by Mel McKinney
And, of course, there had been the cigars. Since Felicia Mercado described what she had helped carry into the wine cellar, Hiram’s curiosity had become insatiable. There were just too many loose ends. Now, by God, he was going to get some answers.
He parked just inside the massive gate, still open after the Bonneville passed through. Above, iron cherubs and sylphs danced against the blackening sky.
“Come on, Luther. Let’s take a walk,” he said, quietly opening his door.
With Hiram leading, they crept along the trees lining the circular driveway. As they made their way farther into the property and rounded a curve, the grounds opened to reveal the mansard wings of a sprawling chateau.
“Quite a place, huh, Luther?” Hiram whispered. “Look in front.”
The Bonneville, its trunk open, was parked behind a large Chrysler sedan. Two men were talking, while one of two others hunched over the open trunk, handing out small boxes.
“Let’s hustle, Luther. Like the books say, this looks to be in ‘flagrante delicto.’” Luther cocked his head, confused.
“It means catchin’ ’em red-handed, Luther. Come on!”
Hiram sprinted the remaining few yards, holding his Sam Browne belt to quiet the jiggling equipment. He motioned for Luther to do the same. When they were about twenty yards away from the two cars, he stopped and unholstered his .44. Again, Luther followed suit, his eyes wide, his breath coming fast.
“Good evenin’, boys,” Hiram announced in a crisp, low voice. “Plan on having a smoke?”
Wesley Cameron dropped an armload of boxes onto the brick drive, shattering the silence.
Pedro and Jorgé stood frozen, their eyes taking in the uniforms and drawn weapons with what Hiram considered a practiced attitude. These boys have been around the block, he thought. Should be no trouble. Just keep a sharp eye on ’em.
The younger of the other two was fluttering like a hummingbird, scooping up the boxes he had dropped. He dropped them again, and finally stood, his arms quivering at his sides as he looked morosely at the older man.
“Wesley, would you control yourself? Officer, I am Cornelius Gessleman. This is my home. May I help you?”
Hiram studied Gessleman for several seconds. There were three of the cigar boxes on the ground, next to the rear passenger door of the Chrysler. He leaned over and picked one of them up.
“Partagas, huh? Never tried one. Any good?”
“I hear some of them are,” replied Gessleman.
Hiram set the box back down.
“And the rest,” he said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the Bonneville, “know anything about them?”
Hiram let the pause that followed string out. He had deliberately thrown Gessleman a question that would force the issue. It would help him read the situation to see which way Gessleman went.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Gessleman said at last, apparently reaching a decision.
“I, that is, we, had just come out to see what was going on. These men parked in front of my home and started taking boxes out of their car. Then, they offered them to Congressman Cameron here, my son-in-law. Very curious. I’m glad you showed up.”
“Mmmm … ,” Hiram mused. A congressman. He wasn’t surprised.
“And you gents,” he said turning to Jorgé and Pedro. “Care to tell me what’s going on here?”
Pedro and Jorgé looked at each other a few seconds. Finally, Pedro spoke.
“Officer, my friend and I were here in your county working about a month ago. Wasn’t it a month ago, Jorgé?”
Jorgé nodded in vigorous assent.
“We stayed at a motel not too far from here for several weeks, during which time we worked and enjoyed your beautiful Cape Cod. I met a lady while we were here, a lovely young señorita, and we have traveled back here so I can see her again.”
Jorgé continued his nodding, a broad smile adding emphasis.
“What’s that got to do with all these boxes of cigars, Mr. Vasquez?” Hiram asked, watching Pedro closely. He found no surprise in Pedro’s black eyes at the use of his name by this stranger.
Pedro continued.
“Ah yes, those cigars,” he smiled. “Well, Señor, when we took a room again at the motel, we found these cigars in the room. I enjoy a cigar now and then and so does Jorgé. We loaded them in our car intending to take them with us, a gift of unknown origin. Then, after we left, we started thinking. There were so many and the boxes looked so … so … expensive. We were uncomfortable with them, you know?”
