Fatal Odds

by John F. Dobbyn

  I could see him playing with the ten chips in front of him while his mental machinery spun at full speed. The legal advice I had just given him was worth exactly what he was paying for it—zippo. But then he wasn’t my client. He could take it or leave it.

  When he looked up at me, he took one of the hundred-dollar chips and flipped it over to me.

  “Suppose I buy a bit of insurance. That hundred dollars retains your services as my counsel. Agreed? That way, anything I might say is covered by attorney-client privilege.”

  I flipped the chip back to him.

  “Doesn’t work that way, Mr. Cannucci. Neither Mr. Devlin nor I would represent a slimy piece of parasitic crap like you if our lives depended on it.”

  Actually, I valued my kneecaps far too much to have said those heartfelt words. What did pass my lips was, “We can’t accept your offer. It would raise a conflict of interest with our client. On the other hand, Mr. Cannucci, you have a far more effective form of insurance.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Mr. Devlin and I walk past the duck pond in public garden almost every day. If we violate your interests in any way, the birds in that pond wouldn’t be the only sitting ducks. That’s better insurance than any code of legal ethics. Yes?”

  He looked down at the chips he was fingering. “You’re a clever lad. But in the end, I really don’t know you, do I?”

  It was my turn to smile. “Really? I’ll make you another bet. The note I sent you was on Devlin & Knight notepaper. It was intended to give you a chance to check us out on your cell phone. I’ll bet you another thousand that you did just that before you came into this room.”

  He looked me in the eye and smiled. “You are definitely a clever lad, Mr. Knight. Perhaps too clever.”

  “One last thought, Mr. Cannucci. Obviously, I already have enough information to connect you with the fixing of that race. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be bringing the question to you, would I? And as we see, you’re still at liberty. Does that tell you something about my discretion?”

  He leaned back in the chair. This time his expression said it was time to do business. “Ask your question, Mr. Knight. And then I have one of my own.”

  “I did ask it. Was Victor Mendosa aware of and party to the fixing of that race?”

  He looked away when he spoke. “I admit nothing. But one hears rumors. One hears that the payoff for the fix was sent to each of the Mendosa brothers. Roberto rejected the offer. He sent the money back.”

  “And Victor?”

  He took a deep breath. “Victor seemed non-committal at first. He didn’t take the money. A day later he sent word that he wanted in. The payoff money was sent back to him. But his ambivalence left room for doubt. Other arrangements were needed to insure compliance with the fix. Other arrangements were made. As you apparently know, when all was said and done, the right horse won the race.” He smiled. “At least that’s the rumor.”

  For all of the ambiguity, I still felt closer to the truth. “Thank you, Mr. Cannucci.”

  “Don’t thank me. We’re not through yet. You’re not asking the right question.”

  That stopped me. “And the right question is?”

  Now he was sitting upright. “Why did Victor change his mind and agree to become party to what you call ‘the fix’?”

  “Go on.”

  “Let’s lay the real cards on the table. There were two parties that were pressing for assurances about the certainty of the outcome of that race. I’m still speaking hypothetically. Do you hear me? There was the usual group in the North End, shall we say, of Sicilian heritage. That’s not unusual. But this time they were joined by a second group who shares your Victor’s lineage. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Understand, it would make no difference to me. In fact, it might have doubled the fee to bring about the desired result in the race. Again, I speak from rumor. But on reflection, these are not your usual bedfellows. They’re more likely to slit each other’s throats over a block of drug turf. It suggests that the whole game was about more than the usual return on fixed bets, does it not?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Yes. And you, my clever young friend, based on all you seem to know, are closer to the answer to that question than I am.”

  I gave a noncommittal shrug of my shoulders. “And therefore you’re suggesting what?”

  “Just this. If these people happened to have come to me with a suggestion of a repeat performance for a race at Suffolk Downs, hypothetically, and my assistance were sought by these same parties, my price could be affected by the knowledge of what’s really behind it. A bit of leverage. You understand.”

