He glanced at Andy, and beamed. Picking one of the students, a fifteen year old boy, Adrian said, “Let’s show ‘em what we’ve been working on.” He and the student proceeded through a series of fighting sequences called prearranged kumite, which demonstrated his and the student’s impressive abilities. Early on, Adrian had decided not to force martial arts on Andy, but if ever he wanted to learn, Adrian had committed himself to teaching him as if he was the only student he’d ever had.
As they finished, the student directed a kick toward Adrian’s midsection. Adrian fell to the floor as if defeated and the student raised his hands triumphantly.
Adrian got to his feet, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s why the ancient Masters never taught their studentseverything they knew!” His adolescent audience laughed. As he and the student bowed to each other in traditional fashion, Adrian directed a soft punch just short of the student’s head, surprising him. The student appeared confused by the unexpected move.
Adrian then used the demonstration to make a point to the class. “That’s why we never take our eyes off our opponent, even when you’re showing him respect. It’s one of the foremost rules in martial arts.” The student then understood, grinned sheepishly and bowed again, this time keeping his eyes on Adrian.
To his students, he said, “Okay, pair off and practice punching and blocking techniques. I’ll be right back.”
Adrian entered his office, taking in the wall of trophies, photographs and newspaper clippings mounted in the glass casings that literally covered two walls. In reality, these were only a fraction of them. He had his students had won so many awards and tournaments that he’d begun sending them home with their hardware after six months in order to make room for more recent acquisitions. It also served as an incentive for them to attain new and greater accomplishments at higher levels of competition. If there was one thing he loved to do, it was teach. If there was something he loved even more, it was seeing his students better themselves and go on to greater heights. It gave him pause to consider how the teacher had somehow become lost in his own conflicting netherworld.
Several of his students had fathers on the local police. Therefore, having his netherworld clientele coming and going was forbidden. It was another of the growing list of reasons why he wanted to get out once and for all. It had become something much larger than he’d ever imagined or intended, had taken on a life of its own, and was now a serious threat to his future. Worse, the prevailing credo of many of his associates was that no one could just ‘walk away’.
Glancing at the day’s morning newspaper the reality of his predicament was thrust in his face with a slap. The headline read, “Three Die In Botched Drug Sting”. He then perused the photo inserts of Jimmy Hennessey and the Corrales brothers, which were accompanied of another photo showing their lifeless, sheet covered corpses being loaded into ambulances bound for the morgue. Theirs had not been a passive business. Neither was his.
He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a gym bag and inspected its contents. It was the money he owed Angelo; one more collection would complete his rounds, and he could then square up with him for the last time. That would be another piece of tricky business; how do it would him knowing it.
Just as he was about to return the bag to the drawer Andy opened the door, and entered. Adrian smiled, and winked at him. “Hey, you.”
“Are you coming back out, Dad?”
“Sure, I just had to take care of some business.”
“With that bag?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it? Can I see?”
Adrian paused. “Better that you don’t,” he answered, putting it away.
“Is something bad in there?”
Adrian grimaced internally, but was careful not to show it. “It’s just some money.”
“So why can't I see? Is it for men you meet, the ones who come to our house?”
“You seem pretty curious about them. How come?”
“Mama says they make her afraid.”
“She told you that?”
“I heard her tell aunt Paula.”
Adrian dropped to one knee. His son shouldn’t have had to worry about things like this. No kid should. He gently pulled his son close to him, hugging him. “Pretty soon this will be over and mama won’t have to be afraid any more.”
************
Bobby Russo walked into Serrano's office and tossed a sheaf of papers onto his desk. Like any report, it had been a pain in the ass, and he was glad to be done with it. Now maybe he could get back to the streets.
“That's it," said Russo. "Twenty-two pages of things you wouldn't want to try at home." Then, less sarcastically, he asked, "Okay if I get back to my real job now?"
Serrano didn't answer. He didn't even look up. Instead, he slowly thumbed through the report, skimming it. He knew Russo was hungry to get back to the field, which was precisely why he made Russo sit and wait. Once Russo got back in action, the report would quickly be forgotten. Like most good agents, Russo put more emphasis on bad guys than on paperwork.
When he was finished, Serrano laid the report on his desk and then looked at Russo for the first time since he had entered the room.
"Looks pretty good, we'll consider it finished. Now, let's take a look at where we stand. Lenny won't be back until next week, and there's nothing we can do about it. As for the Merrimack Valley Project, you haven't much to go on. The Corrales brothers and Paulie Lapienza are dead, so is Jimmy Hennessey. We know there's still weight coming in, and it can't be Lapienza or the Corrales brothers. Someone else is making moves up there."
"According to Hennessey," said Russo, “Adrian Cabraal is supposed to be a heavy hitter. I followed him a few times, but saw nothing."
"Stay after him anyway. Miami has tied him to some pretty big fish down there, not the least of who is Angelo Bultaco. I think he’s worth watching, and for now that’s what we’ll do.”
Chapter Six
Adrian quietly closed the door and tiptoed into the apartment. Not that it made any difference. Jennifer was still up, and the disgust etched on her face told him he was in trouble.
