by Mel McKinney
“Mr. Kennedy’s cigars, pardon me, your cigars, are safely resting in Massachusetts, and they will be delivered to you there. I will arrange for their delivery just as soon as the matter of payment is concluded. As you know, there were some complications, and I must take care of certain expenses immediately. Money has a way of sealing lips that can otherwise go dangerously loose.”
Wesley Cameron, twitched nervously and began to speak. “We—I—you never told us that you …” He stalled, his mouth working but the sentences lodged somewhere between his larynx and tongue.
Cornelius Gessleman leaned forward, glaring at his son-in-law. Then he faced Raul. “What the congressman is so eloquently trying to say is that he agreed to buy some cigars from you. That’s all. There was no arrangement sanctioned by him concerning how you came by those cigars. Simple as that.” His eyes left Raul’s and drifted to the cigars at his elbow.
“But, Señor Gessleman,” Raul began. “When Congressman Cameron agreed on your behalf to buy the presidente’s cigars, he knew, and you knew, whose cigars they were, and that the presidente was not making a gift of them to you. In fact, that is precisely why you desired them so. You thought the presidente had forced you into crime! Do you not remember saying exactly that as we smoked and talked together that night two months ago?”
Though Raul had Gessleman’s full attention, he noted the old man’s fingers inching toward the cigars before him.
“I am sure,” Raul continued, looking at Cameron, “the congressman remembers how I explained to him that removing the cigars from the presidente’s home would require a diversion, like the magician’s hands. One fools while the other tools.”
Raul was pleased with himself at that one. It helped matters, he thought, if he kept his half of the discussion lighthearted, as if, to him, assassinating heads of state to steal their cigars was routine. It had been his earlier quip about the magician and the bunny that had blended so fortuitously with the evil in Dallas to set the stage for tonight’s adventure. That his amigos had not yet found a satisfactory diversion when tragedy struck in Dallas was, for Raul, part of the morbid serendipity that had landed them here.
Gessleman, now rolling one of the cigars in front of him with a skeleton-like forefinger, looked up thoughtfully. Raul saw that Gessleman was toying with a Sancho Panza Dorados, an elegantly slender cigar distinguished by its gold foil wrapper.
“Señor Salazar,” Gessleman began. Progress, thought Raul. He’s being diplomatic. Raul sensed also that the combative quality had faded from Gessleman’s tone. Instinctively, Raul knew that Gessleman must be at his most dangerous when he appeared calm.
“You paint a picture of complicity on the part of me and my son-in-law in our president’s death. Nothing could be further from the truth. You and I both know that. You have summoned us here because you want money. Money for silence, correct? Money in exchange for a promise, whatever that’s worth, that this whole—” Gessleman paused, shooting another angry glare in the direction of the pale congressman—“that this whole fiasco goes quietly away somewhere, forever. The only question is how much? How rich do you and your friends think you can make yourselves because you have involved us in this criminal catastrophe? And how many hooks for how many years will be in Wesley’s back as a member of the government? Isn’t that about it?”
Raul settled back, doing his best to display a pensive, nonthreatening face. Then he broke into a smile, a benevolent smile born of showing generosity. It was time to play his hand. More than that, it was yet another momento de verdad, another pirouette and thrust with the estoque as he sought to bring this bull cleanly down.
“Señor Gessleman, you and the congressman are as deeply involved in the events of this month as I and my amigos. But do I wish to become rich, rich like you? No. I have riches enough for any man. I am healthy. A beautiful woman loves me. We may marry and, God willing, have children. If that happens, I will be truly rich.”
Raul lifted one of the cigars from his own fan—a Ramon Allones Specially Selected Robusto—and neatly trimmed it with his grandfather’s gold cutter. Rubbing the cutter for luck, Raul slipped it back into his vest pocket and lit the cigar. He gave the aroma-charged smoke a moment to rise and circulate, then continued.
“We made a bargain, your son-in-law and I. I have kept that bargain. I have secured your cigars for you, but as you can imagine, the—ah—diversion in Dallas has escalated their cost. But not, as you fear, by a fortune. No, only by, what is for you, a modest sum that will ensure the episode is closed forever.”
