A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Chapter 9

  El Jabato—The Boar

  Four weeks ago—Monterrey, Mexico

  Carlos Cortes sat at the patio table peeling the last piece of melon from the rind. He stabbed it with his knife, popped the melon into his mouth, and savored the sweetness. Tomás handed him a dish of water and a napkin to clean his hands and to wipe sweat from his forehead. Carlos buttoned up a white linen shirt as he stood, tufts of black hair over lightly tanned skin peeking through the shirt. He tucked the shirt into white linen pants, pushed the chair back and headed for the door. He was a Spaniard, not Mexican, and the light skin and air of superiority that accompanied that clung to him like the sweat of an August day in Monterrey.

  “Where is he?” Carlos asked, walking across the flagstone patio, coffee in hand.

  “In the back. Tico is with him.”

  Carlos smiled. “I hope he is still alive.” The comment brought laughter from the four men who followed him.

  A large stone wall surrounded the villa, eight feet high and capped with shards of glass set upright in cement, as if they were sentinels standing night duty. Carlos exited the wrought iron gates and followed a well-beaten path that led to several small houses—servant quarters in the old days of the villa. Employees now lived there. They bypassed the six houses then took a turn downhill to an even older one-room shack. The women and children knew never to go down there.

  Carlos walked to where an ancient oak stood with limbs as round as most mature pines, stretching forty feet in each direction. From the branch nearest the ground dangled a man upside down. Tomás pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it, handing it to Carlos. He liked his morning cigarette almost as much as his morning coffee. “Buenos días, señor.”

  “He only speaks English,” Tomás said.

  Carlos shook his head, as if his child had done wrong. “Such a shame. Only English and he is so close to the Mexican border.” He picked up a stick from the ground and prodded the man, spinning him around. The man was naked, save a blindfold, and blood ran from the rope binding his ankles to his wrists. Bruises peppered his thighs and ribs, and small white pustules covered his body—face, neck, chest, back, legs, even the genitals. “I see our little friends have been busy.”

  Tico nodded. “Cuatro—”

  “Let’s stick to English, Tico, in honor of our guest.”

  “Si, señor. Four times I have let them loose on him.”

  Carlos prodded the man again. “Those ants are pesky aren’t they, señor? They never tire of stinging.”

  The man groaned with another prod.

  “You are fortunate that you are not allergic.”

  Silence from the man.

  “A tough one, eh, Tico?”

  Tico nudged past Tomás and Roberto. “He gave us nothing.”

  “That’s all right. As soon as he realizes that I’m going to have Roberto fuck his wife Libby and his daughters, Elizabeth and Grace, then, I believe, he will talk.”

  The man’s head spun toward Carlos. He spat at him while struggling to free his hands. “You whore. Touch my family and I’ll kill you.” His voice was weak, and raspy.

  Carlos poked him in the gut with his stick. “Yes, I understand all the things you want to do to me. But for now you must listen.”

  After a few seconds the man nodded. He had made his bold statement, but a look of defeat showed in his eyes.

  “Tomás, get him a chair. Tico, untie him.” Carlos sat on the edge of a fallen tree. “Roberto, bring some cool water for our friend. He must be thirsty. And get some limes for his stings.”

  The man sat, gulped the water then held his glass out for more.

  Carlos patted the man’s knee. “They tell me your name is Craig. A good American name.”

  Craig nodded, wincing as he did.

  “I respect you, Craig. If you had given us what we wanted with so little persuasion I would have killed you. But now…well, let us say you have an opportunity to be promoted.”

  For the first time since his capture, Craig’s face showed signs of relaxing. Tomás handed him more water, which he gulped down before focusing on Carlos. “What do you mean, be promoted?”

  Carlos’ smile was disarming. “Instead of working for Ortega and earning a peasant’s wage, you can work for me and grow rich.” He spread his arms to include the men around him. “Everyone who works with me grows rich.”

