The young women propped themselves up on their elbows and the one on the end, the only one with dark hair, hesitantly asked, “Should we bring anyone else?”
“You mean other men?”
“Yes.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Xavier said, noting that, while cute, she was the least attractive of the bunch. She was probably fearful of being left out. “And just know, ladies, that I can assure each one of you an evening of wonderful drink, atmosphere and intense pleasure.”
A few of them smiled. All of them seemed intrigued by this handsome, lean and muscular man with his designer trunks, his bejeweled watch, and his air of superiority.
“What’s with the neck tattoo?” another one asked.
Xavier showed his best smile, kneeling in front of the girl and tracing his finger up and down her oiled lower leg. “It’s my trademark…one of them anyway.”
“What are the others?” she asked.
“I’ll see to it that you find out first,” he replied with a wink.
Another round of giggles passed through the fivesome.
“Until then,” Xavier pronounced. He stood and walked to Fausto who was awaiting him at the stairway to the boardwalk.
Knowing the women were watching, Xavier accepted the keys from Fausto. He clicked the fob, chirping the alarm of the gleaming black Mercedes. At the car, Xavier said, “In my bathroom, in the medicine cabinet, I want two small shots of ephedrine and my bottle of pills.”
“Indeed, señor,” Fausto said, opening the door for his master.
Xavier drove—he always drove—and whipped the Mercedes E63 AMG into a 180-turn as both rear Pirelli tires, 22 inches in diameter, boiled under white smoke. The crowds on both sides of the boardwalk, most of them young, raised their hands and yelled their approval.
As the tires finally gripped the hot asphalt, Xavier roared past, hanging the right turn away from the beach as if the Mercedes was mounted on rails. Standing from the commotion, the five young ladies, having just finished their first year at the lowest level of higher education in the Netherlands, known as MBO, watched his Formula One-style exit, speaking excitedly afterward about their wealthy new friend.
It promised to be a lively evening.
For some of them.
* * *
Following their fun on the beach, as Justina lounged in the lobby with an English magazine, Gage steamed a black cotton shirt and his pants as he showered. When he came downstairs, he sent Justina up to do the same, asking her to put her things in his bag when she was finished. Then he walked to the nearest Sixt auto rental center, renting an Audi A3 coupe and driving it back to the hotel. He found Justina looking tan and fresh but wearing her clothes from the night before.
“Don’t worry,” he said, sliding the suitcase into an alcove and moving both pistols to the front pocket of the bag. “We’re going to get you some new duds in Tossa.”
“Duds?”
“Clothes.”
They exited the hotel and drove to Tossa de Mar with the windows down. The warm afternoon was quite dry and felt wonderful compared to the heat and humidity Gage had endured in Mexico. Justina turned the radio up as Gage carved the curvy road between Lloret and Tossa. He felt her hand behind his head, toying with his hair as he drove. It was her habit and he liked it very much. The drive took only fifteen minutes and Gage found a hotel on the outskirts of the inner city, near the main road and up on a hill, paying cash for a room with a sea view, even though the view was from a distance.
Gage gave Justina 200 euro for shopping.
“I feel bad.”
“You agreed down on the beach to let me help you,” he said. “We’re not going to keep having this argument.”
“When will you be back?” she asked after kissing him.
He glanced at his Timex, knowing the drive to the rendezvous point would take at least an hour each way. “I’ll try to be back by eleven,” he replied. “Don’t be worried if I’m late.”
She waved the four bills in the air. “Thanks to you, I will be waiting on you in new duds that don’t stink.”
Chapter Seven
Ten kilometers away, in the exclusive hillside community known as Serrabrava, Xavier Zambrano held court over the heads of Los Leones’ four divisions. The monthly summit meeting was not unlike a corporate board meeting, until things sometimes turned ugly. Los Leones, as usual, was cash-starved, and Xavier wasn’t above violent fiscal corrections.
