The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  Dot shouted, "You don't have anything to bargain with. You're in a terrible position. Honey, you're worthless."

  "I can run,” Lucina yelled back. “I can go to the police and tell them everything."

  Dot laughed.

  Then Lucina yelled, “Maybe I already did."

  Rizzo fired and the air gun rifle popped with a soft hiss. The dart buried itself in the phone book just over her heart. A silver cylinder about the size of a pinky finger stuck out of her chest crowned with a plume of red feathers. There was an awkward delay as she hadn't thought how to act once hit. With her hand to her chest, she staggered backwards, then took a few steps forwards, then pitched to the left, and then tipped over to the right, deliberately falling on her side. Her feet stuck out from the pile of debris. Was she over doing it? She had no idea.

  Out of sight, her hands quickly plucked the dart from her chest. She jammed the needle point into a piece of cork she had kept in her hand for the occasion. The sound of rustling grass, closer now, and then heavy, labored, breathing. She shoved the dart in the right pocket of her leather jacket just as Fat Mikey's hands fell on her like meat hooks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  FAT MIKEY SLUNG Lucina over his shoulder and carried her into the cabin. He put her in a dining room chair pulled out expressly for this purpose. Her body sagged in the chair, head slumped forward until her chin nearly touched her chest. Fat Mikey tossed her shoulder bag on the sofa. Rizzo walked over and leaned the exotic looking air gun rifle against the wall.

  Rizzo said, "Man, you see that shot. Two hundred yards easy. I still got it. We had this thing back in the day. We'd steal some of the ponies and fake their papers and sell them on the west coast. The dart would shut'em up. Now, it wouldn't drop them right away. Rather, it subdued them enough to get them in the truck without much hassle. Man, they're loud beasts. Nowadays, with microchips, it's just not worth the risk. Where's the dart?"

  "I dunno. I didn't see no fucking dart. She musta pulled it out or it broke off when I carried her in. How long until she wakes up?"

  "Hard to say. At least a couple of hours. I can't believe you don't got any rope."

  "You're the one that said you're always prepared. How come you don't got any rope? How was I supposed to know? Why we need rope if she's knocked the fuck out?" Fat Mikey said as he disconnected an extension cord from the wall.

  "You gotta be prepared." Rizzo said.

  "You could help you know?" Fat Mikey retorted.

  "I've done my part."

  All Fat Mikey knew was that the job would happen in the bathroom because of the mess, and that was Dot's order. At Rizzo's suggestion, he tied Lucina's hands behind the chair back with the extension cord and waited for what came next.

  Just then, Dot entered the room. "Looks like the gang is all here."

  Will followed her into the room. "She looks a little like Debbie Harry. You know Blondie?"

  Dot said, "Would you shut up?"

  "All I'm saying, with that haircut, she looks like her."

  "No, she doesn't." Dot drew closer to Lucina. She bent at the waist, sniffing, her nostrils flaring. A severe look crossed her face. "She stinks. She's been smoking. I wanted a non-smoker. I detest the smell of cigarettes. What an abhorrent habit and a character weakness." Lucina straightened. Dot lifted Lucina's head by pinching her chin. Dot's breath on Lucina's face. Sweet and warm from rum. "This silly bitch. If she would have just stayed put. None of this would have happened. I wouldn't be living up here roasting to death while I wait for others to do their fucking job. Look at her. Tell me if you still go ga-ga over her. She's repulsive." Her voice sounded shrill.

  Dot addressed both Fat Mikey and Rizzo. "Thank you for your work today. I know this hasn't been an easy task. It sounds like they usually go a bit smoother than this. Let's go over the details one last time."

  Rizzo and Fat Mikey seemed puzzled by her awkward speech. Neither understood that, having stumbled so many times, she had zero confidence in their ability to finish the job. Dot wanted to review, yet again, how her hired hatchet men would proceed.