  Craig cast suspicious glances at the others. “What do I have to do?”

  “The same thing you did for Ortega. Tell me how he gets his shipments into the United States, then do it for me instead of him.”

  Craig shook his head. “Not good for me. If I don’t, you kill me. If I do, Ortega kills me.”

  Carlos’ smile grew cold. “Ortega is dead. As is his family, his lieutenants, and the two border patrol guards he had in his pockets.”

  A look of fear crept onto Craig’s face, though he forced a smile. “May I ask who I’m working for?”

  Carlos pulled him to his feet and hugged him. “The one with the smiling eyes is Tomás. Roberto brought you the water. Tico has been your host these past few days. And I am Carlos Cortes.”

  Craig’s eyes widened, and he tensed. “El Jabato?”

  Carlos erupted in laughter. “Jabato, yes, there are those who call me that. Do you know what it means, señor?”

  Craig seemed to be reaching for an answer. “Little Boar…I think.”

  Tico got within inches of his face. “It means fearless.”

  Craig knelt, bowing his head before kissing Carlos’ hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  Carlos pulled him to his feet again. “Nonsense. You meant no harm. Welcome to our family, little piglet.”

  The others with Carlos burst into laughter, soon joined by Craig. Carlos turned, walking back toward the villa. “Tomás will show you where to wash and get clothes. We will eat and talk, then I want you to meet my wife and children. By tonight, you will be home with your own family.”

  Carlos made his way back to the house, climbing the hill with the ease of a man much younger. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and dampened his shirt even though the morning was in its infancy. “We will let the American go after he has nourishment. Send him away feeling good about our new partnership.”

  Tico walked alongside Carlos. “Si, señor. I will have it done.”

  “After breakfast with my children we will talk, Tico. There is much to do.”

  “Si. I will wait for you.”

  Carlos sat through breakfast with his two children and Marianna, his wife. He ate more fruit, laughed at the jokes that only six and eight-year-olds can tell and think funny, and caressed his wife’s hand while she tasted her morning coffee, the only cup she would have for the day. Marianna only drank coffee in the morning, a dreadful thought, but it was enough to last her all day and Carlos respected that.

  While he sipped his third cup, Tomás came to his side bearing a newspaper. Carlos looked at him with narrowed eyes.

  “Señor, I think you should see this.”

  Carlos eyed him suspiciously, but took the paper. Nothing in the headlines caused him concern: the stock market was down, a new electronic gadget was rumored to be announced today, and politicians were casting aspersions at each other. Carlos shot a wary glance to Tomás.

  “Page three, señor.”

  He opened the paper, focusing on the headlines of page three.

  ‘New York drug bust gone bad. Two police officers dead. One a hero.’

  Carlos continued reading, a frown growing on his face.

  “What is it?” Marianna asked.

  He brushed his hand at her, dismissing the question. “Nothing, dear. Business.” A quick glance told Tomás to meet him outside, and, after finishing his coffee he excused himself. “I will be back in a moment, children. Excuse me.”

  Carlos controlled his pace as he walked across the flagstone patio, but he wanted to run. Once outside the gates, he met Tomás. “During breakfast with my
children you bring me this?”

  Tomás bowed his head low. “Sorry, señor. I thought you would want to know.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got the news with the paper. No one has reported in.”

  “No one? Are you to tell me that no one from New York warned us of what happened?”

  Tomás nodded. “No one.”

  “And our product?”

  Tomás shook his head, but wouldn’t look at Carlos. “Nothing.”

  “The police have them?”

  “The reports do not mention it,” Tomás said.

  Carlos squinted. “Who was in charge?”

  Tomás stood silent for a moment, then, “Juan.”

  “Kill him.”

  “Juan is dead, señor. They are all dead.”

  “Kill his boss, then. We must set an example.”

  Tomás raised his voice, but only slightly. “Señor, these are our own people.”