Earlier, after arriving from the beach and washing in the outdoor shower, Xavier sported only a terry robe as he enjoyed a tart glass of Verdejo with his salad. Feeling ravenous, he finished two portions of the fresh garden salad while watching a recap of the week’s top soccer matches from around the world. Then, silencing the television, he’d yelled to Fausto for his main course to be brought in, along with his retinue of lieutenants.
As two large red lobsters were placed before Xavier, the men filed in, quite used to giving their monthly briefings as their superior dined. Sitting around the table in the same order as always, the four lieutenants each stared at their notes. Though they probably wanted to, none of them made eye contact with one another prior to Xavier opening the meeting.
Off to the side, eyeing the four lieutenants from behind his dark-rimmed glasses, was a persnickety little man named Theo Garcia. Garcia, an accountant who’d wound up on the Leones’ payroll due to two ex-wives and a horrible gambling problem, was one of the few people on earth that didn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by Xavier. His favored phrase, the phrase that Xavier hated, was “The numbers don’t lie.”
To Garcia, it was always about the numbers.
Once he had wrenched a claw from one of the lobsters, Xavier situated the lobster cracker in the correct spot, crunching down and liberating a large piece of meat from the shell. He dipped the meat into the drawn butter, holding it in front of his mouth and saying, “Proceed.”
Each of the lieutenants started with a simple briefing, lasting no more than a minute unless something significant had taken place. There were four divisional business concerns represented at the table, and they were always addressed in the exact same order. First was the smallest concern, known in Los Leones as Legítimo. Run by a former attorney, the oldest of the lieutenants and a refined gentleman who preferred tailored suits, Legítimo consisted primarily of legal business transactions running the gambit from property sales to interest on standard investments. Other illegal activity, mostly white-collar crime, fell under Legítimo’s watch, including crimes such as union and political vote rigging and some aspects of high interest loans. Xavier expected Legítimo’s division to create no less than a five percent monthly return, which, by civilian standards, was preposterously high—but Legítimo almost always managed. When the attorney, a trustworthy man who Xavier had greater plans for, announced an April return of nearly seven percent, Xavier had not reacted but simply flicked his eyes to the next man.
The second lieutenant represented a number of enterprises consisting of human interests. Included were street-level loan sharking, prostitution, human trade, protection, and for-hire contracts. The division, and its lieutenant, was simply known as Contratos, meaning contracts. A wily man of sixty, with twin cavernous facial scars courtesy of a rival’s clasp knife, Contratos recited his briefing from memory, announcing monthly revenues that were higher than expected. His thin lips crept upward after he finished his oratory. Xavier was emotionless, turning his eyes to Number Three.
The third lieutenant represented gambling and guns, known colloquially within Los Leones as Balas y Dados. Having spent over half of his life in various Spanish prisons, this lieutenant was probably the rawest of the bunch, and still enjoyed going out on routine collection runs as a way to stay in touch with his street roots. A muscular man who made no effort to hide his anabolic steroid abuse, his appearance was made all the more comical by his small head. The larger he grew, the smaller his head appeared, making him the private butt of many jokes w
ithin Los Leones. His division was typically thought of as Los Leones’ most tightly-run division, despite the multitude of hours its top lieutenant spent pumping iron. And steroids.
According to its lieutenant, Balas y Dados had a lackluster month. Since his numbers were typically good, Xavier gave him a pass and moved on.
The fourth lieutenant was charged with Narcóticos, as it was unofficially named within Los Leones. From warehouses teeming with snow-pure heroin to sniveling street dealers addicted to their own stepped-on product, Los Leones’ narcotics division created more money than all the other divisions combined. Its leader, though the newest of the lieutenants, matched his aggressive business nature with advanced degrees from two Spanish universities. Having been pinched in a drug-dealing arrest twelve years before, he’d created a prison smuggling system so ingenious and so hard to trace that, upon his parole for “good” behavior, he’d rocketed through Los Leones’ fourth division in less than two years’ time, earning Xavier’s trust through sheer revenue.
