Fatal Odds

by John F. Dobbyn

  “And if I say you’re off base, will you just drop it? You’re walking a dangerous path.”

  “I can’t. I have to bring Victor in. Right now. I figure he went to the Nyetas to go underground. It’s the worst thing he could do. I think you could put me in touch with someone who knows.”

  The fire in Paco’s eyes had gone out. He stood up. He took a couple of bills out of his pocket. His voice was strong now. “Nice to see you, Miguelito.” He threw the bills on the table. “But our worlds are too far apart. There’s nothing for you here. I wouldn’t come back.” The bottom fell out of my heart when he turned and limped his way out the door.

  I noticed the self-satisfied grin on Manuel as he focused on washing glasses. I left with a stone in my heart and not an idea in the world of where to go from there.

  I walked the two blocks to where I had parked my Corvette. The young boy I paid to watch it was sitting faithfully on the curbstone. He popped up when I held out a five-dollar bill. When he took the bill, he mumbled something in Spanish. He brushed my jacket as he ran past me.

  I reached in my pocket for my keys and felt a piece of paper that hadn’t been there a moment ago. I was careful to drive out of the neighborhood before opening the paper. It had words in Spanish scrawled in broken letters. They said roughly “Nine o’clock tonight. Bench on west side of Jamaica Pond.” In heavier letters, “Cuidado!” “Be careful!”

  FOUR

  I PARKED CLOSE to the office and walked to the Marliave Restaurant off Bromfield Street. Once more it was like walking out of one world and into a radically different one.

  The meeting with Mr. Devlin and Billy Coyne, the deputy district attorney, was set for noon—which in Mr. D’s world did not mean 12:01. I saw my two lunch companions climbing the narrow steps as I was approaching, and I could reset my watch to 12:00 precisely.

  I caught up, as John Ricciutti, the son of the owner and a master chef, was leading the now three-man procession up the stairs to a private dining room. In all of my dinners there with Mr. D., my fingers have never touched a menu. John seated us graciously and spoke with affection directly to the man he put at the head of the table.

  “Your Honor, this would be my pleasure. Something with veal. Perhaps prosciutto. I think artichokes. Not too much. Just . . . will you leave it in my hands?”

  “John, there are no better hands in the city of Boston.”

  I could see John’s face light up as he summoned the waiter to bring ice water, bread, and his personal stock of olive oil. I was smiling inside to see once again the small annoyance on Mr. Coyne’s face at the title of “Your Honor,” as John always referred to Mr. D.

  “Lex, what the hell is he going to call you if you ever become a judge?”

  “I don’t know, Billy. ‘Your Lordship’ would be nice.”

  He said it with a grin, but I could see it still rankled Mr. Coyne at this slight one-upmanship of his fellow Irishman and almost constant courtroom combatant. Mr. Coyne was, as Mr. D. consistently reminded D.A. Angela Lamb, “beyond purview, the brains and conscience of that office.” She had the self-advancing wisdom to leave difficult prosecutions in Mr. Coyne’s hands. More often than not, that brought him into a battle of wits and legalisms with my partner, Mr. Devlin.

  The preliminaries concluded, and a bowl of the finest pasta e fagioli between Boston and Rome set before each of us, we were left alone with the door discreetly closed.

  “You suggested this little gathering, Billy. I take it something’s going on over at your little shop of horrors.”

  “I don’t have much, Lex. I just don’t want you and the kid here walking into something you don’t see coming.”

  If I should become managing senior partner of Ropes & Gray as a stepping stone to a seat on the United States Supreme Court, I believe I shall always be the kid here I’m resigned.

  Alone though we were, Mr. Coyne leaned in close. “What you asked was not for telephone conversation. That jockey that was killed in the race at Suffolk yesterday. You wanted to know why we got involved.”

  “And, involved with a vengeance. I mean, felony murder, Billy? How many times in a year do horses collide? Jockeys taken to the hospital? Even deaths? It’s a hell of a profession. Not for the faint of heart.”