  “And how does this involve me?”

  “I want that information. And secondly, I want it known by the right people that I want in all the way. I want a piece of the real action. I want it for services no one else can provide with my reliability. Based on the people you seem to know on both sides, I suspect that you could deliver that message to the right parties as a go-between, you might say.”

  “I see.”

  “I want the message delivered to people at the right level that they’re not dealing with some street corner bookie. The message might include the fact that a proper price, and I mean a proper price, will be paid by them . . . one way or another. I believe they’ll understand my meaning.”

  I froze my own poker face and took a slow breath while the words rolled through my mind, “How the hell did I become the messenger boy for this porculent, parasitic pile of corruption? And if I refuse, given the incriminating knowledge he assumes I have, what are the odds of my living long enough to catch that plane?”

  I stood on legs that were still deciding whether or not to hold me up. I smiled with the hope that my words did not sound as noncommittal as they were.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He held out a hand to shake. I took it and felt myself being pulled to within a few inches of his face.

  “I’d do more than that, if I were you. I’ll be in touch.”

  The only thing that kept me upright on that walk to the door was knowledge of the e-ticket in my cell phone for a flight to Puerto Rico departing in exactly four hours.

  EIGHTEEN

  IT WAS AN eight-hour flight, with a two-hour stop off in San Juan, to the western Puerto Rican city of Mayagüez on the Mona Passage between the Caribbean and Atlantic. Mayagüez is home to the University of Puerto Rico, a world-class zoo, a sparkling seashore, a major harbor, my mother’s sister (now deceased), an assortment of cousins I’ve never met, and if my prayers were to be answered, my client, Victor. The six-mile ride from the Eugenio De Hostos Airport north of the city to my hotel brought back flashes of my mother’s descriptions of her former homeland. In some vague sense, I felt as if I were coming home.

  It seemed the better part of discretion to stay at a hotel a bit removed from the center of the city in case my quest for Victor rattled any hornets’ nests. The Mayagüez Resort was a comfortable two-and-a-half miles from center city. It was also a short hop from the seashore, always a comfort to a Bostonian away from Mother Atlantic.

  I checked in and took to the road in a rented car. My first stop filled the need of both bodily and sentimental refueling. I’d heard my mother speak of the Restaurant El Siglo XX in her old neighborhood at 9 Peral as the closest thing to her home cooking.

  It must be in the genes, because a certain comfort level engulfed me as I walked in the door. When I mentioned my mother’s maiden name to the waitress and it was conveyed to Maria Sanchez, a woman of my mother’s vintage, she came out of the kitchen with three of the staff. The tsunami of welcoming words and hugs revitalized every sleep-deprived cell in my body.

  After the initial barrage of questions about my mother, the dishes began streaming from the kitchen like a column of ants bringing food to the colony. Thank God I hadn’t eaten for at least eighteen hours. The shredded plantains with huevos alerted my salivating tonsils that they ha
d hit the nirvana of Puerto Rican cocina casera. The carne mechada with red beans and rice alone could probably have made a meal for Fat Tony Cannucci, but it was surrounded by tapas from octopus to carne de cerdo frito.

  After multiple courses, my taste buds were ready to collapse from exhaustion, when Maria brought out her personalized flan. Those same taste buds rallied to the occasion, and there was not an unappreciated spoonful.

  The talk went on well into the afternoon. Word was sent to neighbors who came to join what was rapidly becoming a fiesta. I hadn’t planned to spend that much time on what could hardly be described as a mere lunch, but it was an occasion I’ll cherish forever. The stories and laughter flowed back and forth for hours. I vowed that I’d remember every disclosure of incidents from my mother’s youth, embarrassing and otherwise, so that I could bring them up at our very next sitting in her kitchen.

  When the grandfather clock chimed four, I was re-awakened to the reason I was there. When the conversation turned to Roberto and Victor, I mentioned as softly as possible the death of Roberto, but I skirted any reference to the cause of his death or why I was there.

