Fatal Odds

by John F. Dobbyn

  THIRTY-TWO

  IT MAY NOT have been the greatest win in racing history, since all of the horses except Victor’s and the longest shot on the board for whom the race was fixed were being pulled by their jockeys. But it sure felt like it. I saw more emotion on Rick McDonough’s flushed face in the winner’s circle than I thought he could muster. He caught sight of me by the weigh-in scales. I read an instant look of consternation in his expression because I had not trusted him with the real plan, but the elation of the unexpected win clearly drowned it out.

  Now events would start to move at warp speed. I set up a quick meeting that evening with Mr. Devlin and Billy Coyne. I chose a spot that would be least likely to be frequented by Fat Tony or the local band of insectos. It was also one that would give us the absolute maximum security I needed—St. Anthony’s Mission Church at 100 Arch Street, a short walk from the office of each of them. Brother Bruce Lenich, with whom I’ve gone one on one on a basketball court with personally humiliating and expensive results more often than I care to admit, let us use his office.

  At this point, there was no choice but to lay all the cards on the table—face up. I explained the presence and purpose of Harry Wong, now stashed in a luxury suite of the Ritz-Carlton, in the most optimistic terms I could manage. My explanation drew the “Are-you-serious?” look I expected from Billy Coyne. Mr. D.’s expression sent me a generous, if tentative, “benefit of the doubt” message. I took a breath and launched into one of the hardest sells of my life.

  “Mr. Coyne, I think you’re probably wondering why in the world you agreed to line up the federal forces behind this little plan.” He nodded. “And you’re also wondering how in hell you can squeeze $900,000 out of the federal executive budget to carry it off.” The next nod was more vigorous.

  “It had to be done this way. I need Harry Wong at the center of the action to pull it off.”

  I explained why. Mr. Coyne’s forehead was still deeply furrowed. It was time for my last fastball right over the plate.

  “I’m counting on the fact that at this moment, Fat Tony and the insectos involved in this animal smuggling scheme are scared totally crapless. They owe some $900,000 to Chico Mendosa’s gang in Mayagüez for the animals that are waiting to be delivered. They counted on the winnings from that race this afternoon to pay it. As we planned, Victor blew their dreams to pieces by winning the race. They not only lost all the winnings they expected to use, they lost all the money they bet on the race with bookies all over this country and Canada, plus the cost of fixing the race. They are in one hell of a hole. And they know better than anyone what Chico Mendosa’s mob will do to them when they don’t come up with the cash. Chico’s boys will send a message in pure pain and blood. Right now, Fat Tony and the insectos would sell the souls of their grandmothers for a bailout.”

  At least the grimace was gone from Mr. Coyne’s face. On to point two.

  “There’s a second level. Chico’s boys will double the squeeze on Fat Tony and the insectos because Chico’s gang owes at least that much to the South American drug cartel to pay for the heroin they’re packing in with the animals. They need to be paid by Fat Tony and the insectos in order to pay off the cartel. And if Chico’s gang can be inhumanly vicious in collecting their debts, you can at least double that for the cartel. Chico’s people will be grasping at any straw that floats by.”

  The furrows were gone from his forehead. Mr. Coyne was just murmuring, “Mmmm.”

  “This plan could work, Mr. Coyne. Harry and I are putting our lives on the line for it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You better suppose. Like the pig said when the hen invited him for a ham-and-egg breakfast. ‘For you it’s just a pain in the ass. For me it’s a matter of life or death.’”

  I thought it, but not to deflect his focus with similes, I just said, “That’s the plan. I have to know now. The clock’s running. Are we in or out?”

  It took ten more weighty seconds before he mumbled, “I’ll get the cash for you. Are you sure you need all of the $900,000?”

  “No. I recalculated. I need an even million. Can you have it in cash, in a large unmarked briefcase? I’ll pick it up from Mr. Devlin in his office at nine tomorrow morning.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. Some things you leave to faith.

