by Mel McKinney
Traffic stopped and Romelli stole another glance at Joseph. He could see that his words were falling on deaf ears. When Joseph spoke, his voice was from another time.
“Fingers, are you going soft on me? Come on! This guy’s father screwed us out of three million dollars! And Salazar knows where it’s at! Why else would old ‘Mr. P’ fight so hard last night to keep Salazar’s whereabouts a secret? Why the cat-and-mouse chase from Jamaica? We put up with bullshit like this and we stand to lose a helluva lot more than the lousy three million. This guy’s as dirty as his father, and he’s gonna get the same treatment. Just as soon as we get the diamonds. I mean it. We cut whatever deal he wants. Sure, why not? But once we get those diamond cigars, all bets are off. He dies. And we collect Gessleman’s hundred grand to boot.”
Dominick Romelli nodded patiently. Nothing was going to shake Joseph from his course. It wouldn’t do any good to tell him that Raul Salazar was far too smart to surface at Noches Cubanas. Let the kid spend a few long, sticky days staking out the joint. Joseph thinks the old days were all action and muscle. He’ll learn. Most of it was long sessions in stuffy cars, especially with a wily target like Salazar.
What the hell, he thought. Maybe the kid has a point. I am getting soft. No one cheats the Bonafaccios. Joseph is, after all, his father’s son. When it came to “business,” the Don had always been right. Always.
Romelli focused on the crawling traffic and began to plan the two jobs to come. No messy stuff this time. Just nice, clean, long-range hits. It had been his favorite work.
Raul stopped the gasping truck at a scrolled iron gate with a flowing capital N crafted into the bars. Out of curiosity, he had first located the home of his father’s old friend several years earlier. There had been no reason to disturb the old man’s seclusion—until now.
There was no address. Few Palm Beach residences displayed one.
Raul pulled close to the speaker box mounted on an adobe column and pressed the button. After ten seconds a young woman’s voice answered, her voice creamy and mellowed by a Spanish accent. “Yes? Who is it?”
Raul leaned from the truck window toward the speaker. “Señorita, my name is Raul Salazar. My father was a friend of Señor Nuñez. I need to speak with him. It is very important.”
There was a pause. Then, “Señor Nuñez says he has never heard of you. You must have the wrong person. I am sorry.”
Raul opened the driver’s door and stood, his mouth almost touching the speaker. It was important that he be precisely understood. There was no time to come at this ghost of the past from another direction. He was positive he had puzzled out the key to Victor Salazar’s belated triumph over the Bonafaccios: Felipe Nuñez.
“Señorita, wait. Please. Tell Señor Nuñez that my father was Victor Salazar. Tell him we met one night long ago, in Havana, at Noches Cubanas, when I was introduced to my father’s friend, Javier Menendez.”
The speaker was silent for half a minute. Then, without announcement, the ponderous gate swung open. Raul climbed back in the truck and drove toward the four-story adobe hacienda, bracketed in the foreground by stately palms. Beyond spilled the glare of sand.
As he approached the shaded, brick entry, a set of large French doors on one side opened and an olive-skinned woman in her late thirties appeared, guiding a wheelchair. In the chair, a shawl covering his legs, sat a frail, much older man.
The woman wheeled the man onto the veranda that spanned the front of the building. She was dressed in loose, white slacks and a matching blouse.
Driving closer, Raul feared he may have been wrong. The emaciated husk before him bore little resemblance to the man he remembered from long ago.
Raul switched off the ignition and sighed at the truck motor’s death rattle as it expired on its own terms.
The old man clapped twice, his hoarse laugh nearly lost in the light breeze. “What a wonderful sound! I had one just like it many years ago. It, too, always spoke to me after I told it to stop.”
Raul climbed out and mounted the steps. The woman studied him with an intense curiosity. The man reached up and patted her hand on the chair handle. “It is all right, Maria,” he said. “I recognize him. It is Victor’s son.” Then, extending his hand, he said, “You are either a remarkable detective or your father shared with you our secret, a secret known only to one other living person.” He looked up at the woman, who returned his smile.
