“Well, you know it now. These slimeballs can operate as publicly as the corner meat market. The exotic animal auctions, the Internet, they’re wide open. No need to hide. No one in authority is interested in even slowing it down. More entire species of animals and birds than you can imagine are joining the dodos and dinosaurs. So you tell me, where are all these people who care so much about the suffering and death and extinction of animals?”
I was groping for an answer, but there was none.
“And that, my friend, is why the insectos partnered up for the first time with the Boston Italian mafia to get in on the big profits. It’s a hell of a lot less risky than smuggling drugs, where there is a stigma and heavy penalties when they’re caught.”
I was relieved when he sat back and took a break. This time I reached for the bottle and poured a shot glass full. Given the picture I was visualizing, the alcohol was no longer having an effect. When I could get my mind around what I’d heard enough to ask a question, I nudged his arm.
“How do you know all this?”
He came out of the thought he was locked in and looked over at me.
“I’m not the village idiot, either. Those insectos we’re up against are no choirboys. They’re as vicious as they come. If they tap into a source of funds to buy guns, bombs, whatever, they’ll come at us with all they’ve got. I figured I’d better learn everything I could about what they’re into and what we’re going to be facing. Notice I’m including you.”
“And again, how does all of this tie in to me and Victor Mendosa?”
“We got some information from an insider about what the insectos are up to. You don’t have to know how. It’s probably better you don’t. The flood of money that came from that fixed race, and another one they’re planning pretty soon, is being used to buy a major shipment of those birds and animals. There’s a ship on the way here from Brazil right now. When the deal goes down, the animals will be smuggled into the United States.”
“And the profits will go to the Boston mafia and the insectos.”
“In the multimillions. With which they can buy a flood of weapons and soldiers. And God help us all. You catch on quick.”
“When is the ship due here?”
“Soon. We need to find out exactly when.”
There was still a gap.
“Victor’s a jockey. He’s been around Boston since his mid-teens. What’s his connection?”
“Your jockey is from Mayagüez. He has an older cousin here. Chico Mendosa. They’ve stayed in contact all these years. Puerto Ricans take family seriously.”
“I know.” I thought of my mother who still sends more packages to Puerto Rican relatives than the USO.
“Chico’s one of the heads of a gang here in Puerto Rico. They’ve been up to their ears in this animal trade from here for fifteen years. They have all the contacts with shippers from Brazil to here and from here to the Florida coast. They also have the bribes in place to smuggle the animals into the mainland. My guess is that the insectos need those contacts. Victor can put them together with his cousin—who’s probably in it for a price.”
“Why would Victor help the insectos? Especially after what happened to his brother.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have all the pieces. Could be threats to his family. Could be something else.”
“Like what?”
“Who knows? No use guessing.”
I thought about that with another sip of the rum. Nestor leaned over closer. His voice was low, but his tone was strong. “And just in case you think that Victor Mendosa is the only horse you have in this race, think about this. The insectos have a major gang in your city of Boston. That’s in addition to the Italian mafia. Those profits will fuel a flood of drugs, killings, and every other crime to take over territory like you’ve never seen before. Keep that thought in mind.”
I had a flashback to the lunch with Billy Coyne at the Marliave. I could recall the depth of anxiety in his voice when he said that something a hell of a lot bigger than a fixed race was in the wind.
Nestor stood up and picked up the bottle. I caught his attention before he could walk away.
“I might as well ask this now. I may not get another chance. There’s something here I wouldn’t have figured. I mean beyond all the other stuff.”
He stopped. He was listening, but he didn’t look at me.
“This is personal. You don’t have to answer.”
He just stood, looking at the door.
“You really care about this. I mean the animals.”
“Is that a question?”
“I guess it is.”
He looked down at me. “I think someone should, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but why you? If I could say it, you don’t seem . . . ”
His focus was back at the door. “I’m no choirboy either. I’ve seen a lot of suffering in this world. I’ve caused my share of it.”
I didn’t interrupt the pause.
“Those suffering animals never asked to be tortured and killed by that scum. I figure if I can do something about it—who knows, maybe it balances out some of the things I’ve done.”
I started to speak, but he held up his hand. “That’s your last question.”
“I was just going to ask, where do we go from here?”
He looked back at me. “You go to your hotel. Now. Wait for my call. And don’t wander into any more bars. You’re no good to me sliced into fifteen pieces.”
“Agreed. How about you?”
“I’ll do what needs to be done.”
TWENTY
I FOLLOWED NESTOR’S instructions to sit tight and wait. I have to admit, when I got back to my hotel, the Mayagüez Resort, it was no hardship to jump into a bathing suit, take a James Lee Burke novel, and just vegetate at the resort pool. I could feel the warming blanket of Puerto Rican sun baking knots out of nerves that had been strung like violin strings ever since that fourth race at Suffolk Downs. It would have been one of the most recuperative interludes of my life but for two things. I was wired to any cell phone sound that would bring Nestor and all that came with him back to the fore. The other thing was that try as I might, those haunting visions of animals, suffering just to feed the greed and ego of some level of humanity, kept penetrating the mental wall I was trying to erect.