No, Hiram thought. I don’t know. These boys don’t seem the type to stare down a gift horse. More likely, they’d saddle up and ride it away. Fast thinker, though. Got to give him credit for that. Might as well hear him out.
“So,” Pedro continued, “we simply decided to leave them somewhere. We pulled into this fine home by chance, thinking that someone with a home like this would appreciate cigars like these.”
As Hiram digested this Swiss cheese of a story, he began to appreciate its beauty and the wit of the man who concocted it. There was no physical evidence linking Pedro and Jorgé with the theft of Kennedy’s cigars. There was simply Felicia, who showed Pedro the room where they were kept, and Nestor, who rented them the room they ended up in; circumstantially suggestive but not conclusive. With the Kennedy family denying any theft and Felicia probably reluctant to incriminate her handsome hero, there was no case.
Then Hiram thought of Felicia and smiled. This Pedro, smart and good looking, might be worthy of her. If only he were on the right side of the law.
Hiram holstered his pistol and nodded to Luther to do the same.
“So,” he said to Gessleman. “You know nothing about these cigars, correct?”
“That is right, Officer. Nothing.”
“And they are not your cigars, correct?”
“Most certainly, they are not.”
“And you don’t know these two gentlemen, correct?”
“That is correct. I do not.”
Hiram smiled.
“Luther, go get my car,” he said, handing Luther the keys.
As Luther disappeared down the driveway, Hiram took a seat on the base of one of the twin marble lions guarding the walkway leading to the mansion. He began patting his pockets, searching.
“Gents. Tell you what we’ve got here. Now I know none of you are going to believe it, but those are stolen cigars.” He surveyed the shocked expressions, warming inside.
“Yep, stolen from a home here on the Cape. Now seein’ as none of you claims ownership of ’em, I’m just going to have to confiscate ’em into my official custody. I’ll notify the rightful owners.”
Hiram’s smile broadened as he anticipated that conversation. His thoughtful patting ceased. He pulled a pack of Swisher Sweets from his shirt pocket and held it up. “Anyone care for a cigar?” he asked.
TWENTY-ONE
“JESUS! WHAT A tough old bird.” Joseph Bonafaccio gazed down at the Caribbean from the window of the DC-3. Romelli was seated beside him, reading Sports Illustrated . “What do you think, Dom? Was he telling the truth?”
Romelli gave him a patient, benevolent smile—the old master to the student.
“Joseph, it’s a very hard thing to call. When a man realizes he’s been so destroyed that he knows he’ll die regardless of what he says, reliability is uncertain. Some finally sing, hoping, I suppose, that when it all stops, everything will be the same. Some lose the truth altogether and simply go crazy. And some decide to die with the truth locked away, their last victory. At the end, when he kept repeating he knew nothing of cigars with diamonds in ’em and that Raul Salazar was in Kingston, he had nothing further to gain or lose, you see. Or did he? That’s the difficulty. It always is in these situations.”
Joseph turned to the window again, reflecting.
“Well, at least we know where Salazar is. Good thing you called the hotels. He’ll have a surprise from the past this morning, won’t he?”
&
nbsp; Romelli nodded and returned to his magazine. After a few seconds he closed it and stuffed it into the seat pocket. He leaned close to Bonafaccio.
“Joseph, it’s tough to admit, but last night’s work was too much for me. It was good we took Enzo to do it. I’ll level with you; I’ve lost the stomach for it. It’s one thing to line up crosshairs of a scope and bring something to a quick, clean end. Last night’s session was something else altogether. Capisci?”
Joseph looked away, afraid his eyes would betray him. He had found the interrogation of Paulo Enriquez disturbingly thrilling. Shepherding the Bonafaccio holdings through labyrinths of tax regulations and board room strategies left him flat. But stepping back in time to the ruthless ways of his family’s past had been intoxicating. This affair involving Salazar and the stolen money had fed his conviction that he should have lived in his father’s time, when power rested on pillars of force and intimidation instead of columns in a ledger. He patted Romelli’s arm.
“Ahh, what the hell, Dom. Victor Salazar started this in fifty-five when he turned pirate on us. His son might just be smarter. If he’s got the cigars with the diamonds, maybe he’ll just turn them over.”