The sharp eyes and long, delicate fingers of the man he had met fifteen years earlier were now apparent to Raul. His father had remarked then that the man’s eyes and hands were the tools of his treasured craft. Raul wondered whether they’d survived whatever had ravaged the rest of him.
“Yes, Señor Nuñez, my father told me about you, but not everything. Only in the last twenty-four hours have the pieces come together, and I now know why he never told me more. It would have endangered both of us.”
The old man regarded Raul thoughtfully. Then, nodding his head toward the study behind them, he said, “Come. Strong reasons must have brought you here. They are best discussed inside, over a glass of sherry.”
Maria turned the wheelchair and Raul followed them through the French doors into the book-lined study. After filling two crystal glasses, she handed one to Nuñez and one to Raul. She took a seat next to the wheelchair, while Raul sat across from the two of them. He raised his glass.
“To your health, Señor Felipe Nuñez Javier Menendez.”
The old man lifted his glass and smiled. “Shhh, we do not use that name here. Thanks to your father, I was able to leave Javier Menendez behind, long ago, in the Caribbean.”
Nuñez sipped from the glass and set it down. Then his sharp eyes narrowed and he fixed on Raul a gaze that penetrated to Raul’s soul. “I hope you are not here to resurrect him.”
Hastening to put his host at ease, Raul shook his head emphatically. “No, no. Nothing like that. Your secret is safer now than it ever has been. I have no reason to expose you. In fact, keeping your secret is critical to my own plans. As you will see.”
Raul drained the rest of his sherry.
“No,” he continued, “What I need now are your skills. The saga of the diamonds you cut and sold my father continues. It was supposed to have played out long ago, when my father thought he could get them out of Cuba.”
Nuñez leaned forward, nodding, concentrating. His intensity was that of a child enraptured by a good story. Raul continued, noting Maria was also hanging on his every word. Apparently sensing her concern, Nuñez reached up and covered her hand.
“After my father bought the diamonds from you, he had my grandfather roll them inside some of his cigars. My father must have intended to send them to me after he was sure I was safe in Miami.”
Raul paused. Through the open doors, a freshening breeze rustled the slender palms encircling the veranda.
“My call was never answered. He miscalculated the impatience of the Bonafaccios. They murdered him within hours of sending me from Cuba. The cigars with the diamonds stayed in my father’s humidor room. The Bonafaccios looted it when Castro drove them out.”
Again, Raul paused, his mouth dry from the telling of what he had pieced together. Maria filled his glass. He softened his tongue and continued.
“Incredibly, the cigars with the diamonds have now surfaced. Fate, luck, maybe even a curse, have brought them to me, as my father intended. The Americanos and their embargo have forced Castro further into the embrace of the Russians and have caused serious deprivations that will kill many of our innocent countrymen. Children die every day for want of medicine and food. These diamonds can make a difference, and I am determined they will do so. But I will need your help.”
Maria’s eyes filled. Nuñez stroked her hand and spoke.
“We know well what you say. I met Maria at Santiago’s carnival in 1954, the same year I met your father. I had just come to Cuba and was still living the life of a phantom, fleeing the long tentacles of Winston’s and the U.S. authorities.
I had a fortune in uncut diamonds, but no way to sell them.
“As my friendship with your father grew, we shared confidences. When the Bonafaccios forced their way into his business, he knew it would only be a matter of time before they took everything. He began to divert money, a little at first, then, when he thought he had perfected a channel, large sums. As he did this, he paid me for the diamonds I cut for him. He helped me establish a new identity and a new life.”
The old man raised his hand in a sweeping gesture, including Maria. “Your father made all of this possible.
“Maria has two sisters. Both have lost their infant children to disease because of Cuba’s shortages. We tried to send money, but it never reached them. If you think you can help others, then God be with you.”
Raul nodded. “Yes, I have a way,” he said. “Like you, I will have a new life. Let me tell you what I need. First, please examine these and tell me what you see.”
