by Greg Coppin
I could hear him sucking in air over his teeth. ‘Doing it again there, Luc. Implying I have no idea how to do my job. How was the security alarm before? Deafen you with its decibels? Or was it simply deactivated like I said it was?’
‘Call me on this number when you’ve arranged the meet.’
‘This number?’ he said. ‘Your number? Not Frank Sinatra’s number?’
‘Just do it, Warren.’
I cut the call, threw the phone onto the passenger seat.
I looked back out of the window. An old man in a faded cream shirt and grey trousers ambled towards me along Tallis Street, a chicken padding along beside him. The man was talking to the chicken. It was a strange sight (at least it was for me), and because of it I almost missed the figure striding out of the house.
My eyes flicked back across the street and I saw him. About six foot, dreadlocks tied at the back, and a beard. Black T-shirt, light cargo shorts, and a thin silver chain swinging down next to his thigh. A silver necklace hung from his neck and tattoos decorated the length of his right arm. He seemed to be shouting as he walked. There was nobody else that I could see, so he might’ve had a hands-free phone. But then a pregnant woman appeared behind him, carrying a baby, and she too was shouting, so I’d obviously arrived at a domestic.
Dondero swirled round, swinging his arms. He thrust his head towards the woman and shouted something else. I was too far away to hear the actual words. The woman pointed her free hand at Dondero and screamed something in return. Dondero pointed at the house, shouted some more, and with a swing of his arm to dismiss her he threw open the door of his pickup, got inside and roared off.
The woman screamed something after him. I thought I maybe heard some cursing.
I gave it five seconds, and as the pregnant woman stormed back into the house with the baby, I followed Dondero.
***
We had gone a little way, mainly through back streets. Dondera pulled into the side. I could see a group of dudes in T-shirts and combat shorts standing in front of a ramshackle bar. Dondera got out of the pickup and approached the group. They all bumped fists and hugged and Dondera said something and they all laughed. Dondera was a comedian, good to know.
After a couple more minutes of jovial chat, Dondera got back in his pickup, and with a beep of the horn, he screeched off. I had to give it a little longer this time. I had parked down the road, and the group of men weren’t going anywhere. Dondera’s Mitsubishi turned left. I didn’t know these streets at all well, so I hoped I wouldn’t lose him. I pulled out, passed the group of dudes, and took the left turning.
There was no sign of him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Toyota prowled down the road and I scanned left and right to see if Dondero’s Mitsubishi was parked up a drive. Couldn’t see it anywhere.
I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand and cursed. Two lads on bicycles criss-crossed in front of me, and then stood up on the pedals, coasting. They then furiously pedalled down the street as if racing each other and turned left. I watched them go and then smiled as, in the distance, they passed in front of Jimmy Dondero who was casually strolling up the path of a house. I briefly saw a woman open the door and Jimmy Dondero held his arms out a little and danced inside.
I parked up on the side of the road and wondered how long I’d have to wait.
I relaxed back in my seat, resting my elbow out of the window. A short while later a boy of about ten with a corn row hairstyle and a NY Mets T-shirt appeared at the window.
He didn’t say anything at first, he just grinned.
I did the same, except for the grinning bit.
‘You want to buy food?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You want to buy drink?’
‘No.’
‘You been to New York?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like it?’
‘I thought it was terrific.’
‘I’m going to New York.’
‘Well, goodbye then.’
‘Soon as I leave school. I’m going to New York. I’m going to be a billionaire. People will write things about me.’
I looked at him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Silvio. Silvio Martinez.’
‘I’ll look out for it. Did you say you were selling drinks?’
‘Yes sir,’ he said enthusiastically, and then rolled off all the drinks he had to offer. I asked for a can of Coke. He disappeared from the window, there was some rummaging and clinking, and then he reappeared with a glistening, chilled can of Coca Cola. He was evidently dragging round a portable cooler box. ‘Two dollars. Cash.’ Not exactly a bargain, but I guess he had to make a profit.