  In the kitchen, Dot listened to the pit-bull of a man who stood on the other side of the island. She watched him sip from a coffee mug with the Statue of Liberty painted on it. Wide-shouldered with a cue ball-shaped head, he had biceps the color and size of uncooked hams. She couldn't fathom how the men she hired had failed so miserably. The man spoke and she didn't like what she heard. She heard excuses she didn't understand. But somehow, she had what she wanted. She had the brat locked in a closet downstairs. She had the nanny tied up in the living room, unconscious from the horse sedative in the tranquilizer dart. Yet, with the end in plain sight, it seemed Fat Mikey didn't want to do the final step. Was he afraid to finish what he was paid to do so?

  Finally, she said, "I don't understand the hold up."

  "We got a line of bodies out there…" Rizzo started to say.

  "Details, details." She dismissed his concerns with a frown.

  Rizzo squeezed his bottom lip between his fingers.

  She continued, "Help me understand. We have the nanny. We have the little shit. We talked about this. You should know what to do. But you're saying we have to clean up first?"

  Fat Mikey said, "No, not that."

  "Then what? Is this about money? Do you want more money? Is this what this is about?"

  Fat Mikey said, "Look lady, this isn't about money."

  "Are you worried that we're not going to pay you the rest? Don't you worry, we have your money. That's not a problem."

  Rizzo said, "It's Vin. We don't have Vin."

  "This Vin character, he's not as good as you thought? Is that what happened? Is that why we're in this mess?"

  "On the contrary. The Camorra have killed more than AIDS and TB combined. They're a mean bunch. I am many things, but an idiot is not one of them. I would never doubt his skill. Sometimes these things happen. Let me give you an idea what we're dealing with. Growing up in Italy, Vincenzo had this small dog named Lupino. The little wolf. Wherever Vincenzo went, he'd bring Lupino. As you can imagine, he grew quite fond of this little dog. But before he could even be considered for the clan initiation, he was told he had to kill Lupino. You understand how sick that is? He had to kill his own dog. They wanted him to destroy the one good thing in his miserable life, the one thing that he loved. You see why they do that? You know what Vincenzo is called in his homeland? They call him Lupino. Every time they call him this, he's reminded of what he did to earn that name. A man like that has no love, no sympathy."

  Fat Mikey said, "That's bullshit. Where'd you hear that?"

  "I have my sources." Rizzo said.

  Dot didn't believe Rizzo. She no longer trusted the men she had hired to carry out the deed, but she found herself in a dire predicament and was wholly dependent on them. Unable to track Lucina's movements even with a GPS enabled smartphone and an active credit card, the men had squandered chance after chance. Dot found this most disconcerting.

  Annoyance cloaked the anger in her voice as she said, "So what? What's Vin have to do with any of this?"

  "Calm down, lady. Let me think," Fat Mikey said. She set her eyes into him, unappreciative of being addressed as “lady.”

  Rizzo said, "Vin has the pistol with the prints we used to do the others, linking her with all the killings."

  Fat Mikey calmed himself, drank from his coffee.

  "I don't know what that means,” Dot said.

  Fat Mikey said, "I need to fire the same gun with her prints. And we need Vin because he has that gun. Understand? The ballistics on all the bodies need to match the same gun. Vin has the gun that will finger that crazy nanny to all the bodies. We don't necessarily need Vin, but we need that gun."

  Dot staring at Fat Mikey, exhaled and said, "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Well, have you thought about looking for him?"

  Still feigning unconsciousness, Lucina remained bound and motionless. She had a throbbing h
eadache and a metallic taste from adrenalin saturated her tongue. Warm blood trickled down her side, which drummed with a sharp pain. Voices swirled around her, mostly Dot's cruel tone ordering everyone about.

  Lucina's father had shoved a .25 under his chin and ended his life on a Sunday morning before mass. Half his head was blown off. A life unfulfilled dripped down the wall behind him. Lucina never asked why, only why not. He was always so sad. Swindled by the clans until he had nothing but his blood to give, he had given up. Perhaps if he had a son, things would have been different. She thought about her father in death because she was certain she would soon join him. But what would she say to him?

