Fatal Odds

by John F. Dobbyn

  Another hesitation.

  “Maybe you don’t value your life like I do, Sergeant. But if I were sitting where you are, I’d get that wagon to the front door without messing around. We’re bringing him right up. Be sure to tell Señor Ramos the delay is not my fault. Neither is the phone call. If you don’t, I will.”

  There was no reply. On pure faith, the five of us marched down the corridor, up the steps, and directly past the sergeant’s dais toward the door. We never slowed for conversation. When the sergeant yelled a confused, “Hey, where the hell are you taking those other two?”—which would be Nestor and me—the guard continued to play the role. “He wants to see them too. Jorge and I can handle it. Where’s the wagon?”

  On cue, a paneled police wagon pulled up to the front door. All of us but the guard got in the back section. The guard pulled open the driver’s door. He yelled one word at the driver with an authority I think he was beginning to enjoy. “Out!”

  The driver scurried down onto the sidewalk. The guard jumped into the driver’s seat, threw it in gear, and the tires left four coatings of rubber on the hot pavement.

  The wagon’s siren cleared a convoluted path through side streets at a clip that would embarrass a Boston taxi driver. After ten minutes of evasive driving, the guard brought the speed back down to merely dangerous. He yelled back to Nestor for directions. Nestor gave him the address of a small clinic that was well out in a suburb that was, as I learned later, controlled by the Nyetas. Nestor used the guard’s phone to call ahead to have medical assistance on alert for our arrival.

  Within ten minutes, Jorge was lending his gentle muscle to the transference of the now unconscious Mickey Santos to a medical gurney outside of the clinic. From that point, we split up. Nestor and Jorge stayed with Mickey. I flagged a cab to go back to my hotel with instructions to wait for Nestor’s call.

  Before going on his way, the guard looked to Nestor for any last order. Nestor looked at him for a few seconds. I think he was calculating the odds that the guard would revert to his former loyalties. He must have decided in the guard’s favor.

  “You did well. I meant what I said. Your life won’t be worth a peso when they put all this together. You’ve got a small window. There are ships leaving from the docks all the time. I’d ditch the patrol wagon and hop a cab if I were you.”

  “Thank you, Señor Ruiz. I will. I’m going to go to—”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s safer if you’re the only one who knows.”

  * * *

  In spite of the idyllic trappings of the resort hotel, it was a night of wrestling with waking premonitions of the next “fine mess” we’d be wading into, interspersed with sleeping nightmares along the same lines.

  I was into a third cup of coffee at breakfast when I got the next cryptic call from Nestor.

  “Tonight. Midnight. Be at the front entrance of the hotel.”

  “Damn it! Could you just once soften it with ‘Good Morning,’ ‘Nice Day,’ ‘How the hell are you?,’ anything before the invitation to another walk into the bowels of hell?”

  My cooler Irish side prevailed. What I actually said was, “I’ll be there. What’s up?”

  “Mickey said the ship from Brazil docks sometime this evening. They won’t unload the animals till tomorrow morning. I’m sure most of the crew will be off the ship tonight, probably in some bar. I want to check out the cargo hold while there’s a minimum of security. You should be there to see it, too.”

  “Minimum security or not, how do we get through it?”

  “Victor’ll be with us. He told the insectos he’d have to go alone with his cousin to check out the shipment of animals. They apparently believed him since his cousin is their only contact with the syndicate that arranged the shipment. Victor says he can try using his cousin’s name to get you and me on the ship. It might work.”

  “The key word in all that being ‘might’.”

  “If you wanted a safe, predictable life, you should have been an accountant.”

  “Thank you for the career counseling. You’re late by about ten years. I’ll be at the front entrance at midnight. Meanwhile, have yourself a very happy day.”

  “Damn, you do love the small talk.”

  “Yes, I do. It reminds me that somewhere there’s a civilized world of people who don’t spend every waking hour trying to kill some living being. Like me. Right?”

  There was a pause that took me by surprise. “I suppose. I haven’t seen that civilized world in a long, long time.”

  I had a strong feeling that that last was not by his choice. I felt a small pang of regret at my tone and choice of words.

  “I understand. At least I’m beginning to. Thank you for taking me along. I couldn’t do what I have to do without you. I’ll see you tonight.”

  * * *

  That gave me the morning free. I took the time to retrieve my phone from the crack in the pavement. I also used the time to remind myself that there was a small circle of people in Boston who actually cared that I return intact. I walked to the beach where the peaceful, rhythmic lapping of waves on the shore would make an appropriate background for the most calming account I could give of my present status.

  At the top of that short list was Terry—Terry, who was about to invest every hope for a future of love, children, stability, and happiness in someone who could not make a reasonably safe bet on seeing the next sunrise.

  That was a quandary. She deserved the truth. She also deserved not to spend the next several days under a cloud of fear for the one at the center of those hopes. That was a tightrope walk. The best I could do was to dial her number in faith that the words would come.

  And they did. Her excitement and joy in our being connected, even by the thin thread of a call, poured through the phone. And the words came to both of us.