Raul removed a knotted white linen handkerchief from his shirt pocket and handed it to Nuñez. The old man motioned with his head to Maria. She wheeled him over to a small table in the corner of the study. Raul followed and watched slender brown fingers with alabaster pads carefully pick the wadded cloth apart. The four stones Raul had discovered tumbled in a gentle glissade onto a black velvet cloth.
The old jeweler hunched over them for several seconds, turning one, then another, before the magnifyied inquisition of his loupe. Then he sat upright, a sad smile spreading across his tanned face.
“Yes, Raul, these are four of one hundred diamonds I sold your father. I cut these diamonds myself, of that I am positive. If you have the rest of them, you possess a fortune. Is that all you require of me?”
“No, Señor,” Raul whispered. Drawing a breath, he exhaled slowly. “There is more.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
DAWN PENETRATED THE storm-troubled sky, bestowing a rose-and-crimson blush. As Raul drove from the darkened hacienda, he wondered if Rosa was watching the same spectacle. He savored the day’s beginning, knowing it might well be his last.
Many times during the long night the old man had faltered and nodded in exhaustion. Maria had seen him through—always at his side, her voice prodding in quiet encouragement. Raul hoped he was now getting the rest he had so richly earned. As for Raul, sleep would have to wait. There was still much to do.
At 4:30 A.M. there was no traffic, and the drive south rimming three counties passed quickly, even in Paulo’s truck. Raul made the Miami city limits at 5:45 and drove directly to Little Havana, staying on back streets and away from the neighborhood of Noches Cubanas. He was not yet ready to confront Joseph Bonafaccio. That would come soon enough. When they met, it would not be in the early dawn at an empty restaurant.
El Rosario was just awakening, the tabaqueros drifting in by twos and threes, plumed curls from the day’s first smoke drifting behind them. Here, nothing has changed, thought Raul, remembering his grandfather’s workers and their unlimited access to the finest product of their labors.
Ernesto Torres was at one of the work stations, his back erect in the forced posture of one who has spent many hours seated. The sleeves of his fine shirt were rolled above his elbows, and a gray stubble spoke of his night-long toil. He looked up as Raul approached the bench.
“So, were you successful?” Ernesto’s voice was a whisper against the salutations of the tabaqueros filing into the long room, tarrying before beginning their work.
“Yes,” said Raul, setting before the old cigar maker the three boxes of Don Salazarios recently retrieved from the boat.
“You can see that one box has been opened and four cigars are missing. Everything else is intact, just as my grandfather made them.”
“Good,” said Ernesto. “And the rest?”
Raul drew a cloth bag from his pocket and set it on top of one of the boxes.
“Excellent!” beamed the old man. “I have also been busy.” He gestured toward several neatly stacked piles of tobacco leaves filling the stations on each side of him.
“Now you should get some rest. It will be many hours before I am done. Go. Use the couch in my office. I will come for you when all is ready.”
Raul laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Their eyes met in tacit understanding. Raul should sleep while Ernesto awakened ebbed skills to save his life.
“He’ll come back here, Dominick, he has to. He’s just staying away to make us believe he’s been here and gone. This crafty spic’s just like his father, too smart for his own good. The diamonds are still here somewhere. I can smell ’em.”
The two of them sat in the rented car, a half block down the street from Noches Cubanas. Bonafaccio pulled a cigar case from his pocket, slid it open, and offered one to Romelli.
“No thanks, Joseph. Too early for me. Tell you what, though. I’m going to take a walk to that coffee shop up the street and get a couple of donuts or something. Coffee?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, Dom. Keep an eye down here, though, in case he shows up.”
Romelli nodded. “Will do.” He got out of the car.
“Oh, hey, Dominick,” Joseph said through the open window, looking at his watch. It was a few minutes before 9:00 A.M. “Lisa should be in the office by now, probably be a good idea if you called her, just to check in.
