of gas wafted in the air.

  Then she picked a spot for the last step of her plan. A pile of uncollected bramble was twenty yards directly in front of her, between the forest and the cabin. There was only one way to find out the range of the tranquilizer gun. She ducked down and hid behind the bramble.

  She presumed the man with the gun was Rizzo. He had not noticed her slither into position.

  "Dot! Where are you?" Lucina screamed, standing from behind the bramble. "Dot!"

  Movement on the deck. Rizzo got into a firing stance, the air rifle steadied on the deck railing.

  A few seconds later, Dot appeared on the deck beside Rizzo.

  "Let Charles go. You don't need him. You can blame me. Just let him go."

  Fat Mikey moved to the far railing on the deck, closest to the tin roofed shed.