Raul let the moment linger, drawing on his cigar, watching Gessleman’s eyes. The crafty old fox, he thought. He tells me nothing. Well, I will know, soon enough.
“And what might this ‘modest escalation’ be?” Gessleman asked finally.
Now, thought Raul, for Rosa, for us, for everything.
“Eighty thousand dollars more,” he replied with polite conviction. “A total of one hundred thousand dollars and history will never include any of us in what had to be done to get your cigars. And, of course, you get the cigars.”
As he watched Gessleman’s eyes, he saw them briefly reflect surprise, then relief. No, thought Raul. I should not have asked for more. This whole adventure had a noble purpose: to reunite with Rosa in Cuba and see that the needs of her mountain children are met. That portion of the one hundred thousand dollars left after paying the amigos represented Gessleman’s contribution to that worthy end. There was no place for greed’s contamination.
Gessleman remained silent, his face now stoic.
That’s right, thought Raul. You cannot let yourself show how my modest proposal has stunned you. Only, you forget, my friend, I grew up in a casino. I have watched thousands of faces at the gaming tables. I have seen masters conceal their good fortune when the cards came their way. Do you think you can bluff me? I do not think so. I will give you the time you need to play your hand because I know what you are holding—nothing, except my one hundred thousand dollars and Don Salazarios. That is all I want from you.
Finally Gessleman spoke, his voice cold and precise. “What guarantee do we have that this will be the end of it? None. We both know that. You expect me to hand over one hundred thousand dollars tonight, and I expect to hear from you again, the next time you and your pals need money.”
Raul watched Gessleman fondle the Sancho Panza. Maybe the evening was pregnant with more opportunity than he had dared hope. It was time to reach for the rest. He drew deeply on his cigar and exhaled in a long, resigned blow.
“Señor Gessleman, it comes down to trust, good will and trust. To show my good will and that you can trust my word, I will make you an offer.” Raul lowered his eyes to the table.
“I see that you know the Sancho Panza brand, one of my island’s finest. I still have three unopened boxes of them. After they are gone, this country will not see them, for how long?
“As it turns out there were three boxes of a brand called Don Salazario among the Kennedy cigars, an obscure brand made by my grandfather. They have sentimental value for me. My amigos who liberated the Kennedy cigars saw these and brought them back when they returned from Massachusetts. They are rightfully yours. But I am willing to trade one of these last three boxes of Sancho Panzas to you for the three boxes of Don Salazarios. You can take the box of Sancho Panzas with you tonight. Agreed?”
There. It was done. His conscience satisfied and the bait cast, all in a puff of smoke. Raul sat back, studying his quarry.
Gessleman blinked, then smiled—an iguana’s smile, thought Raul.
“No,” Gessleman said. “But here’s what I will do. You want to show good will? Here’s your chance. Three for three. Trade me the three boxes of Sancho Panzas for your grandfather’s cigars.”
Now it was Raul’s turn to conceal the dealer’s favor. He willed his face to stone. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he said, “Done,” not believing the fresh breeze of luck that had just blown his way. “And the rest … ?” he ventured.
“Oh, hell. Of course,” said Gessleman. “At this point, what choice do I have? Wesley, get one hundred thousand dollars out of that briefcase you’re carrying and give it to Señor Salazar.”
Gessleman removed a gleaming platinum device that resembled a pen from his breast pocket. He pierced the end of the now naked cigar.
“You know something, Señor Salazar?” he said quietly. “I believe we’ll stay for dinner after all. It will give you time to get to know me a bit better. By the end of the evening, I believe you will appreciate that it would be very foolish of you to ask for any more money.” Gessleman’s eyes narrowed. “Foolish and unhealthy,” he added.
Then, looking at his son-in-law, he said, “Wesley, would you quit staring and give the man his money?” He turned back to Raul and leaned close. “Another thing. You spoke of delivery. Under no circumstances are you or your amigos to come near my farm in Kentucky. I have a place on Cape Cod that should be convenient for you, since the cigars are still up there. I will give you instructions and will arrange to be there for their delivery. Understood?”
