By the time we had passed halfway to the back of the room, we had seen enough. There was no point in going further. Nestor signaled us to turn around. He pointed the light beam behind us. We started back toward the stairs with Victor in the lead, me next, and Nestor behind.
We had taken about three steps, when a sharp pained grunt from Nestor followed the sound of something heavy coming down on flesh and bone. I spun around, but the flashlight he had held was rolling across the floor. In the darkness, I could only hear a scuffle between Nestor and what sounded like two men.
I ran to where I heard the flashlight rolling against a cage. I grabbed it and spun around to cast light on the scuffle. Nestor was trying to throw what looked like an old man off his shoulders. Another younger man held him in a grip around his throat.
I could see the strength that came from desperation in the faces of the two attackers, but even together they were no match for Nestor. In two moves, he had the two forced up against the stack of cages. He had one in each hand in a tightening grip on their throats. Their arms and legs were flailing at him, but Nestor clearly had their lives in his hands.
I was certain that within moments there would be two more lifeless bodies in that room. And there would have been, but for a voice that boomed and echoed from the steps. “Stop it! Leave them two alone! Now!”
The three of us turned to see a massive black African man descending the stairs. The club he held in his giant fist seemed more threatening than a gun. Nestor froze in place.
“Let them men go. You hear me. They not your enemies. They not hurtin’ your animals. They keepin’ ’em alive.”
Nestor relaxed his grip on the throats of the two men. He turned to face the approaching African.
“You leave them two alone. You hear me? You hurt them two, you answer to me.”
The African was just a few feet from us and still approaching with the club raised. Nestor spoke from behind us. His voice was calmer and lower than I expected. “We’re not your enemy, either. They’re not our animals. Listen to me. We came to help them. I think we’re on the same side.”
There were a few seconds of indecision. The six of us were frozen in position. Nestor and the African were each trying to read the face of the other. Nestor moved first. He pulled the gun out of his belt from behind his back. I was afraid he’d use it just to be sure. Instead he just showed it to the African and laid it down on the floor. He held his arms and hands out straight. Victor and I did the same. The African looked into each of our faces for a few seconds before he raised his hands in the same gesture.
The African brushed past me and Victor and bent down to help the two men Nestor had been holding. They had dropped to the floor when he released them. The African took the hand of each of them to help them up. “You all right? He didn’t hurt you too much?”
The older man shook his head. “We’re all right. I think we have to trust him. And these two men. We have to trust someone or we’ll all be dead. Then no one will help these animals.”
The African nodded. He turned to Nestor and Victor and me. “Who are you? Why you want to help?”
Nestor took the lead. He explained quickly what had brought the three of us down those steps. He made it clear that each of us had reasons of our own for wanting to help the caged animals. Different as those reasons were, they put us all on the same side.
“And who are you?”
The older man spoke first. “My name is Ansuro. I’m from a village on the Amazon in Brazil. That’s where many of these animals were captured. This is my grandson, Ancarit.”
Ansuro gave a brief account of what had brought him and his grandson to the hold of that ship, and more importantly, what they had been doing during the voyage. They pointed to the African, who had previously told the two of them that his name was Martin. “This man, Martin, he’s from Sierra Leone in Africa. He is an angel of God. Without him . . .”
Ansuro’s voice caught, but even without specifics, we knew what he was expressing. While time permitted, there was more to say on each side. Every part of it cemented the six of us more tightly in a single purpose—to save the animals that were still alive. The fundamental question for all of us was how it could be done. Amazingly, in that new brotherhood, none of us was asking, “And how do we escape with our own lives?”
Each of us was aware that the hour of dawn was approaching. According to Victor’s information, the men from his cousin’s gang would be coming before daylight to remove the animals. We assumed from what Victor said that they would be taken by truck to land. We had no idea where or how to follow them.
Eventually a rough plan took shape. It was far from foolproof, but each of us signed on without reservation. Victor, Nestor, and I climbed the steps back to the deck. The sun had yet to make an appearance to give us away to any unfriendly eyes.
We passed the lone sailor who kept watch when we had come aboard. We had intended to mumble something inconsequential on the way by, like “Adios, mate,” but it was unnecessary. Their watchful guard was deep in the arms of Morpheus.
On the dock, Nestor, Victor, and I took up a position out of sight beside one of the storage buildings. We settled in to watch. Within a half hour, three large army-type trucks with canvas covered beds pulled up alongside the gangplank. A crew of three dressed in what looked like longshoreman garb got out of each of the trucks. No words were spoken as they mounted the gangplank single file. They went straight to the hold in the center of the deck.
Within minutes, we saw the men reappear from the hold below, each laboring under the weight of a cage crammed full of animals. They hoisted the cages into the canvas-covered backs of the three trucks.
The rough, callous handling of the cages of defenseless animals by these thugs spurred a heartfelt, but ill-advised, impulse to send a few rounds of ammunition in their direction. Cooler thoughts prevailed. We all knew there was much more at stake than what was happening before our eyes.