  My next contact was indirect. I couldn’t risk a face-to-face meeting with Fat Tony Cannucci in his then state of mind. But I needed a chance to defuse him with a possible escape hatch.

  I first called Paulie Caruso at his quasi-office at D’Angelo’s Restaurant in the North End. The first thirty seconds of the call I spent calming his tantrum over the non-fixed race. I did it by calling my client, Victor, every synonym for a traitorous, backstabbing, lowlife, scumbag I could think of. That confused Paulie.

  “I’m on your side, Mr. Caruso. I know about the animal deal. I’m actually in it for a cut of the profits. That damned jockey betrayed me, too.”

  That brought his temperature below the boiling point.

  “But I’ve got a solution. We can still save the deal.”

  I’m sure he heard that as “We can still haul your condemned ass out of the fire pit.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  I laid out a plan for a meeting the next morning at ten. I commissioned Paulie to convey the invitation to bring Fat Tony with him. That was half of the cast. I also needed Jose Ramos, the head of the insectos in Mayagüez on board since they were partnered in the animal deal with Paulie’s Boston mafia family. I asked Paulie to bring Ramos into the loop by conference call.

  Before Paulie reached Ramos, I figured a little preparation of that ground would be in order. I called the restaurant, El Rey de Lechón in Roslindale. Ben the Chef answered.

  “Hi, Mike. You missed my best specialty tonight.”

  “Be kind to me, Ben. Don’t tell me what it was. You don’t want to hear me cry. Is the big man there?”

  “We’re just closing. He’s having a brandy in the dining room.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Sure. I just hung the ‘Closed’ sign. Hang on.”

  The conversation switched to Spanish. I was not sure what to make of Mr. Garcia’s greeting.

  “Michael! What the hell is this? I heard you were killed last night. At Jamaica Pond.”

  “You know what Mr. Twain said. ‘Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’”

  There was a pause. “What a relief, Michael. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Thank you. I have just a minute. Can we talk privately?”

  “Certainly. Go ahead.”

  “The fixing of that race backfired. Victor rode to win. I thought that would kill the insectos deal for the animals. That would be the best thing for your Nyetas.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “But now there’s a new wrinkle. Someone else showed up. I hear he wants to put money into the animal deal. He’s a big shot with the Chinese tong. They run organized crime in every city that has a Chinatown. He has almost unlimited funds.”

  “Who is he? Where’s he from?”

  “That’s all I heard. Nobody outside of the tong itself knows much about any of them. They’re a complete island. I only know it looks bad for the Nyetas. This guy is the real deal.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. “That’s bad news, Michael. Where’d you get the information?”

  “One of those confidential sources I mentioned. An old friend in Chinatown. We’ve exchanged favors over the years. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I know you’d do the same for me.”

  With that seed planted, I let a splash or two of the Famous Grouse untangle tightly wound nerves to get a solid night’s sleep before a day that promised to be memorable.

  * * *

  By quarter of ten the next morning, I was giving Harry Wong the kind of last-minute prep I’d have given to a critical trial witness. He sat sipping coffee out of a Spode cup in a $2000 suit with the silk shirt and Bally shoes that I had pre
viously stocked in his closet. He exuded the air of one to the manner born.

  His increasing comfort in the role of a member of the luxuriously wealthy class was reassuring. At the same time, it was scaring the hell out of me. Harry has been known to play it over the top.

  “You’re sure you’ve got it, Harry? I want you relaxed and on top of it. At the same time, not too relaxed. Remember that one slip and we’re hamburger.”

  He gave me a look.

  “Is that how you comfort your witnesses?”

  “Just trying to tune you up.”

  The phone rang. One of us jumped three inches, and it wasn’t Harry. I got it.

  “Sir, there are two . . . gentlemen asking for Mr. Chin An-Lo.”

  I sensed that the concierge was stretching his understanding of the word “gentlemen” to the rupture point. I asked him to show them to the elevator up to Harry’s room.