I swopped the money for the drink.
‘So what are you saying, Silvio? In a few years’ time I can boast to people that I once bought a drink from the Silvio Martinez?’
He thought about this, his head going a little to one side. ‘Why you waiting,’ he concluded. ‘You boast now.’
I laughed, and he disappeared with the heavy cooler box - ‘Goodbye, sir’ - as he’d just spotted another customer. The potential customer didn’t buy though, pushing the little boy out of the way. But Silvio was undeterred as he disappeared around the corner seeking new clients for his flourishing enterprise.
The potential customer continued strolling down the street. He was dressed fairly smartly in shirt and trousers. He turned left, where the lads had disappeared with their bikes. And then, to my surprise he walked up the front path of the house that Dondero had gone into, and let himself in with his own key.
I sat up a little in my seat.
Two minutes later Dondero reappeared, sauntering out of the house, putting his T-shirt back on, and smiling a wolfish, smug smile. The potential customer reappeared, gesticulating and shouting something at Dondero. Dondero snapped round and ran at the man and drove a punch straight into the man’s face. The man went down like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back. But Dondero hadn’t finished. He kicked the man in the back. Then spat on him.
The woman reappeared, wrapping a dressing gown around her scantily dressed self. When she saw the man on the ground a shocked hand went up to her mouth. She looked at Dondero. She put her index finger and little finger up to her ear and lips and silently mouthed, ‘Call me.’
Dondero grinned. He got back into the Mitsubishi Animal and roared off.
***
A woman with a lot of make-up and little clothing was dancing to her own tune outside a bar. Dondero honked his horn and the woman snapped her head up to look and began enthusiastically waving at him. Dondero parked beside her, got out, and hugged and kissed her and twirled her around.
If this was what he was going to spend his day doing, then I may have to put this one down to experience and move on. I was learning nothing. Nothing, anyway, of relevance.
I had the radio on, Love FM. It was a phone-in show and they were currently discussing the Prime Minister, Neville Dutton. From what I was hearing Mike was right. There was no great love out there for Neville.
Dondero and the woman stopped dancing and he kissed her full on the lips and then left her and strolled up the street, his silver chain swinging back and forth. He had a confident swagger. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that he thought of himself as a lion in the jungle. He stepped into a grocery store/cash and carry. The woman danced off down the street. I watched her go, and then looked back at the shop.
After about five minutes Dondero strolled back out of the store. He wasn’t empty handed. Dondero was pushing an upright trolley that had three crates of water bottles stacked on it. He pushed the squeaking trolley over to his vehicle and lifted each crate onto the back of the pickup. He then returned the trolley to the store.
Well now, this was interesting. What did he want with all that water? Then again, maybe the more pertinent question would be, who does he want all that water for?
I got on the phone to Warren.
I rea
ched out and turned the radio down. ‘Warren. Luc. Answer me a question, could you. Does Jimmy Dondero own a bar, nightclub, any sort of business with a lot of people in it?’
‘Dondero?’ he said. ‘No. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s a Mr Fixer. Doesn’t own anything.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Why the question?’
‘I don’t know, really, I’ve just had a thought. A crazy thought, maybe, but…’
‘What? You can tell me, Luc. We’re on the same side. Unless you’re a double for the DGSE.’
I ignored him and said, ‘Let London know this. I’m just beginning to wonder whether Dondero might have something to do with the hostages.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dondero headed west. I wouldn’t exactly say he was a smooth driver. Ran over a lot of kerbs when turning, and a lot of chalk dust was thrown up when he ploughed through potholes. From my limited knowledge of the environs I tried to guess where he may be driving to. Then I realised it could be anywhere.
‘How old is he?’ a caller asked on the radio. ‘Crazy. He should be at school. I never vote for him.’
‘He’s forty-one,’ the host said. ‘Not quite your school age.’