By seven that evening, the dipping sun signaled time to change for dinner. I had actually dozed through the final two hours. When a slight chill in the air brought me back, I realized that the struggle between my white Irish pigment and darker Puerto Rican pigment had been won hands down by the former. Even the late afternoon sun had toasted my skin to a medium rare. When I managed to get vertical, my muscles were rebelling, my skin felt like a layer of fried bacon, my mind was fighting its reentry into the real world, and I think I felt better than I had at any time within any recent memory.
I dressed in pants and a shirt that would lay softly on skin cells that were exuding heat and pleading for gentleness. The hotel dining room was like an extension of the afternoon’s vacation. The Puerto Rican menu specialties could have been improved upon only by importing Chef Ben Capone from his nook in Roslindale.
By nine o’clock, I was surrendering my taste buds to the local version of dulce de leche cheesecake. By then, my only thread of connection to reality was the thought that the Mayagüez Resort might be in the running for a honeymoon site for Terry and me.
Then at seven minutes past nine, the grating rasp of my cell phone dispelled every healing balm of the afternoon. In six words, Nestor’s commanding tone brought me hurtling back.
“Where the hell are you, Michael?”
“In paradise, waiting for your infuriating summons back to hell.”
Actually, I showed restraint. What I really said was, “My hotel. What’s up?”
“Listen. Get this the first time. I have no time to repeat it.”
“Go.”
“Drive to the Plaza Colón, center of the city. Park on a side street. St
atue of Christopher Columbus is in the middle of the plaza. There’s a church, Catedral Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria. It’s across the street behind the statue. Sit in the last pew on the right. Ten-thirty. Have you got that?”
“Yes. Plaza—”
Click. He was gone.
I got the impression that, like Mr. Devlin, he meant neither 10:29 nor 10:31. With that assumption, I was parked and sitting by the fountains under the statue by ten fifteen. The inscription by the statue said that Christopher Columbus, Cristóbal Colón in Spanish, had actually disembarked in Mayagüez—hence the statue and name of the square, Plaza Colón.
At 10:27, I started moving toward the cathedral. The Plaza was still alive with a passing combination of students from the University of Mayagüez and mixed ages of English-speaking tourists from the mainland. That was a bit of comfort.
The cathedral was massive, dark, and ancient. The heavy door in front was still open for an evening of late confessions. On the steps, I had to pass between two well-muscled and well-tattooed figures standing beside the door. I got the impression they were not there for confession. I noticed with some relief that they favored me with no more attention than they paid to any other passing gringo. Still, it felt like a wake-up call.
Inside the church, I tried to mute my footsteps. To my edgy mind, they still seemed to resound off of the stone walls. I stood against the back wall behind the last pew on the right to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. A middle-aged priest in black cassock was just coming out of one of the confessionals on the right side toward the altar. He turned away and walked toward the front of the church, passing the last two people kneeling in the front pew.
My eyes were slowly managing to read outlines more clearly. The only significant light was coming from a bank of votive candles at the altar. From the back of the church, I could just make out the form of an elderly figure, bent forward and wrapped in a shawl. The person was sitting in my destination—the last pew. It seemed like an unforeseen interruption to the plan.
I gave whoever it was until ten seconds before ten thirty to leave. That didn’t happen. Since there was no plan B, I slid into the same pew a few feet away and sat in silence.
The voice with that familiar commanding tone came in a forced whisper. “Slide over.”
I realized that it came from the huddled old figure. That in itself gave me the creeping shivers. If the warrior, Nestor, felt the need of a disguise, why in hell was I there with my face and all vulnerable parts exposed?
I slid over. I sat with my head down. My voice was so low I could hardly hear it myself. “What are we doing here?”
“You’re going to confession. Closest confessional over there on the right.”
It sounded like he was preparing me for my last moments on earth. I wanted to ask for clarification, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he’d say. Instead, I just started to get up to follow orders. Another rasping command came out of the shawl. “Sit down. Not yet.”
“How’ll I know when?”
“You’ll know.”
“And in the meantime, what?”
“In the meantime, look around. Look where you are. You could do worse than to pray.”
That thought had been on my mind too, but I didn’t expect to hear it from my constantly surprising comrade in arms. I followed his advice.
After five minutes, I couldn’t hold the question any longer. I whispered more loudly than I intended, “Hey Nes—”
“No names! What do you want?”
“Why do you get the disguise and I’m sitting here in plain view?”
“They know me. They don’t know you. For the sake of us both, keep your mouth shut. No more questions.”
Within another five minutes, a middle-aged priest came out of the clerical side of the nearest confessional, the one Nestor had mentioned. He followed the first priest to the front altar. Minutes later, a much older priest made his labored limping way from the front of the church and entered the priest’s side of the same confessional.
There was one elderly person now sitting in the pew beside the confessional. She went in next. Within three minutes, she came out and headed toward the altar. There was no sound, but I felt a sharp kick on the side of my shin. I stood and walked down to the lay entrance to the confessional. The Latino aura of the church brought me back to my regular Saturday afternoon confessions in Spanish during my boyhood in Jamaica Plain. The two were distinguished only by the numbing sense of dread I was feeling at the moment.