  For the first ten or so minutes, we simply poured out that joy in every possible form of expression. Eventually, however, the time came to answer the inevitable question. “When will you be home?”

  I explained the uncertain timing in terms of meetings with our client, Victor, as well as conferences with an interesting new acquaintance by the name of Nestor, and several other Puerto Ricans who might be able to shed light on our defense strategy for the client. At the earliest possible moment after that, I’d be knocking on her seaside door in Winthrop, Massachusetts.

  That pretty much summarized the true facts. It also syphoned off the terror that lay behind them. When that call ended, I renewed the silent vow to myself that if this case should be closed with all bodily functions intact, title searching and will drafting would consume my entire law practice. I might die of boredom, but it would be a considerably more drawn-out demise.

  The second call on that short list was to my senior partner, Lex Devlin. Presumptuous as this may sound, I knew that Mr. D. was suffering an anxiety level pretty much as high as Terry’s for my safe return. I had left Boston with no more explanation to him than I was flying to Puerto Rico to follow a lead.

  I knew this call would take at least the half hour that our usual morning chats over coffee consumed in his office. I decided to make the call through the one who I knew always had my back at the home front, my assistant, Julie.

  “Michael! Are you all right? Where are you? Are you back home? Are you all right?”

  “Julie, I’m fine. Never better. In fact, better for hearing your voice. How are you?”

  “I’m always fine. I don’t do dangerous things. But you . . . Are you staying out of danger for once?”

  “Listen to this.” I held the phone out to catch the gentle breaking of the waves. “Right at this moment I’m on an idyllic shore in the Caribbean, soaking up sun, good Puerto Rican cooking, an occasional game of dominoes. What could be more peaceful?”

  “You have to say that to Mr. Devlin. He’s been pacing around here like a caged lion. Have you been getting his calls and emails?”

  “Tell you the truth, Julie, I’ve been too busy with meeting
s to catch up on either. I’ll give him a full report.”

  “Good. I’ll transfer you right away. Don’t get too much sun on that Irish complexion. Do you have plenty of sunblock?”

  “I do. The only problem is I’m a little short of bullet-block and nightstick-block.” I left that last part out. “I’ll see you within the week, Julie.”

  The next voice on the line came at a volume that almost eliminated the need for electronics. If Mr. D. had just opened his office window, I’d probably have heard him.

  “Michael, where in the blazing bastions of hell have you been?”

  I took him through the last three days, incident by incident, in a great more detail than I reported to Terry. He listened without interruption. We both knew that personal concerns aside, we had a professional obligation to the client, and we both knew going in that this would be no cakewalk.

  I finished by recounting the prospect of a glimpse of the wild animal cargo on the ship that night, perhaps overemphasizing the optimistic aspects I’d gotten from Nestor. As we talked, I could visualize Mr. D. pacing in the space between his desk and the window facing Boston harbor, and far beyond, the island of Puerto Rico.

  We finished the call by bringing deputy D.A., Billy Coyne, into a three-way connection on his private line. I took the lead in striking a deal. For our part, I gave him every bit of information I had. It substantiated what he had suspected from the beginning—that an enormous part of the iceberg lay below the surface—the fixed race at Suffolk Downs. I could tell from his tone that even that old court warrior was shaken by the prospect of the influx of drugs, guns, and violent turf wars that could flood his city as a result of heavy financing through the trade in wild animals.

  I was also careful not to underplay the fact that my presence in Puerto Rico at the prospective scene of the crime was the best, if not only, chance of preventing that outcome, though God only knew how.

  His part of the deal was to put a leash on the flaming ambition of his boss, District Attorney Angela Lamb. What little I knew of the details of the joint venture between the North End Italian mafiosi and the Puerto Rican insectos included one more fixed race at Suffolk Downs to complete the financing of the deal for the animals. I needed to be sure that Victor could return to the mainland to ride in that race without being snatched up prematurely on an arrest warrant for the felony murder of his brother.

  Billy assured me that so far he had held her at bay. Through his stalling, the indictment of Victor was still pending finality with the grand jury. No arrest warrant had been issued yet. Since Mr. Coyne personally handled all major presentations to the Suffolk County grand jury, he’d see that his schedule remained clogged with other matters.

  Billy signed off with a mutual exchange of promises to keep each other current. I was alone with Mr. D. on the line. I braced for an onslaught of commands and limitations, all calculated to keep me alive and in glowing health—and all impossible to obey, given the future prospects.

  To my amazement, his voice lowered and he said just four words. “Come home safe, Michael.”

  I found myself swallowing a lump that clogged my throat. I knew that his words were as sincerely felt as any that have ever been spoken.

  As were mine. “I will, Mr. Devlin.”

  PART FOUR

  TWENTY-THREE

  THREE DAYS OUT TO SEA

  In the hold of the cargo ship, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

  DAY OR NIGHT made no difference to Ancarit and his grandfather, Ansuro. The days of the voyage passed like one continuous night in the hold of the cargo ship, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. The only faint rays of light came from one weak bulb suspended in the center of the large chamber below deck.