  “Let me remind you, Lex, that more Saturdays of our youth were spent—I didn’t say wasted—shoulder to shoulder by the rail at Suffolk Downs than either of us can remember. I don’t need the lecture.”

  “Then what, Billy?”

  He leaned back and paused. His timing was impeccable. A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of John and a waiter setting before us a veal dish, the aroma of which alone would send world-renowned chefs into a frenzy of mass suicide.

  We all knew that John would not leave the room before gleaning from the look on Mr. D’s face at the first taste an expression of sheer rapture. As always, he got it. He left with the waiter in tow and a smile that he’d carry back to the kitchen staff for sheer inspiration.

  When the door closed, we all three let the troubles of the world hang in silent abeyance while we devoured something we’d not soon forget. Still, I could see that Mr. Coyne’s pleasure was clouded by his thoughts. When the last fork came to rest, Mr. Coyne broke the silence.

  “This doesn’t leave this room.”

  I noted that he looked only at me when he said it. The bond of confidence between the two old warriors assumed it without words. I nodded in agreement.

  “There’s something happening in this city. There’s a . . . rumbling below the surface. It’s like an invisible tinderbox. If it breaks out in the open, this city of ours could become the murder capital of the country.”

  “Billy, my lad. This couldn’t be your Irish affection for the dramatic?”

  He leaned closer. “Listen to me, Lex. I’ll admit in this room that our esteemed district attorney will press any flight of fancy that could get her to the governor’s chair. You also know damn well that that’s not me. I’m telling you, I’m deeply concerned.”

  “I’m sorry, Billy. You’ve got our attention.”

  “Things are happening that don’t go together. That race. Take it from me, it was fixed.”

  “How do you . . . ?”

  Billy held up his hand. “It was fixed. Leave it at that. The question is, by whom? Did you ever hear of a gang that started in Puerto Rico? They’re called the Nyetas.”

  Mr. D.’s questioning look said “No.” Mr. Coyne looked at me and knew that I was in familiar territory. He spoke directly to Mr. D.

  “They started in Puerto Rico as a prison gang. The word is they came together in the 70s in the Oso Blanco maximum security prison in Rio Piedras. The idea was originally to protect the more vulnerable inmates, especially political prisoners who were pro-independence, against the more vicious gangs of prisoners—and also corrupt guards. The organizer of the Nyetas was Carlos Torres Irriate. He was called La Sombra, The Shadow. He built them into the dominant gang in the prison. He tried his best to keep the gang out of using or dealing drugs. That could have been his downfall.

  “Their primary enemy was a gang of the most vicious prisoners. Many of them had been expelled from the Nyetas for their hair-trigger violence. The Nyetas called them ‘insectos’. They call themselves G-27 from an apartment number in a notorious project in Puerto Rico.”

  I could see he had Mr. D.’s interest. I was a bit stunned to hear this Irish-American prosecutor saying things that are only spoken in whispers among Puerto Ricans. Mr. Coyne leaned in closer.

  “Time came when Irriate was killed in prison. Some say the leader of the G-27s, El Monota, put out the contract. They also say some of Irriate’s own lieutenants were in on it. They wanted to get the gang into drugs, and other things. When Irriate was away from his followers on a walk with a corrupt guard back from the prison chapel, he was shot and stabbed to death.

  “They say the Nyetas retaliated against the G-27s. Word is that the Nyetas chiseled with spoons, bare
hands, anything they could use to break into the cell of El Monota. They stabbed him 150 times, then cut him into 84 pieces. They sent his pieces to specific people, his mother included. His eyes went to the second in command of the insectos.”

  “A sweet bunch.”

  “Indeed. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Needless to say, I didn’t get this off of CNN. And it goes no further than this.”

  “You know it won’t, Billy. And this is all relevant to the jockey’s case how?”

  “I’m getting to that. Those two gangs are still mortal, violent enemies. They even go to war with the powerful Latin Kings. The Nyetas and insectos have both established a major presence over here in Puerto Rican communities, mostly in Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York, and New Jersey. They each recruit the local neighborhood gangs to become associates.”