  Three distinct voices closed in on her and she squeezed her eyes tighter, listening to them argue. This reminded her how easily she overheard her neighbor’s in Casa di Mora. For hours and hours, they’d watch bad TV shows and shout at each other. Just like there, everyone heard everyone else's business.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ON THE OTHER side of the overturned VW van, Vincenzo laid flat on his back and stared at the night sky. His sickness gnawed at him and he tried to tell himself it was nothing. But the fever and aches finally worried him. He took slow, deliberate breaths while he shut his eyes. Suddenly, overcome with a coughing spasm, he sat upright, and spat a wad of green-yellow phlegm. He wiped his chin with the side of his finger. Stars were now visible over the treetops.

  Vincenzo was forced to accept the heat and humidity as part of the scenery. Not a square inch of his clothes stayed safe from sweat. Any attempt to move his right arm, left him breathless and wincing. His right hand fared no better. Prickled with bright points of pain, he could barely move his fingers individually.

  He thought about Napoli and how the bay shone majestically at dawn. But mostly he thought of a life he did not have. He started breathing fast again. And again, he concentrated on his breathing.

  This doesn't change a thing. Expecting to die for his mistakes had made his job easier. His view of his life had been unsparing. A part of him already died during his initiation so many years ago. Tonight he would finish the journey.

  He heard Fat Mikey calling his name. The voice coming to him sounded far away, retreating. Too weak to respond, Vincenzo checked his pistol.

  Holding the gun with his knees, he unscrewed the silencer, checked the threading, and reattached it. He shoved it under his right armpit, and with his left hand, he tightened the silencer until satisfied with the fitting. He ejected the magazine. He had two rounds left.

  He took three deep breaths, raking hot air across his cracked lips, holding it in each time for a two count. When he felt better, almost relaxed, he rose to his feet. Drops of sweat condensed between his shoulder blades into a stream, wound down his back, and collected at the base of his spine. He set out to make good on the promise he made to his brother when he buried him.

  Fat Mikey returned to the living room and slumped on the sofa with his shotgun across his lap. His hand passed over his face and his bald torpedo shaped head.

  Rizzo sat across from him half asleep in a sofa chair.

  "No luck?"

  "Whad'ya think?"

  Fat Mikey shoved his head back into the sofa back and stared at an overhead ceiling fan, the slow-moving blades cutting the air with a dull whirring noise. For a few moments, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he had a feeling Lucina was watching him. He stared at her, still slumped in her chair. Blood dripped down her right side like a leaky faucet, pooling beneath her. Was that wound new? He couldn't remember. Good riddance to her, in any case. This one was pure bad luck he thought. He didn't even like saying her name aloud, as though it'd conjure up evil spirits or, at a minimum, more bad luck.

  "I'm going to move her in the bathroom." Fat Mikey got up and leaned the shotgun against the sofa. He then untied her bindings. The truth was that he didn't like looking at her.

  "What are you doing?” Rizzo said. “We still don't got Vin's gun."

  "I'm just getting the scene ready. You know, I'm trying to think how it would look to a crime scene investigator."

  "Good thinking." Rizzo went to the railing outside. "I need to catch my second wind." He seemed excited, almost happy. After the successful completion of this job and his recent stint in prison, there was no doubt he'd move up in the organization to a decision-maker role.

  Fat Mikey stood before her, hands on his hips. He squinted at her, his eyes nearly disappearing in his head. Her shirt and torso appeared chunky, a right angle seemed to push from her side. That ain't right. He pushed against it with a finger. He lifted up her shirt.

  "The Yellow Pages? What the fuck?"

  Lucina's eyes rolled open like a pair of doll eyes. She spat in his face.

  Instantly his giant hands seized her by the neck, lifting her off the ground. Heavier than she looked, Fat Mikey gave out a deep grunt. Her arms windmilled and her legs flailed and she connected with the chair, knocking it over. Her desperate mouth snapped open for air and her eyes ballooned in their sockets.

  "She's awake!" Fat Mikey yelled.

  The nanny got her fingers on the dart in her jacket pocket and flipped the cork off the tip with her thumb. She jammed the dart upward; the hypodermic needle found the soft underside of Fat Mikey's massive forearm.

  He released his grip, staggered back a few feet. With the tips of his fingers, he touched the slender shaft with a tight fury of red feathers hanging there. He plucked the dart from his forearm and held it before his eyes, now wide in disbelief. A few drops of blood trickled from the puncture wound. He took a few more backward steps, the sedative slowly taking hold.