  Carlos’ eyes turned to stone. “These are Americans with a Spanish ancestry. They know nothing of what honor and loyalty are like.” He let the gaze burn into Tomás. “Kill Juan’s boss, then put someone in charge who knows what to do.”

  Tomás bowed his head. “I will put Juan’s brother in charge. He will be motivated.” Tomás turned to leave, then stopped. “Señor, I am still trying to find out what happened, but it seems there were other people involved. Even the police reports are…how do you say it…not clear.”

  “Sketchy?”

  “Si, sketchy,” Tomás said.

  “Anything else?”

  “The only thing that is clear comes from the paper about this woman detective, Connie Gianelli.”

  Carlos’ interest piqued. “And what do we know about her?”

  “Nothing for now, señor. But I will soon know it all.” Tomás turned to leave.

  “Tomás.”

  “Si?”

  “This cop…this…Connie Gianelli. She must have taken the drugs. Kill her, too.”

  Tomás moved to stand in front of him, close enough so that only a whisper separated them. “Señor, she is a cop. And now she is a hero cop. If we were to—”

  Carlos grabbed his collar, pulled him close. “She embarrassed us and cost us eight men.” He shook his head. “If people think we cannot protect our own, who will work for us? There is only one choice, Tomás.”

  Tomás lowered his head. Lowered his voice, too. “Si, señor.”

  Chapter 10

  Cold Cases

  I got up before five and headed to the park. I had all intentions of jogging but my leg was still sore as hell. I walked instead, hoping that would be enough to start my metabolism for the day. After finishing, I got a shower and cut some fresh cantaloupe, then headed to work. For the first fifteen minutes I focused on wishing that cantaloupe had been wrapped in prosciutto, but soon shook that off and concentrated on the case I had in mind—Betty Carlisle, the young black girl. Definitely not Mason, that case was too brutal.

  When I finally got to the office, I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Carol was already at her desk. “Morning, Carol. Nice day.”

  “I love new members of homicide. Always so enthusiastic and positive.”

  I set the files on the desk and noticed a note stuck to the calendar. ‘See me’ it said, and it was signed by Frankie. I grabbed the note, picked up a coffee, then went to see Frankie. “You wanted me?”

  He sat silent for a few seconds, looked around the room, then said, “Walk with me.” He bypassed the coffee room and found a remote spot near the janitor’s closet at the end of the hall. He leaned against the window and stared. “If I’m going to solve this, I need to know what happened. And I don’t want the bullshit you gave the media.”

  I waited a long time before answering. “Someone told me I could trust you.”

  “I’m going to lay it out nice and neat for you, Gianelli. If you want to save that badge you’re going to have to come clean with me on everything.”

  I thought about telling him it was Manny Rosso, but how could I betray Manny after what he did for me? Then I thought about what Uncle Dominic said about trusting Donovan. I sighed, and opted for partial truth.

  “All right. Here’s how it went. Everything was like the report said. We were set up to bust the dealers and got surprised. They killed Jerry and then Sean. I was trapped in the alley with no backup. It was me who called Dominic Mangini, using Sean’s phone. I knew Dominic couldn’t get there in time. Just…”

  “Just wanted to tell him goodbye?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it was.”

  “So what happened? No way Mangini got to you from the Bronx and I doubt he had that many men close by in Brooklyn.”

  “Some people came and killed the dealers.”

  “People like Manny Rosso and his men?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “Not when he saved you? Or when he carried you into the hospital?”

  “Guess not.”

  Frankie gave me a look like, ‘sure, I know this game,’ but what he said was, “That’s all right. Manny seems to be invisible. But I’m not interested in Manny Rosso. I’m more interested in why you didn’t have backup.”

  He surprised me with the question. Maybe Dominic was right, and Donovan was a good cop. “Sean was convinced someone in the department was leaking information. He and Rafferty pushed for no backup. I didn’t like it, but…I was the new kid.”