Raul smiled and nodded. “Perfectly, Señor Gessleman. Perfectly.”
THIRTEEN
THE FREEZING ATLANTIC chill, partially rebuffed by his plaid mackinaw, found beachheads wherever Hiram Thorpe’s exposed skin surfaced. Under the padded earflap of his Maine woodsman cap, Hiram’s ears burned with the snap of early winter. Thinking of Luther snugged in front of the cast-iron stove back at the office didn’t help, and neither did the short Muniemaker Breva that refused to stay lit in the persistent drizzle.
Hiram stamped the sludge off his rubber boots as well as he could and entered the motel office, pausing to look toward the darkening east. No doubt about it, a storm was on its way.
Nestor Pinwood looked up from his copy of Yankee magazine.
“Hiram, close the damn door! Costs enough to keep this place heated without you let’n it all out.”
Hiram complied, regretting he had to deal with the owner of the Gem o’ the Sea at all. The motel, miles away from the tourist hubs because it was miles away from the sea, had ceased being a gem of anything years ago, if it ever had been one to begin with. The six weather-bleached bungalows, once a thirties “auto court,” were now nothing more than a sorry enclave of low-cost housing for the transients and casual workers who filled the demand for service labor during the summer season. Pinwood kept the place open year-round simply because he lived there and had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.
“Hello, Nestor. Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”
The innkeeper eyed the constable with suspicion. “All right, I guess.”
This would not be easy. It never was with Nestor. Past sessions with the crotchety New Englander had confirmed Nestor was starved for company but would never admit it. There was no other explanation for the way the simplest request for information turned into a cat-and-mouse game that could span hours. Hiram usually sent Luther, who relished the game, or resigned himself to indulging the old coot.
Not today. Hiram’s instincts told him the break-ins at the Hyannisport mansion were the tip of an iceberg that could catapult a local constable into a national fool. He was determined not to let that happen. Best to be prepared, and the way to do that was to gather information. Quickly.
“Been busy, Nestor?”
“Nope.”
“Any customers at all this month?”
A cocked eyebrow. “Mebbe.” Hiram took that as a yes.
“Couple of Spanish-looking guys? Mexican or possibly Cuban?”
Pay dirt. Too late, Nestor erased the flash of surprise.
“Don’t know’s I know what you mean. They all look alike to me.”
“Let me help you, Nestor. One was named Pedro, tall with a thin mustache. About six foot. Another, shorter, about five feet, six inches, stocky and muscular. Called himself ‘Hor-hay.’ Left this area day before yesterday, probably in a hurry.”
Hiram read the disappointment in Pinwood’s eyes. It should have taken at least an hour to reach this point. Then he burst the bubble of illusion that there would be any game at all.
“Let’s just take a look at your register,” he said, reaching for the gray ledger he had pawed through several times before.
“So there were four of them,” Hiram said, after scanning the pages for October and November. “And they were here a few weeks. Found work, did they? The Kennedy estate?”
Nestor Pinwood nodded, deflated.
“This Boston address—probably no good. Looks like they took two cottages. Anyone been in ’em since?”
Nestor shook his head. “Ain’t even changed the beds yet,” he mumbled.
“Good. Keep ’em just like that. Want to get the state boys to come over and check for prints. Should be within a day or so. I bet they paid cash, right?”
“Yep. Nice new twenty-dollar bills.”
“They had just this one car?” Hiram asked, copying the Florida license number.
“Yep. An old Chevy sedan, green.”
Poor Nestor, thought Hiram. Now that he’s lost the game, he can’t wait to give away more.
Hiram pulled out a pack of Muniemakers and ensured he had a good light before stepping out into a steady, chilling rain. The ones in the black Caddie aren’t going to be this easy, he thought as he cupped the glowing cigar.
Cornelius Gessleman had used the chauffeured drive from his Palm Beach estate to solve his problem. He stepped out of the car into the brisk Kentucky evening, his head cleared of the night before. Refreshed and confident, he stretched his legs and strolled over to the white fence edging the pasture nearest the manor house. The solution was so simple, as he had known it would be.