Romelli shook his head, smiling, and retrieved the Sports Illustrated. “Right,” he said.
Raul tightened his arm around Rosa’s shoulder as they watched the DC-3 turn off the runway and taxi toward the terminal. The bulbed silver nose of the airplane angled to the sky as if straining to return to its true element. It would be a short time on the ground, ten minutes at most. Just time enough for the arriving Miami passengers to disembark and the handful of Kingston passengers to take their place.
The whirling propellers coughed to a stop in front of the building and two attendants in shirtsleeves wheeled the portable stairway to the aircraft’s oval door. Rosa looked up at Raul, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Raul, my sweet Raul. Forget all this. The money you have brought is plenty, a godsend. Return to Cuba with me now. Don’t go back to Miami. The things you told me last night about your father and those monsters who killed him …
“If, as you think, they may discover how your father hid what he took from them, then no millions are worth that risk. Please, my love, forget this and let us finally be together.”
Raul drew her close and buried her head against his shoulder. Speaking softly, he said, “Rosa, we will be together in such a short time. We have waited this long, another few days will be as nothing. So many in Cuba are being strangled by politics. These millions will make a difference.
“It will be so simple. All I have to do is collect those cigars and Paulo. I am sure he wants to return with me. I owe at least that much to the memory of my father. What he was able to take back from the gangsters belongs to our people. He paid with his life for this gift, and I must see that it is delivered.”
She looked up again, her eyes clouded. His own eyes started to fill, and he looked past her to the airplane that would return him to Miami for the last time. He stiffened. “Madre de Dios,” he gasped.
He backed Rosa into a darkened alcove, buried his head against her shoulder, and watched through her parted hair as Joseph Bonafaccio Jr. and Dominick Romelli stepped out of his past and onto the tarmac.
TWENTY-TWO
As THE PLANE banked and climbed, Raul kept his eyes on the terminal until it disappeared beneath wisps of cloud.
Clasping Rosa in the shadow of the alcove, he had watched Bonafaccio and Romelli stalk briskly by, not five feet from him. Only after a waiting cab sped them from the terminal building had he given Rosa one last kiss and sprinted to the waiting plane.
Safe, for the moment, he settled back and closed his eyes. It would be a lethal mistake to treat this as coincidence , he thought. He smiled at the irony. The last time he had seen those two had been from the window of a climbing plane, with the lights of Havana shrinking into the night, one life ending as another began. Only then, the killers had stayed behind.
He had one hour to piece this together and improvise a solution. Thank God for Paulo, he thought.
Raul broke his race through the Miami terminal with a brief stop at a pay phone. He quickly dialed the restaurant. When there was no answer, he abandoned all pretense of blending in with other travelers and bolted for the cab line.
“Señor?” asked the driver.
“Noches Cubanas. Arriba! Set a record!” Raul thrust a hundred-dollar bill into the driver’s hand and recoiled as the ’60 Chevrolet leapt forward in a burst that numbered its transmission’s days.
Ten minutes later he jumped from the cab as it slowed in front of the restaurant. Paulo’s ancient pickup truck was parked in the adjacent alley. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
“Paulo!” His shout lost itself in the empty restaurant. Chairs were still on the floor, and the tables were bare of tablecloths. The restaurant had not been properly closed. He passed through the bar and called into the empty kitchen. Again, no answer.
Raul stood at the top of the stairs that led down to the wine cellar and humidor room. Sometimes, after a long night, his maître d’ would simply sleep on the cot in the storage area outside the wine cellar.
“Paulo?” he repeated, slowly descending the stairs.
The blanket at the foot of the cot was neatly folded and the door to the wine cellar and humidor room was unlocked. He pushed it open.
The heady must of aging wine and tobacco in cedar greeted him, usually a moment of pleasure he would pause to enjoy. Not now. Another aroma greeted him, a clinging sweetness that did not belong. He reached to his right and found the light switch.