‘He can’t do his job. Get rid of him.’
‘Some people are saying he should resign. I guess you agree?’
‘Yeah, resign. Go. Julio Falcao, Bob Thurton, Matty Sunindra, any of them can do better job. Take your homework and leave.’
The Mitsubishi Animal swung into the roadside again and Dondero jumped out. He strolled into some sort of a builder’s yard. Three minutes later he was back, carrying something on his shoulder. Looked like a roll of black tarpaulin. He threw the tarpaulin into the back of the truck and then jumped back in the driver’s seat. I held back again and slowly, steadily, followed. I was more thoughtful this time.
It was only a guess that the water was for the hostages. Might not be. Maybe Dondera had nothing to do with the hostages. Might be maligning him falsely. But his number was on the phone of thugs who worked for Mortlake/Giuttieri. That much we knew. So it was logical to assume that Dondera might well work in some sort of capacity for them too. And somebody was obviously dealing with the hostages. So when Dondera buys a hundred bottles of water, we may reasonably suspect it could be him.
So what was the tarpaulin to be used for?
Yes, it could be to cover something.
But I wondered if there was a more terrible thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘Man’s an embarrassment to our country,’ said a caller.
‘You think they’re going to kill the hostages?’ Warren asked on the phone.
‘Warren, I don’t know. Just let London know it’s a possibility.’
‘You don’t think he did a good job with the recent floods?’
‘Black tarpaulin. Sounds ghoulish,’ Warren said. ‘How do you think they’d do it?’
‘Good job? What good job?’ said the caller.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied to Warren.
‘There was that film, wasn’t there, where they used pigs. Or was that to remove the evidence? I can’t remember now.’
‘If he’s listening, time’s up, bro.’ The assault on the Prime Minister continued.
A small white Fiat Punto overtook me. We were in a side street near the river.
‘Just tell London, Warren. If we can prove that the hostages are still in Belize, and nothing to do with Guatemala, then maybe we can lessen this simmering heat.’
‘Got that,’ Warren said.
‘Thanks.’ I ended the call and placed the phone on the dash.
The Punto had overtaken the car in front of me and the one in front of that, before pulling in behind Dondero’s Mitsubishi.
Then, to my surprise, it ran straight into the back of him.
I could see Dondera rock forward and then snap his head round to look. He slammed on the brakes and so did the Punto. The other two cars behind managed to avoid the collision and obviously didn’t want to get involved and they shot off past the two stationary vehicles. I slowed to a halt by the opposite kerb.
A woman stormed out of the Punto’s passenger seat. I recognised her immediately as the pregnant woman who Dondero was arguing with when I first saw him. His girlfriend? Wife?
Dondera was out of his pickup and before he had a chance to do anything the woman laid into him, shouting, slapping him. Dondera was now shouting and gesticulating back. The driver’s door of the Punto opened and a pudgy, balding man in his forties got out and rushed over to the woman’s side. The man wore sandals, long shorts and a white linen shirt. He lay a protective arm around the pregnant woman, and said something to Dondero. This very much angered Dondero and he started pushing the newcomer and shouting in his face. The newcomer pushed him back, pointing a finger at him.
Then Dondera pulled out a knife.
The pregnant woman backed away and screamed at him. Dondera slashed at the air in front of the man and told him to go away. Dondera looked like he was losing it.
The woman was still screaming, and Dondera turned and pointed the knife at her and I heard him shout at her to shut up.
The balding man seemed to have had enough and he reached behind him and brought something out from under his shirt.
When he pointed it at Dondera a second or two later I could clearly see it was a gun.
Dondera visibly did not appreciate being publicly challenged and he lunged with his knife at the other man.
I heard the gunshot. And Dondera stopped. He looked curiously at the man. He looked down. Looked at the glistening liquid spreading on his black T-shirt. Then he looked up at the man. Staggered forwards. The man got out of his way and Dondera collapsed onto the ground.