  He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “We have serious reason to believe they’re on the verge of an all-out war. That would not be pretty.”

  “Agreed, Billy, but again, why is this relevant to that absurd charge against Victor Mendosa?”

  “Because I’m telling you . . . ” He looked over at me. “. . . somewhat against my better judgment, we got a tip that that race was fixed by the Nyetas.”

  That chilled my blood. I could remember seeing the Nyeta tattoo on Victor. As a boy, I’d heard tales of the Nyetas and the insectos told in the dark of night by older children to scare the younger ones. They were like Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Now they were coming true. I had to ask it.

  “The tip you got about the race, Mr. Coyne. Can you tell us from whom?”

  “I’ll say this and no more. And there’ll be no follow-up questions. The tip was anonymous, but it was detailed enough to carry some weight. The edgy part is that, as far as we know, the Nyetas have never been involved in race fixing. Neither have the insectos. It’s not their thing.”

  “But you think they are now. And you tie Victor Mendosa to this?”

  Mr. Coyne stood. “I said no questions. Whatever puzzles you, puzzles me too. The lady who signs my checks got the tip I mentioned. Typically, she went off half-cocked crusading after Victor to capture some gang-bang headlines. She tossed the file on my desk while she waits for the reporters. No tales out of school there.”

  “Where are you really going with this, Billy?”

  Mr. Coyne picked up his coat and walked to the door. “Wherever it leads me. I just don’t want you boys to be blindsided when the fireworks go off. This is not just another case. You know the old saying, ‘The lawyer always goes home’. Let’s keep it that way.”

  * * *

  The note that had been slipped into my pocket, probably by the boy who had been watching my car outside of Pepe’s Bar, was a constant reminder through the afternoon of a date I’d have preferred to break. And couldn’t.

  At precisely 9:00 p.m., I was walking the now deserted runners’ track that circles Jamaica Pond on the border of Jamaica Plain. The pitch darkness was penetrated only by a sliver of moon and the faint glow of too-widely spaced lampposts. The anonymity of the note only multiplied the creepiness.

  Halfway around, a faint outline caught my eye. Heaven knows what I expected as I approached the solitary dim figure sitting on a bench, staring at the still water of the pond.

  The figure made no move to look up as I edged, more than walked, to within five feet. The eeriness caused me to speak in a whisper. Based mostly on guess and instinct, I said, “Paco, is that you?”

  There was minor relief in hearing his familiar muffled Latino voice. “Sit here, Miguel. Do it quickly. There’s no time.”

  I sat. “Time for what?”

  “Just listen . . . And remember . . . This is for Victor Mendosa . . . Hear me . . . El Rey de Lechón . . . you hear?”

  I kept listening for more. “Do you hear, Miguel? Answer me.”

  “I do. What is it?”

  His breathing was becoming shallow. “No time.”

  “Paco, I can hardly hear you.”

  He took a deep breath. It came out in one burst of pent up energy. “Speak only to Benito. Only Benito. You hear me? On your life.”

  “Should I use your name?”

  Only silence. I could feel him tap me gently on the leg with his hand, although he didn’t raise it. I looked down. I could just make out the closed fist with the forefinger and middle finger crossed. It was the sign of the Nyetas.

  I started to stand to face him directly. I felt my foot slip on something wet and slick. The moon was higher, and I could just make out a spreading pool of dark liquid. I followed it to the source, a steady dripping from Paco’s wrist. He was steadily slumping forward until he just hung motionless against a cord that bound his chest to the back of the bench.

  I don’t know which came first, the shock of fear that nearly propelled me off the bench or the numbing weight of loss of one who had been in my corner to the point of death. The result was frozen inaction, broken only when I heard a low voice in Spanish from the direction of the trees just behind the bench.

  “On your knees, lawyer. Hands on your head. Not a sound till I tell you.”

  I was in no frame of mind to argue. I got down on my knees with my hands clasped on my neck. My greatest fear, second to imminent death, was that he had heard Paco’s message.