  Except for spells when they would collapse from near exhaustion, their time was consumed with bringing buckets of water to the crying mouths of the caged and bound animals.

  For the first three days, the only sound to remind them that there was a world outside of their stifling enclosure was the labored chugging of the ship’s tired engines. The longer it went on, the greater the hope that they could keep on with their routine without interruption until the journey ended. They knew that at that point, both their fate and that of the animals was out of their hands.

  During the first day, rest periods had been spent in conversation to distract their minds from the constant dread of discovery. By the second day, even fear had no power over the demand of their bodies for sleep.

  It was the beginning of the third twenty-four-hour period when Ancarit laid down the water pail he was carrying. Once again he had to take his grandfather by the arm and insist that he give his body rest. Without food for nearly three days, rest was the only restoration that kept their bodies capable of lifting the heavy pails of water.

  Ancarit saw to it that his grandfather was lying beside him on the burlap mats on the floor before he let himself slip into the brief twilight that preceded sleep. Routine had become the narcotic that let his mind idle.

  It was in that twilight that Ancarit flinched at the sudden grip of his grandfather’s steeled fingers on his arm. At that same instant, blinding rays of sunlight burst through the hatch that had been pulled open at the top of the stairs above them. Their eyes recoiled in pain at the sudden brilliance. None of their senses gave them a clue as to who stood in the doorway.

  Their only emotion was hopelessness. They were completely exposed to whoever stood at the top of the stairs. Hiding was not an option, and flight was impossible.

  It was nearly a minute before their eyes could adjust to their first bath of sunlight in over two days. When they took the first painful glimpse above, they could make out the outline of one man. They watched for motion, but there was no movement. He simply stood above them—watching.

  Ancarit was the first to stand. He helped his grandfather to his feet beside him to face together whatever was coming. With the passing seconds, it began to appear that the intruder was in no hurry to descend to attack them or to retreat to summon help.

  Ancarit saw his grandfather raise his arms and hold them out to the side with his hands open. Ancarit took it as either a sign of peace or a plea for mercy. He did the same.

  The figure on the stairs seemed to understand. He took one unhurried step at a time down the stairs that brought him close enough to be seen clearly. Ansuro’s expectation was jolted when he recognized the features of a black African instead of a Brazilian like the rest of the crew.

  “What you doin’ here?”

  Ansuro heard the English words in an accent that he recalled from his time in the west African country of Sierra Leone. To his grandson, the man’s color, features, and way of speaking were beyond any he’d experienced. His grandfather had taught him some English, but not in this accent.

  The size and build of the man told him that his grandfather and he would have no defense against anything the man wanted to do to them. At the same time, his way of moving radiated more caution than a threat of violence.

  “Speak. You tell me now. What you doin’ down here?”

  The old man lowered his arms. He took one slow step toward the man and stopped. “We mean no harm. To you or the animals.”

  The man looked around at the cages that surrounded him. He was seeing something that obviously puzzled him. “What you do to these animals?”

  “Nothing. I assure you. We haven’t hurt them.”

  The man looked at the water pails, still moist from the last rounds. “You do somethin’. You tell me now.”

  “We haven’t . . . Why are you asking about the animals? You see them. They’re just as they were when you people loaded them.”

  The African straightened up. He looked into the eyes of both with an expression neither could read. The hearts of both men felt a constriction when the African turned without a word and climbed the stairs. They heard metal clang on metal as the heavy hatch locked into place.

  Once more they were isolated in a darkness that seemed even more smothering than i
t had been before. Their presence and their awareness that a crime was being committed would be known in minutes to those above deck. The only certainty was that they would not be allowed to live.

  Ansuro reached down and picked up the pail he had been using. Ancarit could hear his steady voice. “We can’t help ourselves. But we can do what we’re here for. God only knows when these poor creatures will have water again. Shall we do what we can?”

  Ancarit picked up his own pail. He tried to smile at his grandfather for what he thought would be the last time. Together they filled the buckets and began carrying water to all of the animals they could reach before time ran out.

  They had watered nearly a third of the animals when the sound came again. This time without looking, they knew the heavy hatch was being pulled open. They froze where they were until they could see how many came down the steps to take their lives.

  When their eyes could focus above, they saw the silhouette of the African. He was still alone. When he came down the steps, they could see two bundles under his arms.

  He moved more quickly this time as if he sensed a reason for haste. When he came to within ten feet, he dropped the bundles on the floor in front of him. He spoke in a quiet voice.

  “I know what you doin’ down here. Why you do it?”

  Ansuro spoke first. “We’re doing no harm. Please let us finish before—”

  “I see you helpin’ them poor beasts. Why you do it?”

  Ansuro had no idea of what to say but the truth. “Because they’re suffering.”

  The man looked from one to the other before speaking. He pointed to the two bundles he had dropped. “This one for you. That one for them.”

  He turned and walked back toward the stairs. Ansuro called after him. “Wait. Are you going to tell them about us?”

  The African looked back. He nodded to the bundles on the floor. “Use it now. We reach port tonight. The evenin’. They won’t unload till just before dawn.”