  “And your lieutenant approved this?” Frankie asked the question like he didn’t believe it.

  “He didn’t want to, but we—Sean, Jerry and I—convinced him it would be okay.”

  Frankie wrote something in a small notepad, then looked straight at me. “Why did you wipe the call list on Sean’s phone?”

  That question surprised me. “I didn’t.”

  Frankie’s eyebrows raised. “Somebody did. It’s right here on IA’s report.”

  I took a deep breath and got a little huffy. “Look, I just admitted to calling Mangini, but I didn’t wipe the phone.”

  “Who did? Manny? Was he covering for Mangini?”

  I had started liking Donovan, but now he was pissing me off. “You’re the detective. Figure it out yourself.”

  Frankie put his hand on my shoulder. “I will. Soon enough, I will. But for now I’ll focus on finding out why these dealers wanted to kill you.”

  “So you really are a good cop?”

  “I don’t know about the good part, but I’m not dirty.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now how about you sharing with me.”

  “I’m not good at sharing,” he said and walked away.

  “Bastard.”

  “Be patient, Gianelli. Keep working those cold cases.”

  Two days later I found a folder inside the desk drawer. It contained four names with Texas license numbers and Houston addresses. A handwritten note said ‘other four were Brooklyn.’

  Later that day, when I saw Frankie, a smile crossed my face. “I owe you one.”

  Frankie looked around, then at me. “There was a saying in the neighborhood where I grew up. ‘Don’t thank me for something the law won’t let me do.’”

  “Funny saying.”

  “Yeah.”

  I asked Carol to get the number for Houston Police Department, the drug enforcement division. She not only gave me the number, but the name of someone to help. After a few questions, and me giving him the details of our case, I got the name I needed—Tony Ramirez.

  I wasn’t supposed to be messing with my own case, so I waited until no one else was around, then called. “Tony Ramirez, please.”

  “Officer Ramirez is not in, can I take a message?”

  I gave the guy on the phone my badge number and precinct, but left my cell phone as a call-back number. “Ask him to call about a case, please.”

  “All right, ma’am. I expect him later.”

  Two hours later a call came in. “Gianelli.”

  “This is Ramirez.”


  “Officer Ramirez, this is Connie Gianelli. I’m a detective in Brooklyn Homicide.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  I went through what I had told the other guy. “We had two undercover officers shot and killed a while back. During the investigation we discovered Texas licenses on four of the suspects, with addresses in Houston. I wanted to see what, if anything, you might be able to tell us about them.”

  “Give me the names and addresses. I’ll call you back.”

  “I’m in a hurry—”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  I sighed, loud enough so he probably heard. “First one is Pablo Garza, 1624 Calvin Street, Houston—”

  “No need to go further. That’s an abandoned house. And if the next one is 1628, it’s abandoned, too.”

  “Is Houston so small that you know all the houses?”

  “I was just there on a case. Two dead drug dealers.”

  “No shit.”

  “No shit,” he said.

  “How were they killed?”

  “They were executed.”

  This was it. It had to tie in to my case. “I’ve got to get down there.”

  “What?”

  Possibilities raced through my head. “Houston,” I said. “I’ve got to look into this.”

  “Ma’am, no offense, but we do fine by ourselves down here.”

  I put a little bit of attitude in my voice. Not on purpose, but it worked it’s way in there. “Ramirez, these assholes killed two cops and almost killed me. I want the one who gave the orders.”

  “No disrespect, ma’am, but these people kill kids with their drugs every day. I want them as much as you do.”

  Wasn’t much I could say. “All right, Detective. But call me if you get anything, will you?” I thanked him and hung up.

  I tried concentrating on the case at hand but all I could think about were the addresses in Houston. As I went through more notes on the Carlisle case, I remembered that one of the other files had a connection with Houston. I put the folder down and went to get the rest of the case files. After leafing through three of them I came to it—Shannon Mason was from Houston. Goddamn. Had to be this one.