  "A dart," he said, bewildered.

  Gasping, she rubbed her neck and sucked in the summer air. She pulled the Yellow Pages from beneath her clothes, and let the book drop to her feet.

  Rizzo had watched the event unfold with a cool nonchalance. From the deck, he aimed his snub-nosed Saturday Night Special at her and said, "Ah, the missing dart! You're just full of tricks."

  Fat Mikey stumbled and said in a slur, "She got me with the dart. The goddamn dart. You guys don't know nuthin. She's fuckin' cursed." He took a step to the right, then another to the left, like a drunk on a Friday night. He collapsed with a heavy thud, the dart in his outstretched hand.

  Rizzo shook his head and said, "Shit. He'll be asleep for the best part."

  Still catching her breath, Lucina eyed the shotgun against the sofa, telegraphing her intention.

  "Don't even think about it, cupcake," Rizzo was saying when a massive explosion ripped through the cabin.

  When Lucina came to, Rizzo's limp body was about ten feet from where she last saw him. He was face down, dead, splinters of tin and wood protruding from his back. The killing blow, a shard of glass got him in the base of the neck. The blast shattered all the west facing windows, and bits of broken glass carpeted the interior. Standing behind her, he had absorbed much of the shrapnel intended for Lucina. Fat Mikey was against the wall, folded over, covered in debris.

  She clawed at her ears. Bright stars of pain swam into her eyes and disappeared. Unable to hear, a high-pitched ringing filled her head. She stumbled, her hands cupping her ears.

  Lucina stood erect and snagged Fat Mikey's combat shotgun off the sofa. Pain radiated from her side. She breathed in short, abbreviated gasps.

  If it wasn't for the sharp ringing in Lucina's ears, she would have heard Dot enter the room and scream like a train whistle. She would have heard Dot mispronounce her name. She would have heard Dot promise to kill her.

  And she certainly would have heard Dot pound her little feet across the floor to Rizzo's Saturday Night Special, swearing the entire time.

  At the same time Dot picked up the pistol, Lucina turned with the shotgun at her hip. Face to face with Dot, a moment she fantasized about, all Lucina could do was stare. She was so shocked to find Dot materialized before her, she distrusted her eyes, forgetting the gun in her hands.

  They stared each other down,
neither capable of retreat. Dot's lips moved. Lucina, deaf to any overture, kind or otherwise, remembered her gun and tightened her grip. Her index finger flexed on the trigger. Dot's face contorted into an ugly sneer, her lips moved, and she raised the pistol.

  The shotgun spat fire. Thunder pressed against Lucina's ears as though she suddenly dropped a hundred feet under water. White smoke breathed from the barrel. The blast knocked Dot off her feet and splattered the wood paneled wall behind her. Overhead, the slow-moving fan blades churned the gun smoke with plumes of a darker smoke until only the darker smoke remained. The terrific silence in the cabin smelled of blood, ashes, and fire. Lucina stepped over Dot, craning her neck upward to find the source of the smoke.

  Invigorated, Lucina moved through the house, the shotgun at the ready. Will was in the lounge.

  Lucina shouted, "Where's Charles?"

  "Is she dead?"

  "What? You'll have to speak up. The blast. It hurt my ears."

  "Is Dot dead?"

  "She was never alive. Where's Charles?" The shotgun was still at her hip. She tilted the barrel at Will's chin.

  He yelled, "Downstairs."

  "Where's the money?"

  "What money?"

  She raised the gun until the barrel pushed up his chin. "Don't play the games. The money you were to pay those idiots to kill me."

  "Upstairs." He pointed to a staircase in the lounge. "It's in a Vuitton briefcase."

  "The house is on fire."

  Will had a desperate look on his face. He started to speak, seemingly wanting to confess the terrible details of the last year of his life, but something inside prevented him from saying anything meaningful. He only uttered what sounded like gibberish to Lucina. She watched Will Howell move to the deck railing. Outside, daybreak, like a beggar, was upon them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE