Gibson & Clarke (Failed Justice Series Book 2)

by Rick Santini

  Marta: Sorry. Must cancel. Client called. Emergency. Raincheck tomorrow.

  Marta hit Send on her cell phone.

  As she glanced outside, she saw the black Mercedes sedan parked by the curb across the street. She wondered how long it had been there. Probably since she had hung up from Mr. Yeung.

  Shit. I am in no mood to be social to anyone, let alone a potential new client, an associate of Mr. Yeung. He probably just flew in from Beijing with 50,000 kilos of heroin.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, she had showered, sprayed her hair in place, and put on a business suit. It was the most expensive thing she owned. It was also the sexiest, considering it was a two-piece suit with a contrasting silk blouse. The suit was white linen that stopped just below the knees, and the blouse was Chinese red. She wore red pumps, not that she needed to. She already towered over Xiang by a good six inches in her stocking feet.

  The chauffeur said nothing as he drove her home, parked, and waited until she changed and got back in the sedan. When Marta asked who the associate was and where she was going, he became mute. Not that he had ever opened his mouth in front of her before.

  She sat in the back seat, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

  It didn’t help much.

  CHAPTER 11

  Marta could not have been more shocked if she had tried.

  The “restaurant” was in an old, seemingly abandoned warehouse off an unpaved road near the international airport. She had never heard of it before. There was no sign on the door. There were less than a dozen tables, each with a privacy screen for obvious reasons. Marta had a feeling there was a very private banquet room for large, discreet parties. The maître d’ recognized the car and driver as she was quietly deposited at the front door.

  “Good evening, Ms. Clarke. Your hosts are already seated. They in a private room in the back. Please allow me to escort you there.”

  Marta was not nervous. Apprehensive would be more accurate. Scared shitless would have been far more honest.

  Mr. Xiang Yeung had obviously been notified. He was standing by the door to welcome her. The third diner was clearly the distinguished associate. He was not Chinese. He was not even Asian. He was Italian. She would learn a few minutes later he was actually Sicilian.

  “Marta, may I present my good friend and associate from Long Island, Salvatore Bonnonnos.”

  “Good to meets ya, I’m sure. Please, call me Sonny Bananas. All my friends do.”

  Marta froze. Everyone in law enforcement this side of the Mississippi had heard of the infamous Sonny Bananas, head of the notorious Bonnonnos family. He was dressed in glitter. The only thing missing to identify him was a large solid gold medal around his size eighteen neck that read MAFIA BOSS.

  “My pleasure, Sonny,” she said as she extended her right hand. It was quickly engulfed in a catcher’s size mitt of a hand. “This is a most unusual restaurant. I’m not sure I have ever been here before or if I’ve ever even heard of it.”

  “Trust me, Ms. Clarke. You haven’t been here before. It’s by invitation only. There is no name; it’s for private dining only. A very close associate of mine owns it. There is also no menu. You will not be disappointed with the food—or the service.”

  Marta did not have to have it spelled out. It was all too clear. Maybe a bit too clear.

  Sonny snapped his fingers, and two waiters arrived out of nowhere.

  “What’s ya drinking, Ms. Clarke? You name it, we’s got it.”

  Marta thought a minute. She wasn’t about to make this easy on her newfound friend.

  “I assume you will have an assortment of cheeses before dinner. I would love Bordeaux, a Laffite Rothschild, 1984 or ’85 if you have one.”

  Sonny did not know a Rothschild from a homemade bottle of dago red. He turned and looked at the waiter, who quickly scurried away.

  “I’m sure we can find youse something.”

  Mr. Yeung sat there, amused. He knew exactly what Marta was doing and was enjoying every minute of the embarrassment.

  The waiter returned in a few minutes with a single glass of a deep purple wine. There was no bottle. Marta assumed it had to be very good, but not what she requested.

  Had Marta not been a big girl with a big appetite, she never would have gotten through the antipasto. The meats and cheeses were all imported. She had a feeling they had never gone through US Customs.

  The main course was chicken and veal in every manner you could imagine. Each with a special pasta and a traditional red sauce. It was to die for. Not the most appropriate term to use.

  Dessert was coffee laced with sambucca and cannoli.

  “Can I get you anything else, Ms. Clarke?”

  “Thank you, Sonny. No. It was delicious. I’m sure I have never had such a meal before.”

  “Good, then maybe we can get down to business.”

  Xiang sat back, sipping his special brew tea, looked at Mr. Bonnonnos and Ms. Clarke, and waited for the show to begin. An hour later, she was escorted back to her ride. Her head was swimming.

  ***

  Marta could not wait to call Billy Jo and let him know what had happened—but not in the limo. She had a few throwaway cell phones at home for just such an occasion.

  You can never be too careful when talking on the phone, she thought. Any phone.

  ***

  “What’s ya think?”

  “I think you impressed her. I think she was a bit overwhelmed. I think she will talk it over with Mr. Gibson, her law partner, and I think she will say yes. Now can we conclude our own private business? It is late, and at my age, my body demands a full night’s sleep.”

  “Of course, Mr. Yeung, of course.” Sonny signaled to his ever-present bodyguard. “More coffee and sambucca.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him we were delighted with the opportunity but could not give him an answer until I spoke to my partner, meaning you. I let him know the increase in business would require additional staffing. At least one more full-time experienced lawyer. He told me to take as much time as we needed. He also stated the offer would be withdrawn in seventy-two hours if not accepted.”

  “Sounds typical. I think we should talk in person. I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, your office. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  Marta was about to say, “Do you think I’m crazy,” when the line went dead.

  She said a quick prayer that the phone was the only thing that was now dead.

  ***

  Billy sat in her office. His cell phone was softly playing Pandora.

  “Do we need music at a time like this?” Marta remarked.

  “We do if the room is being bugged.”

  They were sitting right next to each other with soft jazz on.

  Marta had not thought of that. Her eyes opened wide. The look was “that’s not possible, is it?”

  “Now, tell me word for word what Mr. Bonnonnos, or Sonny, as you like to call him, said to you.”

  Marta was getting a bit edgy but repeated as much of the conversation as she could.

  “What did Mr. Yeung have to say?”

  Marta paused. As she recalled, he had said nothing. Aside from the initial introduction, he had not said a dozen words. Now she recalled, he had sat back, listened, and watched as if he were no more than an interested spectator. She wondered who controlled who.

  Were they associates, were they some type of partners, or was one controlled by the other, and if so, which one controlled the other?

  It scared the crap out of her.

  “I’ll be right back. I don’t feel so good. I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

  Billy turned to her. “You may well be right. You may also want to consider moving. Say to Belize or Honduras.”

  Marta ran to the ladies’ room.

  “Not funny,” she yelled out as the door closed.

  Billy Jo was not laughing.

  ***

  Salvat
ore Bonnonnos loved to pronounce the E in his first name. He made it clear only his close friends could call him Sonny. To all others, it was Mr. Bonnonnos or Salvatore with a strong emphasis on the E. For those who did not listen and learn, they seldom had an opportunity to correct the mistake a second time.

  Make no mistake about it, Salvatore was not Italian. He was Siciliano. His great-grandparents were born in Corleone, Sicily. His grandparents were born in Corleone, both his mama and papa were born in Corleone, and not so little baby Salvatore was born in Corleone.

  An only child, he had lived there until he was fourteen years old. Then he was sent to live with an aunt and uncle in New York City. It was in lower Manhattan where what he learned back home was put in affect. Win through intimidation. Salvatore was very big for his age. If that didn’t work, a few broken fingers usually did the trick. As a last resort, it was the knife.

  Always the very reliable knife.

  Salvatore hated guns for many reasons. They were loud, they could be traced by serial number and ballistic testing, and they were usually illegal. No one, especially one who worked the docks, was ever arrested for carrying a knife. It was a tool of the trade. You didn’t need a permit or anyone’s permission to carry a seven-inch knife, especially one in a sheath. No one ever traced a sliced carotid artery to a particular knife, and most important, it was quiet.

  Like an American Express card, Salvatore Bonnonnos never left home without one.

  His favorite for the past thirty-five years had a black mother-of-pearl handle. He had “made his bones” with that three-and-a-half-inch handle, three-and-a-half-inch blade, more times than he could remember. Today, it was more of a good luck charm. The knife hung from a tooled leather sheath on his back, right side of his belt, like a badge of honor.

  And so it was.

  It did not take long for Salvatore to rise through the ranks. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, he knew how to take orders, and he knew never to brag about what he did. When necessary, his knife did the talking for him.

  By the age of thirty-one, he was a capo. At thirty-nine, he was capo de capo, boss of the bosses. Today, everyone knew who he was and everyone feared him.

  Everyone except Xiang Yeung.

  Everyone assumed Salvatore made all the important decisions when it came to every phase of his operation—including the opium business.

  Everyone was wrong.

  Sonny Bananas ran his business exactly the way he wanted to. He made all the big decisions; he called all the shots. If he needed someone whacked, he merely nodded his head. No one told him what to do, when or how to do it, with one large exception. When it came to the opium business—cocaine and heroin—Sonny had no choice but to rely on his supplier. The one man who controlled every kilo of opium from north of Delaware to south of Boston. That included New Jersey, most of New York, and Connecticut.

  That man was a quiet elderly gentleman who required a solid eight hours sleep every night. That man needed only to raise his bushy eyebrows or wrinkle his weather-lined face to have someone eliminated—permanently.

  That man was named Xiang Yeung.

  ***

  Xiang was a strong proponent of the old adage “Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.” Mr. Yeung had no reason to distrust Sonny Bananas, but to give him free rein would be darn right foolish. More than that, it could be a fatal mistake. Xiang needed someone on the inside to report to him. He needed a spy. Someone he trusted. Who better than Sonny’s own lawyers?

  I didn’t get to where I am by not paying attention to all details or being sloppy. Ms. Clarke will report to me and never realize it. From now on, she is my in-house bitch.

  Had Marta known what she was getting into, a stomachache would have been the very least of her problems.

  Xiang smiled. He liked the expression though he was never one to use foul language or to let his feelings be known. He decided to pour himself another cup of tea. One of Xian’s indulgences was a particular tealeaf only grown in the province where he grew up. There was virtually no demand that it be imported, so every six months, a package was air shipped from the nearest big city in China to Newark. At first, the postal inspectors checked every ounce of the seven-pound package.

  Every time, they came up with the same old answer.

  Tea. Plain old, simple tea.

  After a few years, the examination became cursory. Never a good idea.

  ***

  Coincidently, Marta was also now drinking tea. This one came from the local supermarket, was in a double-fold bag with a small string, and was labeled Lipton. She was sipping and thinking.

  Billy Jo was patiently waiting for an answer.

  “Either we represent criminals, or we don’t. There is no money in misdemeanors or speeding tickets or jay walking. My God, look at our last retainer. You could not have saved that much working for the district attorney’s office for the next twenty years. Without being too crude, it’s now time to shit or get off the pot.”

  “I know. You’re right. I guess it has come too fast, too easy. Why, we haven’t closed one single case for Mr. Yeung, and already, he is recommending us to an out-of-state associate. God knows what that means, to handle work in New York and New Jersey.”

  “So?”

  “We’re in. All the way. Guess I better call my new best friend and let him know before it’s too late.”

  “I agree. As if I actually had to tell you. But it really had to be your decision.”

  “Thanks. Now we should be thinking of at least one new associate, preferably someone who has their ticket in New York and Jersey. Someone with at least five to ten years’ experience in the criminal law system.”

  Billy Jo was way ahead of her. He already had several names in mind but wanted it to come from her.

  “Again, I agree.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Rik was feeling a bit lost. Neglected may have been a more accurate term.

  He had his own small office, an expense account, and virtually nothing to do. It was too soon, he was told.

  Marta popped into his office ten minutes before closing time.

  “Do you have a few minutes, Rik?”

  “Lady, that’s all I have—time. What do you need?”

  “As you know, we will be doing a substantial amount of work for Mr. Yeung. It appears we will also be doing some work in New York for a Mr. Salvatore Bonnonnos. I would like you to…”

  “Holy crap. You’re going to represent Sonny Bananas?”

  Marta just looked at Rik.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Marta, but you just hit the freakin’ mother lode. Everyone knows who Sonny Bananas is and what he does.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I do. I would like you to do a very quiet investigation as to exactly what Mr. Bonnonnos does and how he may be connected to Mr. Yeung. Be careful, very careful.”

  “I’ll start first thing in the morning.”

  There was a pause.

  “By the way, any chance of dinner with you tonight?”

  Marta was starved and nothing sounded better than a good meal. Preferably a steak with all the trimmings. She was about to say yes when she looked at the smirk on Rik’s face. He wasn’t thinking about dinner. He had his mind set on dessert, probably a chocolate éclair, back at her place.

  “Thanks, but I have a ton of work to go through, and I promised Billy I would go over some things with him later. Maybe in a day or two. Thanks for the invite.”

  The rejection was written all over his face. It was the second time in less than a week that she had said no.

  “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  She gave Rik a quick kiss on the cheek and reminded him to be careful on his new assignment.

  Was I being too abrupt? He has no idea how horny I really am right now.

  An hour later, Marta was at home, wearing a pair of sweats from Seton Hall. She had made herself a bowl of tomato soup right out of the can and a grilled cheese sandwich.

  Soup and a s
andwich was not what she needed. Not even close.

  Marta: Finished up earlier than expected. Care to come over for dessert. Call first–M.

  Marta hit SEND and decided to take a bubble bath. She had a feeling her phone would ring in the next twenty minutes or so. She was wrong. Rik called eight minutes later. It was agreed he would stop over, whatever that meant, in an hour and a half. That gave her plenty of time to soak, relax, and put on something appropriate.

  Eighty-eight minutes later, her doorbell rang. He was two minutes early, but who was counting. Her blue and white sweat outfit had been replaced with something more suitable for the occasion, a white loose-fitting sweater and white cotton harem pants. In her haste, she obviously forgot to put on a bra or panties. Her freshly washed hair hung loose on her shoulders. A quick brush was all she wanted or needed.

  “I’m glad you were able to finish up work early.”

  “Me too. What would you like to drink?”

  “How about pouring some cold Champagne on your belly button and letting me start there?”

  “You don’t believe in wasting time, do you?”

  Rik was about to make a comment that she was the obviously horny one but thought better of it.

  “I know you’ve been real busy and don’t want to take up too much of your time. My schedule is wide open. You tell me.”

  “Let’s start with a glass of wine and see where it leads us.”

  Rik could not resist.

  “Hopefully to the bedroom.” He grinned.

  “Hopefully,” she replied.

  Marta took him into the dining area, asked him to grab the ice bucket, and led him back to the bedroom. She poured two glasses and sat down on the side of the bed.