"Another early night just like all the others," she said sarcastically. "What the hell is wrong with you? Is your business so important that you can't spend time at home?"
"Sorry, I had to take care of something."
"Something I'd rather not hear about, right?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Sorry isn't good enough any more! I'm sorry, too. Sorry I've put up with your lifestyle for so long. I've had it, Adrian. No more! Do you hear me! No more!"
"Hey, what am I supposed to do?" The ripple effect from the Paulie Lapienza killing had apparently never occurred to her, or she might’ve already packed up and left.
"What you're supposed to do," she said emphatically, "is get out of that business, or get out of this house. I'm sick and tired of all this. It isn't normal."
He spread his hands, beseeching her to understand. "I'm doing the best I can. Be patient, I'll be quitting soon."
"That's not good enough any more. Quit now, or find someone else to wait up for you at night."
"I can't just quit like it was nothing."
"Well, you'd better or our marriage will be nothing. That's the way it is, Adrian. Take it or leave it."
He looked at the floor in frustration. How could he get through to her? She didn't know what she was asking. To make things worse, she had delivered an ultimatum.
"Look," he said, "you don't just walk away from a business like this. It takes time. Let me settle accounts with everyone, then I'll quit. How's that?"
She folded her arms and looked at him long and hard. Finally, she said, "All right, I'll give you one week. But if you're not out of this evil business eight days from now, your bags will be packed and sitting outside the door."
He breathed deeply. This wouldn't be easy, but she was his wife and he loved her. Money, power and toys weren't worth losing her and Andy.
Nothing was.
"Deal."
*************
Three days later, Bobby Russo and his boss, Gerry Serrano were huddled in a strategy session while assessing their most recent observations. "I’m starting to see that our boy Adrian leads a more interesting life than I thought. I’ve been watching him make the rounds, and he’s met with several known dealers all the way from Boston to Worcester to Providence, Rhode Island. Got a couple more names we hadn’t known about before. It’s almost as though he’s on tour. I'd go get a warrant, but the trouble is he never seems to be holding."
Serrano was unperturbed. "Might be making the rounds, collecting money. And that's all right. It’ll give us a chance to continue connecting the dots between him and his people. He’s uncovering a whole new network for us."
Serrano thought for a moment, slowly drumming his fingers on the desktop. After making his decision, "Be patient. We’ll make our case against Cabraal. Based on his known associations with known traffickers, I'll ask permission for a wiretap and start building a conspiracy case. And since you've got time on your hands until Lenny comes back, you can do some more homework on him. We’ll subpoena the phone company for copies of his phone bills for the last year. See how many calls were made to known traffickers, wiseguys, and anyone else we'd be interested in. By the time Lenny gets back, we should have more than enough to move on him."
"I'm a step ahead of you," said Russo. He tossed a second manila folder on Serrano's desk.
"What's that?"
"Those are Cabraal's phone bills for the past year. Like you said, traffickers, wiseguys, all kinds of interesting people."
"Fill me in."
"They establish that he and Angelo Bultaco – who seems to be his primary connection - have had a running romance for a long time. Bultaco's number in Miami is plastered all over both his home and cell numbers."
His interest piqued, Serrano leaned forward. "What else is there?"
"We haven't checked all the numbers yet, but so far we've connected him to traffickers in Boston, Canada, and the West Coast. He's also tied up with some shady characters in New York and Philadelphia. And here's something that'll interest you -- one of the numbers that consistently shows up belongs to Lester Sims. Ring a bell? If I remember, Lester's one of your all-time favorites. Our boy Adrian seems to have his fingers in a lot of sordid pies. I'd like a shot at flipping him once we take him down."
"Good luck," said Serrano. "From the sound of things you'll have to stand in line. Everyone'll want a crack at him."
"Everyone, shit," spat Russo. "First come, first served."
"Yeah, right. Tell that to the Native Americans."
"Hey, when we're done with him, whoever wants him can have what’s left."
"You're taking a lot for granted, Bobby. Cabraal may not be as easy as you think."
"I look forward to the encounter. Where do you want to go from here?" asked Russo.
"Finish putting together that list of names and phone numbers. In the meantime, I'll be working on another angle. If things work out, we'll have Cabraal by the end of the month."
**********
Adrian ground the cocaine with a vengeance, as though it was to blame for Jennifer and Andy being late. Glancing at his watch, he pursed his lips. Ten-thirty at night. She and Andy had been gone all day and he hadn't heard from them. At the same time, he was forced to admit that he was getting a taste of his own medicine. Many times he'd been gone all day without calling. And as a friend had once told him, when most people got a taste of their own medicine, they want to change medicines.
After drawing a couple of lines on the glass, he bent over the tabletop and hastily and snorted them up, flinching at the strong medicinal bite that assaulted his nose. He sat back a moment, trying to savor a sensation that lately had been losing its appeal. What once brought pleasure and relief wasn't working like it had. It made him wonder if he was falling out of love with it, that perhaps the romance was over. It might not be a bad idea to leave it behind along with the lifestyle he'd built around it.