The fourth lieutenant was a handsome man, if a tad rat-like due to his large and pointy nose. With a lean body and a tight mat of sleek black hair, he was blessed with green eyes, a striking contrast with his dark hair and deep olive skin. Wearing his trademark tailored clothes from Hardy Amies in London, the fourth lieutenant clicked his manicured nails on the table as he recited his numbers. He finished and, although the numbers were low, turned his unapologetic jade eyes at his superior, eyeing him levelly.
“You’re short,” Xavier said monotone.
The fourth lieutenant, his birth name Camilo, shrugged. “With the restrictions you’ve placed on me, and considering the lack of help you’re getting me from the government, you should be throwing a damned party at those numbers.” He surveyed the table, not catching anyone else’s eye, before coming back to Xavier. “And unless something changes, tout de suite, those numbers will continue to trend downward.” The tone dripped condescension and could be described as nothing other than accusatory.
Only Theo Garcia, sitting behind the fourth lieutenant, reacted. His expression was one of horror.
Xavier took the insults without emotion. He finished the second lobster claw, sucking the butter audibly before eating the last chunk of flesh and going to work on the tail. An uncomfortable amount of time passed as he feasted. No one spoke. Halfway through his devouring of the lobster’s tail, a clock chimed in the sitting room. Xavier glanced at it, making a mental note to have Legítimo inquire as to the villa’s owner’s taste for selling the property. In just two days’ time, Xavier had grown to love it.
When he finished with the tail, he ate three large broccoli florets, taking a sip of wine and chasing it back with a large swig of water. Xavier pushed back from the table, crossing his leg over his knee and toying with the hairs of his lower leg as he sucked on his teeth. Finally, almost fifteen minutes after the last spoken word, he continued the conversation as if there had been no gulf in the conversation.
“I’ve noted your objections, Camilo.”
“Very well.”
“I’ve also noted your distractions, and our perpetually short till.”
The other lieutenants could be heard shifting in their seats. For the first time since sitting, all eyes were on Camilo, the fourth lieutenant.
“Distractions and short till?” Camilo asked, pushing his own chair slightly back and turning it to Xavier.
“Indeed.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Your receipts don’t add up to what came in from the street,” Theo Garcia interjected. “I audited them.”
“Maybe you need a new calculator,” Camilo snapped.
“Shut up, Camilo,” Xavier commanded.
Camilo’s olive complexion grew splotchy.
“And the distractions I mentioned have been of a female variety,” Xavier added.
Camilo smiled, forcing a chuckle as he shook his head. “All due respect, señor, but the totals from the street are notoriously inaccurate. Half of those men are addicts. And regarding women…I think we all enjoy such distractions.”
Xavier matched the smile, nodding as if he agreed. “Indeed we do, Camilo. Indeed we do.” Xavier’s mirth evaporated dangerously. “But these other men aren’t stealing from me—” Xavier abruptly paused, “—and screwing my niece.”
The clock that had chimed was the only sound in the villa, steadily ticking sixty times per minute. Fausto, hidden behind the wall of the kitchen with a salad bowl in hand, was frozen, his head turned so his right ear could hear the exchange. He was hanging on every word.
Camilo swallowed, struggling to do so. “I have never stolen money from—”
“Never mind that,” Xavier snapped. “I have proof. What about my niece?”
No one breathed.
“Am I restricted as to who I can interact with?” Camilo croaked.
Xavier shook his head and spoke reasonably. “Not at all, Camilo. My relatives, other than my sisters, are all within the sphere of people you might become involved with. I’m not an unreasonable man.”
Camilo visibly relaxed, smiling weakly.
“But, Camilo, my niece is engaged to be married. And her fiancé is the son of an influential People’s Party senator.”
Camilo’s breathing had become audible, sounding similar to someone who’d just run wind sprints. “She…she seduced me.”