Paulo, naked and gagged, sat at the pine table in the middle of the wine cellar, his arms bound to the vertical posts of the straight-backed chair. Each of his legs was secured at the ankle by thin cord to the corresponding chair leg, forcing his hips forward and compressing his back rigidly against the slatted rise. His defeated efforts to kick out in anger or terror at the torture practiced upon him had scraped the skin from around his ankles, leaving raw streaks of blood and exposed bone.
Raul leaned against the door frame and slumped to the floor.
Gruesome objects formed two neat rows on the table in front of Paulo. From the white glints at the ends, Raul made out that some were fingers, then toes. Then a curved, small bowl of an object, an ear. Then, an indistinguishable mass, lumpy and rough. Next to it, separate and distinct, what could only be a shriveled penis. Next to that, an eye, then another.
Too numbed to scream, Raul threw up, sobbing. The grisly evidence told of his friend’s slow, agonizing death. He had been forced to watch his own ghastly mutilation until he could see no more. As Raul felt consciousness rush from him, he prayed that the same mercy had been visited upon Paulo.
He woke, minutes or hours later; he was not sure. The scene had not changed. He understood completely what had happened and recognized the unmistakable signature of who had done this to Paulo. He could not call the police. He would tend to Paulo’s body himself. After that, he did not know. He was shaking.
TWENTY-THREE
RAUL WENT TO work at once. He knew he would be crippled by the waves of grief and horror washing over him if he did not stay busy. The simple mission he had hoped to accomplish was now grimly complicated, and time was running against him. He harbored no doubt that Bonafaccio knew what had become of Victor’s treasure and was possessed by a savage hunger to reclaim it.
Paulo’s body needed to be removed and the room cleaned before the staff arrived.
With his Bonneville off on the road trip to Cape Cod, he had only one choice for the grisly job ahead—Paulo’s wreck of a pickup. He gently wrapped his friend’s mutilated body, and its various parts, in the old canvas tent Paulo had used for his trips into the interior swamps. Then he hefted the ghastly bundle and carried it upstairs to the truck. All the while, images of the past flashed in his mind, scenes spinning in a dizzying collage.
His father—the Bonafaccios—his exile from C
uba—his father’s murder—Rosa’s crusade—the embargo—the Kennedy cigars—the diamonds in the Don Salazarios—and, finally, this: Paulo.
Raul clamped the tailgate in place and paused a second to catch his breath. Paulo must have had time to carry out Raul’s instructions before Bonafaccio showed up. The cigars had been in plain sight when Raul had left them. Now they were gone. Could Raul’s brief, excited telephone call to Paulo from Kingston have been enough to ignite the will to resist such a fatally brutal interrogation? Could any man have buried the secret of the cigars’ hiding place from such an inquisition? Then Raul recalled the look in Paulo’s eyes when Raul had proposed their new venture together in Cuba. Raul had seen that look in another’s eyes: Rosa’s.
As the kaleidoscope spun, other fragments emerged and hovered before tumbling into place. Slowly, a picture, a new picture, began to form.
The cigars could wait. They would have to. The wick of fate kindled by Victor Salazar and now fueled by Bonafaccio’s fierce vengeance burned rapidly toward conflagration. There was much to do and precious little time. Raul slid into the dusty cab of the pickup and set off for the deepest part of Little Havana.
Dominick Romelli pressed a fifty dollar bill into the hand of the startled desk clerk with a pressure calculated to send a clear message. Romelli’s basset hound eyes capped a congenial smile as his thumb gouged the sweaty palm, sharply persuading the clerk to abandon the hotel’s privacy policy.
“Sir, though Señor Salazar has not checked out and is scheduled to stay with us another three days, I saw him and the lady leave early this morning. I believe they took a cab to the airport. I have not seen them since. If, as you say, the hotel operator told you when you called earlier that he still was a guest, it is because he still appears to be. I do not know if he will be returning.”
Romelli released the pressure and turned to Joseph, who shrugged and pointed his chin toward the door. As they left the hotel, Bonafaccio said, “That’s it, then. He’s split. Shouldn’t be much of a problem to track him from the airport. Only one or two flights out of here a day, right?”