  A soft, sonorous bell sounded by the door leading to Harry’s private elevator. I answered the door and escorted Fat Tony and Paulie Caruso into a royally appointed sitting room that had their necks on a constant swivel. I invited them to sit on Chippendale chairs, while I made the call with the number I got from Paulie that brought the top insecto in Mayagüez, Jose Ramos, into the conversation on speakerphone.

  Harry let them sit and absorb their surroundings for thirty seconds, and then fidget for another thirty seconds, before making his entrance. I was about to summon him by the scruff of the neck for overdoing it, when suddenly our Harry appeared.

  I was stunned myself. He coasted across the floor looking like a million dollars from head to toe—literally. The two thugs on the Chippendales were on their feet instantly. They each held out a hand as he approached. I nearly lost my breakfast when Harry ignored both hands in passing and simply glided in for a landing on a sofa that could be sold for the price of my Corvette. He was solidly in the role. The silent words, “So far, so good,” slowed my heart rate a trifle.

  He finally acknowledged them with a glance. I started to introduce them, but Harry cut me off in mid-introduction. “Mr. Knight, there is nothing you can add. I know more about these people than their own mothers. And you there on the telephone, you as well. That said, let’s not quibble about facts. You have a business transaction regarding live cargo. It interests me.”

  Paulie Caruso found his voice first. “You have an interest in the animals, Mr. . . .”

  “Not in the slightest. I have an interest in money, Mr. Caruso. Your cargo represents money. What you don’t have is the capital to bring it off. I do.”

  There was a soft knock at the door. I leaped up to open it. It was a finely liveried employee of the hotel. He spoke from the doorway directly to Harry, “Mr. Chin, may I bring you and your guests beverages and refreshments?”

  Harry’s answer was decisive. “No. These people will not be staying long enough to bring coffee. You’re dismissed.”

  I closed and locked the door behind the rapidly retreating hotel employee. Harry continued the monologue. “I am prepared to invest the $900,000 you need to consummate the purchase of the cargo.”

  Paulie and Fat Tony looked at each other. If they had been in any other surrounding, they’d have bounced their fat butts off the Chippendales and high-fived. I could almost hear a sigh of relief over the speakerphone.

  Harry read it in their faces. Before they could speak, he continued. “Before you agree, it comes at a price. Exactly what profit do you expect from the sale of this cargo?”

  This time Fat Tony found his voice. “We understand . . . three million . . .”

  Harry smiled. He looked at Fat Tony with a glare that could cow a rhinoceros. “The figure is four million five hundred thousand. I would expect you to lie, Mr. Cannucci, because you’re a thief and a blackguard. However, that said, if you ever try to deceive or defraud me again in the slightest matter, you will most assuredly lose more than my investment. Do you understand that completely?”

  As if to lend punctuation to Harry’s words, two amazingly muscled young Chinese men, dressed head to toe in black, entered the room from the door of Harry’s entrance. Harry had apparently felt the need to add a supporting cast. They caught the attention of Fat Tony and stifled in mid-throat any intended reply. He simply nodded.

  “Good. Life is simpler when there is no room for misunderstanding. Now to the price. I have two conditions. My portion of the profits shall be 35 percent.”

  “Oh crap, Harry. Control yourself. The plan was 25 percent. That’s what I mean by over the top.” The words resounded between my ears, but never left my mouth.

  “If there is the slightest disagreement with that figure, my associates will escort you to the elevator. This is not a negotiation.”

  I could see Paulie and Fat Tony weighing the loss of 35 percent of the profits against the impending loss of bodily parts to Chico’s thugs. The nods came within five seconds. I heard a mumbled, “No objection,” over the speakerphone.

  “Good. We won’t speak of this again. Secondly, your supplier of this cargo is Señor Chico Mendosa’s organization in Mayagüez. I need to reach an arrangement with Señor Mendosa before the $900,000 is at your disposal. Señor Ramos, you’ll arrange a meeting with Mr. Mendosa.”

  The voice of Jose Ramos, the head of the insectos, came over the speakerphone. “When and where?”

  “This afternoon. Two o’clock sharp.”