No, no, no, no, I thought. I jumped out of the Toyota and sprinted up to the three of them.
The woman had stopped screaming. There was an eerie calm.
If we were working on the assumption that Dondero was involved in the kidnapping of the hostages, then he was the only lead we had to them.
He couldn’t die.
I crouched down beside him. I quickly turned him over onto his back, a clinking sound coming from his chains.
‘Jimmy. Jimmy,’ I said, looking into his blood-shot eyes. ‘I work for Mortlake. Where are the hostages, Jimmy? Let me finish the job.’
His face was contorted in pain. His cloudy eyes were losing focus.
‘Stay with me, Jimmy.’
The woman started screaming again. A dragonfly as large as my fist hovered close, as if curious about the unfolding scene. And that’s when I felt him go. I put my ear to his chest, checked his neck for a pulse.
Nothing.
Jimmy Dondero was dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I tried in vain to resuscitate him, but it was useless. I sank back dejected on my haunches. Then I remembered the woman. If she was his wife or girlfriend she may well know something.
I twirled round to look at her.
I had been aware of some activity behind me when I was trying to resuscitate Dondero, but I hadn’t taken much notice. Now I could see the woman was sitting on the kerb, her knees pulled up. She was wearing a flowing orange and white dress, which slung low between her raised knees. The dress had a plunging neckline and her swelled cleavage rose and fell as she puffed out heavy breaths. The balding man was crouched beside her, holding her hand.
‘We have to get you to a hospital,’ he said to her. He glanced over at Dondero. ‘We also have to get away from here.’
He carefully helped the woman to stand up. Her cheeks were puffing in and out. She hugged her enormous belly with her left hand.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Do you know anything about - ?’
‘Get lost,’ the man said. He opened the back of the Fiat Punto and helped the heavily pregnant woman onto the back seat.
‘Listen,’ I said more forcefully.
‘I’m getting my sister to a hospital,’ the man sa
id, not looking at me, continuing to care for his sister. ‘You try and stop me and you’ll end up like your friend Jimmy.’ He carefully fastened the seat belt across her. ‘All right?’ he asked her. She nodded, panting furiously.
The man then swung round and pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at me. ‘You got what I said, man?’
He threw open the driver’s door and jumped in. He started the vehicle, swung out and shot off.
Dammit.
I hurried back to the dead body of Jimmy Dondero lying in the road. His black T-shirt and cargo shorts were covered in blood and limestone chalk. I rifled through his pockets. I grabbed his wallet, his mobile phone and his car keys.
‘Hey, wo, look at this guy.’
Some people had gathered behind me as I was taking the belongings from the dead body. No, it didn’t look good, but I couldn’t help that right now.
The driver’s door of Dondero’s vehicle was still open and I stepped in and quickly started her up. I shut the door, just as people were starting to throw things at me. Drinks cans, pebbles. Bouncing loudly off the bodywork and side window.
I took off, leaving the heated rabble behind. I opened all windows as there was an overpowering smell of cannabis in the car.
I had lost the Punto but I could only guess they’d go to the main Karl Heusner hospital and as I drove through the early evening traffic I flicked through Jimmy Dondero’s mobile phone. There was a security code needed. I wondered if it would be the same as Hector Villio Fernandez’s. What was it? 71729. I tapped it in.
Bingo.
On his Contacts page he had, among others, an Alvirez, a Carly, a Gail, a Malicia and a Mr Mortlake. Mr, if you please. Seeing his name oddly lifted my spirits. We definitely knew now that he worked for Mortlake.
Scrolling through his recent text messages, I found a few that Dondero had sent to Mortlake. One, dated the 12th at 09:34 said, ‘Arrived. Security no big deal.’ Another, 46 minutes later said, ‘We go for dozen. This OK?’ A third, timed at 14:28, simply said, ‘We have them.’ This was roughly the time the tourists had been kidnapped. We had our man.