He now owned the Kennedy cigars, or at least most of them, and was pleased with himself for having bested his host. Securing three boxes of coveted Sancho Panzas in exchange for those obscure Don something or others confirmed the old panther still had a bite.
What a rube, thought Gessleman as he reached across the fence and scratched the muzzle of Glo-bug, his candidate in the coming year’s Triple Crown. Recalling Raul Salazar’s smiling hospitality, he told the blowing horse, “Fella thinks that front he put up fooled me. ‘Good will.’ ‘Trust.’ Ha! Conniving hustler plans to be in my pocket the rest of my life. Not so, my fine one, not so.”
Cornelius cradled the horse’s nose and savored the brush of silky hair against his cheek. Energy from the animal throbbed across the fence, affirming his decision.
It has always been this way, he thought. The courage to act has been my strength. It has separated me from the others. It’s what took a small family business and turned it into a fortune. I can’t let this Cuban extortionist and that incompetent dolt my daughter married destroy all I’ve built.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes.” He laughed aloud, as the horse tousled and blew some more.
Gessleman sighted down the unbroken line of sparkling fence. When the boards are rotten or weak, we rip them out. That’s what I’m doing, removing something rotten and something weak, that’s all. Get this whole sorry business behind me. Too bad about Margie. But she’s still young and pretty enough. Maybe next time—who knows?
As for the Cuban, he thought, this will be poetic justice. The blackmailing assassin will get what he deserves. Just as soon as he’s delivered the cigars. He peeled the foil from another Sancho Panza and walked, humming, toward the house.
Later, in his study, pleased with the even burn of the magnificent cigar, Cornelius Gessleman opened a locked desk drawer and removed a black leather notebook. It had no markings. He riffed its pages with purpose, knowing exactly where to stop.
“Ah, yes.” He spread the book open to read the number and the coded greeting that would identify him. “Marinara,” he chuckled. Then he remembered. With all the Don had been into, he loved his food. He dialed and sat back, listening, wondering if he would still recognize the voice.
FOURTEEN
JOSEPH B
ONAFACCIO JR. stepped from the elevator, bowed, and swept his arm toward the hallway’s brocaded expanse. “This way, Laurie-May,” he cooed to the lithe blonde.
Her eyes widened in happy reaction to the rich decor of the twenty-fourth-story entry to Joseph Bonafaccio’s legendary playpen apartment.
A slender Rafael Gonzalez Lonsdale clamped in his teeth, Joseph extended both arms to the leggy Rockette and proceeded to waltz her across the carpet, grazing rococo statues of cupids and plump nudes with his topcoat. Laurie-May’s promising laughter reached a delighted crescendo as they reached the ornately decorated penthouse door, breathless and clinging together.
“Hey! You really can dance!” Joseph laughed. He opened the door, his back to the apartment, and prepared to sweep her inside. Her startled look stopped him. He spun around, smack into a frowning Dominick Romelli.
“Caesar Romero!” Laurie-May squealed, staring down at Romelli.
“Dom. What’s up? Thought you’d be asleep hours ago.” Joseph cocked his head in the direction of Romelli’s adjoining apartment down the hall, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Uh, Joseph, I hate to interrupt your evening but something’s come up. We need to talk.”
When his father’s surrogate needed to talk, Joseph listened.
“Sure, Dominick.” He turned to Laurie-May, who was fishing in her purse. “Sweetheart, I need to spend a few minutes here with Dominick. I’ll get you a glass of bubbly and you can sit and enjoy the view. I won’t be long, okay?”
He turned back to see Romelli shaking his head. “Joseph, I think that you might want to postpone things with the young lady. We might be going away on business.”
Joseph studied Romelli for a few seconds. Then he turned and faced Laurie-May. She was fluttering a small loose-leaf notebook. “Before I go,” she asked coyly, “could I get Mr. Romero’s autograph?”
Joseph and Romelli watched from the doorway as Laurie-May stepped into the elevator and gave a jaunty wave before she disappeared. Joseph sighed and closed the door.