  There was a pause. “Excuse me, Señor. He could not possibly get to Boston by then.”

  “Of course not. But I can be in Mayagüez. My plane is being readied now. Two p.m. Sharp. Mr. Knight will arrange the place. He will be accompanying me.”

  Harry looked at the silent faces and stood. “Excellent. If my meeting with Señor Mendosa produces results that satisfy me, you’ll have the money you need this evening. Now one last item.”

  Harry looked at one of the palace guard standing by the door. I could read him. I all but whispered, “Don’t snap your fingers, Harry. This is not a 1940s movie.”

  He snapped his fingers. The guard disappeared through the door. He returned in seconds with the largest and finest leather briefcase I have ever seen. Harry nodded at the table in front of the guests. The guard placed the briefcase in front of them.

  “Gentlemen. Lest you’re ever temped to take my words less than seriously . . .”

  Harry took a key from his pocket, unlocked the case, and flipped it open with a feigned nonchalance that I almost wanted to applaud. The eyes of the guests nearly left their heads. They had never seen the color green in such profusion as in the $900,000 lying in front of them.

  Harry gave it ten seconds to sink in. He flipped the case closed, picked it up, and strode through the door he had entered without one syllable of salutation.

  It was a remarkable performance.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE PRIVATE JET I chartered for Harry was in the air ten minutes after we arrived at Logan Airport. During the flight, I reached Nestor by cell phone in Mayagüez. His skepticism when I outlined the plan was overcome only by his lack of any Plan B.

  There was a car to meet us at a secluded edge of the runway at the Eugenio Maria De Hostos Airport in Mayagüez. Harry and I jumped aboard, and the car took off. The driver wore a black shirt and pants with a cap pulled low over his forehead. We turned onto Highway 2 heading north at a good clip before the driver pushed back the cap and cast me a wary smile.

  “Nestor! Good to see you. I thought you’d send a driver.”

  “You know you’re dealing with the devil here, Michael. I thought I better watch your back.”

  “Thanks, but this time I think we’re safer if you stay out of sight. The fewer competing gang entanglements, the safer. Besides, if they wanted to just shoot the three of us, what could you do?”

  “So how do you two plan to stay alive? Chico Mendosa’s bunch is the worst of the worst.”

  I could feel a shiver run through Harry on the seat beside me.

  “We have something they wa
nt. $900,000. They don’t get it until we get back to Boston alive.”

  “Suppose they decide to just kidnap you two. A couple of days of torture and you’d be sending home for the ransom. Your buddy here looks like money walking. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Harry smiled as he said it. He held a hand over the seat to shake hands. Nestor looked at him as if he were a potential sack of ransom cash in unmarked bills. He ignored the hand and just kept driving. “I repeat the question, Michael.”

  “They’re no dummies. I figure they’ve been moving contraband animals for years. Now they’re on the verge of a drug score that makes the rest of it look like small change. Are they going to jeopardize it by killing two American citizens?”

  He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “I don’t know, are they? Maybe you give them too much credit for smarts.”

  Nestor turned off on a small, one-lane side road. He headed northeast.

  I decided the subject needed changing. “How did you set it up, Nestor?”

  He just shook his head, apparently resigned to the fact that the die was cast. “I got a message through to Chico Mendosa about the meeting you wanted with their head man. I did it through one of their men I knew from the old days. We have no open fight with Chico’s gang at the moment.”

  I knew the “we” meant the Nyetas.

  “So where do we meet?”

  “‘Where’ is not the problem. They chose the place. ‘Who’ is the problem. He’ll have an army with him.”

  “That’s okay. He needs me. Actually, he needs Harry.”

  The one-lane road turned into a dirt road that led to the shore of a river, the Rio Grande de Añasco. Two men with what looked like AK-47s blocked the road. I realized that this was my show from here on.

  “Slow down, but keep driving till we get to them.”

  The two guards split, one on each side of the car. I patted Harry’s arm. I whispered, “Buck up, Harry. Just like we’re valet parking for the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”