  At four thirty, before leaving, I had to repeat three times my promise to return before I left the island. My last words were to ask directions to a bar called Dos Hermanos on the Calle Del Rio, by a river called Rio Yagüez. It was the place given to me by Ramon Garcia to locate the only man he said I could trust—Nestor Ruiz.

  That brought a chill like a fall frost on the festive spirit of everyone there. The others merely went into a deep silence. Maria came over to sit close to me. Her voice sounded so much like my mother’s.

  “Miguel, please, don’t go there. On the life and soul of your mother, I’m praying this.”

  I was stumped for a response. I suspected that it had to be a gang hangout for the Nyetas, which would put it on Maria’s forbidden list. It was also my only source of contact with Nestor Ruiz. Without that contact, I’d be totally floundering. The hang-up was that I couldn’t explain to Maria why it was necessary to go there without disclosing more about Victor than I thought appropriate.

  I finally decided to nod and smile as if I were agreeing to follow her wishes. It was not so much a lie as a parting gift to those who had showered me with so much warm family feeling.

  It was quarter to five when I was back behind the wheel of my rental. One lesson I’d learned that afternoon was to be careful about whom I asked for directions to the Dos Hermanos. I decided to follow the safest course. I stopped at a gas station and bought a city map. I figured I could find the address on my own without raising any hackles or sending any signals.

  Within fifteen minutes, I was doing a slow drive-by. The clearest sign that Dos Hermanos was more than your friendly neighborhood pub was the door patrol in the form of two hefty, slouching muchachos with bulges in their waistbands and facial scars that don’t come from shaving. The wired looks in their eyes said that their sense of restraint in dealing physically with this particular out-of-town drop-in might have been chemically altered.

  Instead of attempting a walk-in without requesting passage, I parked and approached, open hands showing. I walked up to the one who seemed most nearly on this planet. He stiffened, with his right hand at belt level behind his back.

  I decided to forego an ingratiating smile and just work on my calmly confident attitude. I opened my hands chest high. “I have a message for Nestor Ruiz.”

  That cut no ice.

  “It’s from Señor Ramon Garcia from the mainland.” I almost said, “From the United States”, but my conversation partner might have been touchy about an implication that Puerto Rico is not part of the United States. One thing I did not need was an unnecessary layer of touchy.

  The one I addressed showed no response except to look at the other bookend by the door. He just shook his head to express, I assumed, nonrecognition. The first one turned back with a look that said that not only am I not going to get in, I may not be able to get out.

  In desperation, I pulled out a name that at least could do me no harm among the Nyetas. “I’m a friend of Paco Morales. Pepe’s bar. Jamaica Plain.”

  It had no effect on Goon One, but Goon Two nodded and pointed a thumb toward the door. I took it as an invitation and walked in. Goon Two was one step behind me. He put a fist on my shoulder and walked me to an old man sitting at the far end of the bar.

  Goon Two mumbled something in muted Spanish. He had an accent with which I was unfamiliar. Nearly as I could tell, Goon Two had told the old man that I said I was from Paco. The old man swiveled in his seat to look me dead on. He smiled, but it reminded me of the look of a wolf smiling at a lamb.

  “So, you know Paco. He’s a good man. If he says you’re okay, that’s good enough. What’s your name?”

  “Michael Knight.”

  His eyebrows went up. He flashed a grin at the goon behind me. “Michael Knight, eh? Sounds like a gringo name. Why would Paco send a gringo here?”

  “My mother’s from this city. She married a man by the name of Knight. I’m half Puerto Rican.”

  He grinned again. “Really. Which half?”

  “The half that’s a lawyer representing a Puerto Rican jockey in a murder trial. Victor Mendosa. I came here to find him.”

  The grin softened into a smile. We were back to eye contact. He leaned back against the bar. “That’s funny. I spoke to Paco on the phone yesterday. He didn’t mention you’d be here.”