A slight hint of sunlight was beginning to light the sky by the time they finished. The light was enough for the three of us to spot Ansuro and Ancarit bending their backs to join in the carrying of cages along with the trucks’ crews. As we had hoped, the thugs apparently thought they were part of the ship’s crew lending a hand. They were not about to refuse help with a job no human could possibly enjoy.
We watched closely toward the end of the loading. In the sparse, dusky light, the truck crew, sweating and weary from their labors, never noticed that Ansuro and Ancarit stowed away among the cages in the third truck.
As the trucks turned and pulled slowly away from the pier, I felt that sense of helplessness welling up again. It was probably shared by Victor and Nestor. I could not imagine what emotions the two Brazilian natives must have been feeling. They were now part of the contraband shipment heading God only knew where, but most certainly into the hands of a gang that valued profits well above human or any other form of life.
There was nothing to do now but wait. When we forged the rough plan together in the hold, I had given the cell phone I had received from Nestor to the old man, Ansuro. Assuming that he and Ancarit survived the unloading undetected and could describe their location, the plan was that they would use the phone to inform Nestor. That could be hours or even days away.
* * *
The sun was well up by the time Nestor dropped me at my hotel. I knew Victor would be phoning his report on the animals to the head of the insectos, Jose Ramos, before flying back to Boston. He had one more fixed race to pull off for Fat Tony Cannucci to raise the second installment of payment for the animals.
It must have crossed Victor’s mind, as it did mine, that once that fixed race was run, and the animals were smuggled into the mainland and sold for an enormous profit, Victor’s usefulness to the two gangs involved would have run its course. He’d be a liability as a witness to people who seldom left such liabilities breathing.
Nestor and I agreed that I could be of more use on the Boston end. He could keep
me informed of anything he learned from the two Brazilians.
I had three calls to make from my hotel room. The first was to book a seat on the next plane that morning to Boston. The second was to Mr. Devlin to let him know that he still had a living, breathing partner, who would soon be making the most joyful entrance of his life into the Boston offices of Devlin & Knight.
The third call was the most important. I knew it would take longer, and I didn’t want it to be rushed. On the drive back to the hotel, I had done one of the most serious life evaluations of my twenty-seven years. I let a decision percolate long enough to be sure it wasn’t the result of stress or exhaustion. When I reached my hotel room, I waited to pick up the phone until I was as certain as I could be of what I was about to say.
Then I dialed Terry’s number.
TWENTY-SIX
MY PHONE CALL reached Terry at home in Winthrop before she left for work. When the excitement of reconnecting had been fully felt and expressed between us, I settled down to explain to Terry the conclusion that I found inescapable from a consideration of the previous three days. I had thought and rethought of the number of times in that short period that every dream of our life together could have been snuffed out in one fatal instant. The immediate days ahead held prospects of the same kind of uncertainty. That forced the making of a decision for each of us. We go forward with the dream, or we say it would be kinder and wiser to end it now.
For me, the decision was easy and irrevocable. We cling to the dream and live it for as long as God keeps it alive. But the decision had to be hers, too. I left it equally in her hands.
I asked the question, and my breathing stopped. It began again in three seconds. That was the time it took her to express her decision. I was apparently engaged to a lady who was as impractically in love as I was.
That was important, but it was just the first part of the decision. I had also concluded for my part that our dreams were far too precious to leave indefinitely in the grip of an unpredictable future. I couldn’t guess what the next twenty-four hours held, let alone the next eight months.
That being so, I suggested to Terry the possibility of our meeting with our wedding planner, Janet Reading—who would undoubtedly consider the two of us mentally deranged for even considering it—and moving the date of our wedding from sometime in the spring to the following Saturday.
Terry’s only response was, “I’ll call Janet. Let’s put it together tomorrow at lunch.”
My heart took a small trip upwards into my throat. I could hardly get out the word, “Where?”
It was a foolish question. The Parker House, of course.
* * *
Some sights and sounds imbed themselves so deeply in our memories that instant recall is available forever. High on that list is the joyous, squealing sound of the rubber tires of that 747 grabbing the asphalt on Runway 27 at Logan Airport sometime after midnight. The sight that went with it was equally joyous—the view across Boston Harbor of that sleepy peninsula called Point Shirley in Winthrop.
I was in mid-debate with myself about dragging my sleepless bones and unshaven face directly to the Andrew Street address on that peninsula and waking Terry out of a sound sleep, or waiting until morning. Logic had no place in the debate. When I walked off the plane into the nearly abandoned terminal, the decision had already been made to offer a hefty tip to any cabbie who knew the shortcuts to Winthrop.
It turned out that I was not the only one with a total disregard for the hour. When I came through the ramp into terminal C3, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. I can still recall every nuance of joy radiating from Terry’s smile. Her arms were open, and I was in them, and every trace of the paralyzing fears and frustrations of the previous week dissolved.
That night I slept the sleep of one who could finally let go of every fear and dread of the day ahead—at least for one night. The next morning, the sweet aroma of my own blend of coffee in my own apartment on Beacon Street said “You’re home.” I won’t say that the elevator ride to the Devlin & Knight suite of offices on the seventh floor of 77 Franklin Street was exactly the “Stairway to Paradise,” but it was so damned close, it could have fooled me.