Romelli returned to the car fifteen minutes later with two cups of coffee and a bag of apple fritters. He slid into the front seat, smiling.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, passing one of the cups to Joseph.
“Gessleman called first thing this morning from Kentucky. Lisa said he was all hot and bothered about something, so I returned his call. Says he wants to talk to us before I do the jobs on his son-in-law and Salazar. I told him we were in Miami, and he assumed we were here for the hits. He got excited and told me to hold off until he talks to us, in person. Says he still wants the jobs done but needs something extra. Wouldn’t go into it on the phone. I told him I’d call him later to arrange a meeting.”
Romelli stuffed half a fritter in his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Oh,” he added. “I told him ‘extras’ cost extra and to get at least three hundred grand together as advance payment. We’ll collect it when we meet.”
Bonafaccio grinned and patted his mentor-employee on the shoulder. “Fingers, you’re something else,” he said. “Always thinking.”
Raul looked up into the core of hot sun searing the dusty floor of the Plaza de Toros. Momentarily blinded, he glanced toward his feet, planted in the red soil. The bullfighter’s delicate, slipperlike shoes came into focus. They seemed ridiculously suited for engaging the enraged animal, in whose eyes of red hate he now saw his reflection. The traje de luces shone in the bull’s eyes, its shimmering sequins catching the bright sun and inflaming the beast even more.
A ragged drool of red-tinged gore hung from the side of the bull’s open mouth and its thick tongue probed to cleanse this further annoyance before returning to the afternoon’s deadly work.
Raul’s eyes cleared as he slowly maneuvered between the bull and the sun. He focused on the massive head, his eyes fixed to the bull’s. Something else, though, fought for his attention. There, from behind the bull, rolling toward him in the dirt, two bloody objects, coming closer.
The first one stopped at his feet. He knelt and his fingers closed on thick strands. He lifted and the tendrils tightened with the awful weight they bore. His father’s face stared back at him, peaceful and reassuring, though jagged ribbons of flesh and blood streaked the neck.
The second object rolled to stillness, and again he reached into the hot dirt at his feet. This time he pulled up Paulo’s head. Paulo’s lips were compressed in a tight, resigned smile, his dark, eyeless sockets staring vacantly.
Then Raul heard a song. Not the brassy celebration of the bullring, but the lilting soprano of children. At the tip of his vision, in the seats above the ring, he saw a cluster of children surrounding a woman: Rosa. Their s
ong was hauntingly familiar.
Suddenly, the bull was upon him, immense and grinning. Raul felt himself swept up, riding the great horns into the sun, their points tearing his flesh as they carried him higher. Then the bull twisted its head and slammed him to the dirt, the horns ripping, goring, shaking, shaking …
“Raul! Raul!” Ernesto Torres lightly shook Raul once again by the shoulder. “I am done. Wake up and look.”
Raul left Little Havana, again staying well clear of Noches Cubanas. The restaurant staff would be showing up soon, wondering why neither he nor Paulo was there to orchestrate their nightly ritual. Mindful that Bonafaccio was probably waiting, he had not called.
They will know what to do, he told himself. Henry, the dishwasher, will tend bar, as we have taught him to do in a pinch. Rafael will cook, as usual. Perhaps he will do a limited menu. Rafael’s assistant, Cruz, will be the host.
This time, because of the Friday afternoon traffic, the drive to Key Biscayne did not seem so onerous. Paulo’s truck crept along with the best of them, a steady stream of automobiles emptying the city for the weekend.
Restored by the fitful sleep at El Rosario, Raul used the time to once again ponder the events of the past week and where they were taking him. It was difficult to shake the haunting images of his dream.
On a long-ago, hot summer morning in the Vuelta Abajo, minutes before Victor Salazar and eight-year-old Raul left for Raul’s first bullfight, Lucia Salazar had knelt next to her son, her soft voice filled with a mother’s wisdom.
“Remember, son, the bull was created by God, too. It has a heart and a soul like you. It is right to feel sad for the bull when it is over.”