  “Then you must be a spiritualist, Señor. Paco was killed a week ago in Jamaica Plain by one of the insectos. I was with him when he died.”

  That caused a pause. I knew it was a test. I thanked God I could pass it. Temporarily.

  “Then who sent you here?”

  “I was sent by Ramon Garcia. They call him “Benito.” He told me there’s a man here who could help me find Victor. Nestor Ruiz.”

  I caught the first glint of recognition of Mr. Garcia’s name, and it seemed to carry with it respect. The old man turned to the bartender and held up two fingers. The bartender filled two shots with a light amber liquid. The old man took one and handed the other to me.

  “I hope you like good Puerto Rican rum. You won’t find any finer. Salud.”

  We drank together with our eyes locked. He was right about the rum.

  “And when you speak to Ramon Garcia, I hope you’ll overlook any lack of hospitality by my men. These are dangerous times.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes. Now about Nestor Ruiz. He’s entertaining some out-of-town players at the moment in the back room.” He pointed with his chin.

  I could see a grin spread across the face of Goon Two in the bar mirror. I looked back in the direction of a small side room with the door open. Four men were seated at a card table playing what looked like poker. I got off the barstool to walk to the room. The old man took my arm and kept me on the barstool.

  “I wouldn’t disturb him yet. Those three came in from San Juan looking for a game this morning. He’ll want to concentrate. It won’t be long.”

  I settled back. “How can you tell?”

  “Trust me. Any minute now. The fuse is lit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is not a friendly game. It seems those three play poker as a team. It’s 3 to 1 against Nestor. They’ve been winning.”

  “Seems like bad odds.”

  The old man shook his head. “No, 3 to 1 is about right. Have another drink, Señor half gringo. This may be your introduction to Nestor.”

  He motioned to the bartender. We shared another rum and watched. I whispered, “Which one is Nestor Ruiz?”

  The old man leaned against the bar. “The man with his back to us.”

  I watched a hand of five-card draw poker being dealt by the man at the far side of the table. Three of the men picked up their cards. After a brief look, they all focused on the eyes of the man with his back to us, Nestor Ruiz. He sat there motionless, meeting the looks of each of them.

  When
the dealer called for the draw, each of the three discarded and drew one card. The man with his back to us simply patted the top of his hand without looking at his cards.

  The player to his right bet a modest amount. Still without looking at his cards, Señor Ruiz pushed all of the cash in front of him into the center of the table. “It’s late in the day, gentlemen. Shall we bet it all on this hand?”

  The other three looked surprised, but not displeased. With a glance at each other, each of the three pushed all of the cash in front of them into the pot.

  Señor Ruiz simply said, “Showtime.”

  Each of the others turned over their cards. With his cards still facedown and without looking at them, Señor Ruiz reached over and collected the entire pot. “I win by default.”

  Tempers ignited. The man to his right yelled, “The hell you did.”

  He reached over and turned over Señor Ruiz’ hand showing three kings. “My four jacks beat your three kings.”

  Señor Ruiz spoke calmly. “They would. But two of those jacks in your hand were not in the deck when the cards were dealt.”

  The deepening red in the faces of the three out-of-towners framed the fire in their eyes. “You calling us cheaters?”

  Señor Ruiz reached across the table for the deck of cards. He fanned them out face up and picked two more jacks out of the deck.

  “Six jacks. Two too many, no?”

  I could feel the explosion coming from the other three. Their hands moved under the table to reach for something in their belts.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. In a fraction of a second, Señor Ruiz’ right foot jumped to the wooden frame under the table. In one thrust, he drove the table into the sternum and chest of the man opposite. I could hear snaps, crackles, and pops of ribs like a bowl of rice crispies.

  At the same instant, Señor Ruiz’ left hand riffled the cards in the face of the man to his left, while his left foot drove the man’s chair over backwards, pounding his head on the floor. In that same moment, Señor Ruiz’ right fist flew straight out. It flattened the nose of the man to his right, sending him groveling onto the floor with his hands catching an outpouring of red fluid.