I made no stops between the elevator door and the corner office of Mr. Devlin. He was behind his desk when he saw me. The emotion that framed that crusty old trial warrior’s face will also remain with me forever. He walked around his desk as if he had difficulty believing what he saw.
We just looked at each other for a second. He was the first to get his voice back. “Michael—Don’t you ever—I don’t give a damn who the client is—”
His words ended there, but for the first time in the three years we’d known each other, he held out his arms. I moved to respond, and we actually hugged each other like the father and son we’d grown to be.
There was so much to say. In my usual verbal reports to Mr. D., I frequently underplay the danger of situations I stumble into in defending our clients. I do it both to save him the anxiety, and, frankly, to save myself the barrier I know he’d raise to my doing what I know has to be done. In this case, I laid out every bit of it, no punches pulled.
We agreed that a meeting with Deputy District Attorney Billy Coyne was in order. I also knew that nothing could take precedence over my lunch with Terry at the Parker House. Mr. D. and I agreed to meet at our usual Marliave Restaurant for dinner at seven. He knew that Mr. Coyne would cancel anything to be there, salivating for any details I could give him, as well as a dinner at the hands of John Ricciutti.
I next checked in with my assistant, Julie. It turned out that she was so emotional about our reunion with my life intact that she ignored, let alone forgave, my abandoning her to the depredations of incensed clients and opposing counsel. There was another hug there, and for a brief humbling second, I gave thanks for the blessing of those three people who cared deeply that I was still alive.
The lunch meeting with Terry and Janet at the Parker House was a complete hoot. Janet was to meet us there a half hour after we arrived. That gave Terry and me time to reaffirm our decision not to waste an unnecessary hour of our lives apart. It meant moving the date of our wedding up to that Saturday. We knew we needed a united front on the date before breaking the news to Janet.
True to form, Janet blew into the main dining room her accustomed ten minutes late. The radiant smile on her face said she had no inkling of what we were going to lay on her. We stuck to small talk long enough to let her polish off most of her Beefeater’s martini.
Terry and I had decided that I should break it to her on the chance that she’d be less likely to come sailing across the table for my throat. On that supposition, I simply said, “Janet, brace yourself.”
The smile froze. “For what, Michael?”
“The wedding that you’re so meticulously planning for a date eight months from now—”
“Which,” she broke in, “is already stressing me out. You know I need at least twelve months—”
“Janet, grab the table with both hands and hold on tight. The wedding is going to be next Saturday.”
She just smiled. “Michael, your damned Irish sense of humor is going to have me planning my own wake instead of your wedding.”
She signaled the waiter to bring another Beefeater’s, telling him to skip the vermouth. “Now Michael, Terry, can we have a civilized conversation?”
“We can, Janet. Here are the details. It will be next Saturday. It’s going to be here at the Parker House. If they give you any grief, which they won’t, use Mr. Devlin’s name. That will break any logjam. Terry and I will contact the members of the wedding party. You have the guest list. Same list as before. If anyone can’t make it on short notice, we’ll connect with them for a dinner later.”
At first, her eyes just glazed over. Then, as it sank in, I could see the fire intensifying in each pupil. Just before the explosion that I knew would accompany the words, “Absolutely impossible”, I laid any argument to rest—for better or worse
. “Janet, listen to me. That date is fixed in stone. Everything else we leave in your capable hands.”
She froze. The recalculations that were spinning her mental wheels had her locked in stunned silence. I stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She never moved. I thought her eyes were going to start spinning like a casino slot machine.
Her first movement was to reach across the aisle to snatch the second martini from the tray of the waiter. While she ingested it in gulps rather than sips, I looked at Terry.
I kissed her and whispered, “That should calm her. Can you take it from here?”
“I’ll get her a third martini. She’ll be fine.”
“Call me if you need fortification. I have a dinner tonight with Mr. Devlin. Let’s meet later at Big Daddy’s. Around eleven?”
“I’ll see you there.”
* * *
There were five hours open before meeting Mr. D. and Billy Coyne at the Marliave. It was time to step out of the calm I was so enjoying and wade back into the vortex of the storm. One of the major loose ends that I had left dangling when I jumped from the frying pan in Boston into the fire in Mayagüez was still hanging, much as I’d have loved to ignore it.
The night after my meeting with Paco, my now-apparent savior from the wrath of the Coyotes years ago when I chose to leave the gang, there was an incident that I could ignore only at considerable risk. By the time I found Paco at Jamaica Pond he had been fatally wounded. His killer came within a count of three of putting a bullet through one of my own vital organs. Had it not been for a shot from somewhere around the dark edge of the pond to the heart of my intended assassin, this recounting would have been cut decidedly short.
That left three pressing questions: Who, with an incentive to kill Paco, knew about the time and place of our meeting? Why, at that point, would that person want me equally dead? And who was the marksman whose bullet kept me alive? These were more than curiosity. I had no reason to hope that putting an end to my existence had lost its appeal to someone. In fact, if there was a connection between that night and the bombing of my sweet Corvette, which was likely, I realized I’d do well to make the answers to those questions a high priority.
Fatal Odds Page 21