He wiped the remaining crumbs of cocaine from the glass. Rising, he tossed the straw into the trash, and walked to the phone in the kitchen.
He punched 411, and asked for the numbers to the ER at the Lawrence General and Holy Family hospitals.
He was about to dial again when he heard someone at the door. Andy walked in, followed by Jennifer. He put the phone down, relieved albeit mildly upset.
"Are you two all right? I was about to start calling the hospitals."
"We're all right," said Jennifer wearily. "We spent a long day with my sister and her kids, that's all."
“I wish you’d have called, I was getting worried.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Adrian pulled Andy close to him, and hugged him. Andy reveled in squeezing his father with all his might to show him how strong he was and how much he loved him. “You trying to break me, or what? Don’t you know I’m getting old? If you squeeze too hard I might smash into pieces.”
“No way, dad. You’re going to live forever.”
Jennifer gently pried Andy away from Adrian. "I think we've had enough male bonding for one night. It's late, and you still have to wash up and get ready for bed.”
Andy hugged Jennifer, then reached up, kissed Adrian and scurried off to the bathroom. He busied himself while Adrian and Jennifer were in the kitchen, glad that he’d been able to stay up past his bedtime. His clothes were off and he had started running water in the sink. He pulled a face cloth down from the rack and was about to put it under the running water until he saw a smudge on it. He sniffed it, and not knowing it was Jennifer's makeup, he tossed it into the hamper, deeming it unusable. Without saying anything, he padded to their bedroom, and opened a bureau drawer where he'd seen them retrieve towels on many occasions. As he rummaged through the drawer he came upon something he'd seen on television and in the movies, but never in real life. Now, alone with it, it merited a closer look...
Out in the kitchen, Jennifer turned to Adrian. "I bet you started to think I traded you in for the real thing."
"I don’t worry about what you’re doing when I’m not around. It’s one of the things I love about you most.” Nodding toward the bathroom, he added, “He’s the one that worries me.”
“Why?”
“He started in again about ‘those men I see’. I know he was just being curious, but it bothers me."
"It’s more than that, Adrian. He senses something's wrong, but he can't put his finger on it. All he can do is hope it goes away."
"Don’t worry, it’s going to go away. I just hope it goes peacefully, that's all."
Jennifer poured spring water into two glasses filled with crushed ice. "What’s happening with your collections? They almost done?"
“Yeah, I picked up the last of them this afternoon.”
"I'll be glad when you're done with all this, and we can get our lives--"
A loud explosion from the bedroom stopped her in mid-sentence. There came a dull thud, then a second, heavier thud a second later.
And then silence.
Jennifer stared at Adrian in horror. For Adrian it seemed as though time had suddenly stood still.
"Andy?" No answer. "Andy!" The agonized shriek burst from her mouth and together they bolted into the bedroom, not wanting to see, yet not able to resist.
Rounding the corner, they halted in the doorway and stared at Andy. He was on floor...blubbering, his face a mask of fear and shock. A .357 lay on the carpet beside him, and a large hole had been blown in the dresser's mirror.
Seeing the look on their faces, he became frightened and said, "I just wanted to see it. I didn't mean to--"
Jennifer raced to him, scooped him up in her arms and hugged him though she was trying to pull him inside her.
Adrian simply stood in the doorway, unable to imagine what he'd have done if they had lost their only child. Especially like that. A part of him would have been driven to pick up
the gun and use it on himself. It would have been the perfect kiss-off to a life he’d never intended. The means to some ends weren't worth it, no matter what was gained from them.
His numbed gaze vacillated back and forth between Andy and Jennifer. At a loss for something to say, Jennifer said it for him.
"It's over, Adrian. If you never collect another dime and we have to go homeless or on welfare, or live under a bridge, it's over."
Still stunned, Adrian stood in the doorway and slowly nodded as he stared at the ultimate wake-up call.
Chapter Seven
Adrian pulled into the lot at the Holiday Inn, parked, and looked around. A suitcase with a million and a half dollars in cash would be an inviting target for anyone, no matter what the risk. And there would have been a risk. It came from the .357 he had stuffed in the waste band of his pants. He shuddered just thinking about it. It was the same .357 that could have killed his son forty-eight hours earlier. That’s something else he wouldn’t miss: guns, the men who carried them, and the situations that required them.
He exited the BMW, locked it with the remote, then took another casual look around again as he carried the suitcase
to the second floor stairwell. After ascending the stairs, he walked the length of the balcony to Room 217, and knocked. The door opened, and he found himself staring at RJ’s craggy, drawn unshaven face.
One glance at Adrian, and RJ’s face glazed with contempt. “Well, well, well, if it ain't the Boston Bad Boy. What’s going on, Bad Boy?”
Adrian brushed past him into a room that carried the heavy, pungent odor of marijuana. Tossing the suitcase on the bed, he said, “Nothing you could handle, punk. Where’s Angelo?”
“He went for something to eat. He’ll be back.”
Rules of the Game Page 5