“You’re completely innocent, aren’t you?” Xavier asked coldly.
“No, señor, but I’m vulnerable to women, as I’m sure you are.”
Xavier leaned forward, aiming his finger at Camilo. “Do—not—ever—compare—yourself—to—me.”
If a person were to take a snapshot of the three other lieutenants at that moment, they would see three distinct expressions. The first lieutenant, the cultured attorney, had his eyebrow cocked as he stared curiously at Camilo, as if the trial lawyer inside him were trying to determine how exactly this pseudo-deposition might play out.
The second lieutenant, the wizened old mobster with the twin scars, pressed his lips together, suppressing his grin, anxious for the violent finale to be on its way.
The third lieutenant, his trapezius muscles straining his silk shirt to the point of bursting, adjusted himself in his chair, turning it to allow himself easy access to Camilo. In the event things turned physical, he wanted to get his shots in before it was too late.
And behind them all, Theo Garcia, the persnickety financial man, shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. He’d been the only one with the balls to object to Camilo’s promotion. Narcóticos was the goose that laid the golden eggs. There were far too many risks in placing a dirty whiz kid in charge of it.
Xavier, el capitán, gnawed on his lower lip while his eyes burned Camilo to the ground. Slight tremors passed through Xavier as he awaited a response, refusing to say a thing as his narcotics lieutenant sat fidgeting in front of him.
“Señor,” Camilo finally intoned, sounding more exasperated than sorry, “I didn’t realize that my becoming involved with Juana would be a problem, but I will end it.”
“I have a question,” Xavier stated.
“Fine.”
“I know it’s fine, Camilo,” Xavier said. “Don’t tell me that a question is fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
Xavier stared through gun-slit eyes.
“Please, señor, ask your question.”
“Have you gone so far as to have sexual intercourse with my niece?”
Camilo’s lips parted. “Señor…”
“Answer me.”
Eyes down, Camilo nodded.
“How many times?”
“A few.”
“How many?”
Camilo’s narrow chest expanded as he took a great breath. “Perhaps ten.”
“And she was a virgin?”
“Another nod.”
“You’ve spoiled her. Eres una rata.”
Wisely, Camilo kept his head and eyes down.
&nbs
p; Xavier stood, walking around the table, never taking his eyes off of Camilo. “Fortunately for you, Camilo, I’m receiving guests shortly.” Camilo’s relaxation was visible as his entire body slumped.
Xavier spoke to the group. “Money is short. Our friend Theo here says we’re operationally inefficient. So, heading into prime earning season due to the tourists, do not dare come here next month without at least a ten percent gain over today’s numbers. Understood?”
Everyone nodded.
Camilo quickly pushed his chair back.
“I’m not done with you, Camilo.”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Xavier casually walked back to his seat, taking the greasy lobster cracker in his hand and stepping into the kitchen. Winking at Fausto, Xavier washed the lobster cracker, taking his time to soap it and scrub it with the dish brush. After rinsing it, he patted it dry with the dish towel and walked back into the dining area, noting the keen looks from everyone but Camilo.
Camilo’s facial expression resided somewhere in the category of sheer horror.
“Choose two fingers,” Xavier whispered. “One on each hand.”
“S-S-Señor Zambrano, please,” Camilo said, voice quavering.
“We’re going to do this,” Xavier said. “Now, don’t be a little coño. Take it like a man, stop screwing my niece, and I will try to rectify the situation with the fiancé. Okay?” Xavier straightened. “Now, choose two fingers.”
“I promise I will never touch her again.”
“You took my money, too.”
“Never again,” Camilo shuddered, tears running down his face.
“Choose!” Xavier barked.
Shaking, Camilo extended his two pinkie fingers. Xavier briefly closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he considered each lieutenant. The first, the attorney, viewed Camilo with a curled lip. The second, the wizened one, chuckled knowingly. The third, Mr. Steroids, gritted his teeth, eyeing Camilo the way he might a fine cut of meat.
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