The curtain fell closed behind me as I entered the small confessional. Whatever light was coming from the candles by the altar was a memory. I knelt down with my face next to the mesh screen. I heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden panel being drawn back by the priest on the other side of the partition. I reflexively whispered the familiar phrase, Bendíceme, padre, porque he pecado—“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
I was cut off at that point by a voice that hit me like a stun gun.
“I’m not your padre, Mike. But I bless you for coming.”
I reacted with a jump that smacked my head off the side wall. The pain was just enough to clear my thoughts. Still, a logjam of questions froze my tongue. I could hardly get out the name.
“Damn it! Victor?”
“Unusual words for a confessional, but yes, it’s me.”
“I don’t know where to start. How the hell are you? I mean . . .”
“Don’t worry, Mike. God’s heard it before. I’m surviving. How about you?”
“Would you believe stunned out of my mind? I don’t know what to ask first.”
“Then just listen. We’ve only got about five minutes. First, thank you for coming. Somehow I knew you would.”
I just nodded, forgetting that it was pitch dark. I was flashing back through the hell I’d gone through to get one answer from everyone else—was Victor guilty? I was truly shaken to be suddenly mouth-to-ear with the only one who actually had the answer.
“I’ll make it the short version, Mike. Two days before that race, two of Fat Tony’s goons . . . You know Fat Tony Cannucci?”
“I’ve had the pleasure. Go on.”
“They paid me and Roberto a visit. They offered a deal. We both pull our horses in that race. The main reward was that they don’t do things to us and our families that . . .”
“I know. Go ahead.”
“There was money involved, too, but the real payoff was that we get to keep our legs. We’d been through this before. We had promised each other that the next time, we’d tell them to shove it. No matter what.”
“With what protection?”
“I told Roberto, if necessary, I’d go back to the Nyetas. A man I know.”
“Benito? Ramon Garcia?”
“How do you know . . .”
“Another time. Keep going.”
“When they came to make the deal, Roberto did tell them to shove it. And he stuck to it.”
“And you, Victor. Think about this. Did you ever clearly tell Fat Tony or his men that you’d go along with the fix?”
For the first time in a week, I was thinking like a defense lawyer preparing a case. For that moment, it felt so good.
Victor hesitated long enough to make me feel uncomfortable.
“Actually . . . yes.”
I’m sure he could feel my reaction. He had just cut off our most promising defense to a charge of felony murder. He jumped in before I could say anything, but I could tell he was still hesitant.
“I’m . . . not supposed to tell this to anyone, Mike . . . I think now I have no choice. Listen to this. This goes no further. Is that understood?”
“I’m your lawyer, Victor. It stays here. Lawyer-client privilege. Go ahead.”
He took one long deep breath before he could say it. “When Fat Tony’s thugs first offered me the bribe, with a threat, I said nothing one way or the other. I guess they figured I didn’t have the guts to cross them. They let it go at that. Then the day before th
e race, I got a note to meet someone I didn’t know after sundown at the bench across the street from Kelly’s Roast Beef stand on Ocean Boulevard in Revere. I figured it was one of Fat Tony’s people with the payoff.”
“Had they done it that way before?”
“Something like that. Anyway, when I got there, there were two guys in suits. They said they were FBI. They said they wanted me to do something for them in that race. They could protect me and my family. I asked if they wanted me to ride to win. They said, ‘Hell, no. we want you to go through with the fix. Tell Fat Tony you’ll do it. We want you to work with us. Undercover.’”
“Did they show you identification?”
“They had badges. They wore suits. They looked like the FBI on television. That’s all I knew.”
“And you said?”
“I said, ‘what the hell’. I was getting squeezed from both sides. I figured I might as well work for the good guys. Maybe they’ll all cancel each other out. I could get back to riding.”
“What did you tell Fat Tony?”
“I didn’t have to tell him anything. He sent his goon with the envelope of money to my home that night. I took it. He just said, ‘You’re gonna be a good boy, right?’ I just said, ‘Sure.’”
“What happened then?”
“I went to see Fat Tony. I was wearing a wire. I’d taken the money, but I knew that he’d heard that Roberto wasn’t in it. The deal I made was I’d go along with the fix as long as nothing happened to my brother. Fat Tony agreed. He said he could handle it without hurting Roberto.”
That means Fat Tony was counting on the pebbles in the starting gate and the plan to force Victor’s horse into Roberto’s path to keep Roberto’s horse out of the money.
“So what happened?
“You saw the race. I thought it was strange when they took the blinkers off my horse. He’d always spooked at anything beside him. When I saw Bobby Cataldo on Cat’s Tale on my right flashing his whip at my horse’s eyes, I knew what was up. I couldn’t stop my horse from veering left into Roberto’s path. I heard the hooves click. I knew there was a chance that Roberto’s horse could go down behind me. It was risky as hell, but I didn’t know it’d be that bad.”
Fatal Odds Page 16