  “Now say it. What did he tell you?”

  That alleviated one fear. On the other hand, Paco’s message, whatever it meant, was delivered at the cost of his life. Fear or not, I couldn’t just hand it over.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t understand him.”

  “Perhaps you’ll understand if I put a bullet through your arm. First the left. Then the right if necessary. I’m afraid it’s the last time you’ll have use of either one.”

  He moved a few steps forward. I could see a faint glint of light catch the silencer on what looked like a sizeable handgun.

  “Interrupt me when you’re ready to speak, Lawyer. I’ll count to three. One . . . ”

  I was actually locked in silence. My loyalty to Paco was probably matched by the paralyzing fear. I couldn’t have gotten a word out literally to save my life.

  “Two . . . You know what number comes next, Lawyer. Last chance.”

  “Three!”

  I dove face down on the ground into the pool of Paco’s last drop of life. The deafening crack of a shot was so stunning that I never noticed that the sound was not suppressed by a silencer.

  I braced for the pain, the blast, the shock. Whatever would come. It didn’t. It took me several seconds to realize that the shot had come from somewhere along the shoreline of the pond. I looked back to where I’d heard the voice behind the bench. The slim outline of a man was clutching the tree ten feet in back of the bench. He was slowly sliding to the ground.

  I looked for the source of the shot down the shore. Nothing. Everything was dark stillness.

  I checked Paco for any sign of life, but I knew it was hopeless. I moved to the body behind the bench. With my handkerchief around my fingers and as little touching as possible, I inched a wallet out of the rear pants pocket. By the light of my cell phone, I read the name and address on the driver’s license and slipped it back in.

  I put some serious thought into what to do next. I called Billy Coyne’s private number for two reasons. I had an obligation to report the two bodies to someone in authority. Given the guarded nature of the conversation we’d had at lunch, I thought Billy might want his investigators to be the first on the scene. It would give him a chance to keep any incendiary details out of the press for the time being. If he’d been right about the two gangs, this could be the match to ignite the tinderbox.

  FIVE

  IT WAS ANOTHER tossing night’s sleep—if sleep it could be called. It was like cruising in my restless mind between Scylla and Charybdis with neither actually visible. I had no idea of whether it was the Nyetas or the insectos or both that had me in their sights the night before, and even less notion of what to do about it.


  I figured the best I could do was to keep to public places. It seemed the better part of discretion to finesse telling my senior partner about my personal quandary. I knew from experience that his heartfelt concern for my safety would lead to more restrictive orders than I needed at the moment.

  By six a.m., I was at the backstretch at Suffolk Downs. I walked down the rail to the starting gate used for training horses that were new to the track or that had given problems in loading into position for a race. Rick was on horseback as usual. He was watching the assistant starter work with a bay that looked like Dante’s Pride, the horse Roberto had been riding in that disastrous race.

  “What’s up, Rick?”

  He glanced back. “Damnedest thing. Watch this.”

  “Isn’t that the horse Roberto was riding in the accident?”

  “Yeah. The vet checked her out. She was just shaken up. Had the breath knocked out of her. No lasting injuries.”

  “So what’re you doing here?”

  “Watch this.”

  We both focused on Dante’s Pride following the lead line of the assistant starter straight into the open chute in the starting gate as smoothly as if she were walking into her stall. I remembered that she had balked at the gate before the race two days earlier.

  Rick kept his voice low. “Now watch.”

  The starter closed the swinging doors behind her. Dante’s Pride stood quietly, four feet on the ground, with the exercise rider just sitting on her back. We counted off a full fifteen seconds before Rick gave the assistant starter a wave.

  I knew they wouldn’t spring open the front doors unless they wanted to reinforce the instinct to break out at full speed, and it was too soon after her last race to make that demand on her. I watched the starter just open the rear doors and gently back her out.

  “So what are we looking at, Rick?”

  “A damned question mark. You were there at that race. You notice anything different?”

  “She looks like a pro. She doesn’t seem to need gate training.”