I finished my beer and nodded to Muriel for another round.
“I found it odd that she was at Hoskin’s party, and she was surprised I was there. She claimed that you never knew where you might end up. But she knew, because her New York bosses were already working with Hoskin. When she said she might work for one casino today and another tomorrow, I thought she meant she might defect to Hoskin’s organization. But she was talking about her New York organization. She was the point man, or point woman, for the New Yorkers’ partnership with Hoskin. They planned to kill the pari-mutuel and set up a Vegas-style casino, with no additional gambling license required. They just needed to paint the proper picture for the politicians. All she had to do was show jai alai as unpopular and corrupt, like it was a cancer on the city, killing jobs, and her reward would be to run the joint-venture resort. So when she linked Hoskin to her New York bosses, I just took a copy of Stubbs’s tape to our esteemed mayor. Once he learned that Hoskin and New York were teaming up, and that the Vegas mogul was playing the city of West Palm for chumps, he got, well, indignant. It was as fired up as I’ve ever seen him. They convened the meeting last minute to ensure Hoskin couldn’t be there, and they nailed him.”
Danielle nodded thanks to Muriel for her new drink and turned to me, straw in mouth. “What did Eric say? Will Hoskin go down?”
I laughed. “I think it’s more likely that he’ll end up a donor to Eric’s campaign, but at least he won’t be doing business here.”
“Lot of jobs gone, though,” said Danielle.
“But if what the mayor says is right, the net effect of jobs might have close to zero, anyway,” I said.
“And without a lot of extra baggage those big casinos bring,” said Ron.
“Guys,” I said.
Danielle said amen to that and leaned around me to clink drinks with Ron.
“Ah, guys,” I said, again, this time slapping Danielle’s shoulder.
“You asked what happened to Desi . . .”
Danielle frowned in her seat, then spun around and smiled.
Desi stood at the entrance to the Longboard’s courtyard. But this time he wasn’t alone. His uncle was there, and his aunt and cousin. And another man and woman, with two girls I didn’t know.
“Come in,” I said, waving them toward us and getting off my stool.
Danielle slipped down from her own stool.
“Hi, Desi,” she smiled.
Desi shuffled his feet, then the man I didn’t know gave him a light tap behind the ear, and the boy shuffled over to Danielle. He stood before her and handed her a sweater. My Oakland A’s sweater. Then the kid broke out into a huge grin and launched into a full-force hug. Danielle beamed.
Desi’s uncle spoke to me.
“Your office said you would be here. We wanted to say thank you.”
I didn’t think I’d done that much. The thing with the big Boston guys, and the van and the bookies, that was nothing they ever need know about. But as Lenny always said: give praise liberally and take it with grace.
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friends.”
Desi’s uncle did a double take and then gave an embarrassed grin. “I am sorry. This is not my friend. This is my brother-in-law. Desi’s father.”
I frowned. “I thought Desi’s father was in Cuba.”
“Yes, he was.”
“So how is he here now? You got the money?”
Desi’s uncle spoke in Spanish, and the family all laughed. Then he spoke to me.
“We did not spend money. Mr. Lucas went and got him. He got all of Desi’s family.”
“From Cuba?” I almost shouted, but caught myself.
“Si. From Veradero. He go in a big fast boat and collected them all. He is a very brave man.”
I fell back onto my stool and looked at Ron. Lucas had disappeared, saying he had a boat delivery to do. It seemed, however, that it was more of a pickup. I could just see him taking the pick of the fast boats in the marina and sneaking off across the straits. It was Lucas all over.
I looked to Desi’s father and offered my hand.
“Bienvenido a Estados Unidos,” I said.
He smiled, the kind of smile you only see on those rare days, when someone is given a lifetime’s worth of Christmases all in one go.
Chapter Forty-Four
DANIELLE DIDN’T TAKE her eyes off the water as I filled her wine glass. She was as happy as a pig in something that would make a pig very happy. Desi’s family had stayed a while at Longboard’s, but already not wishing to overstay their welcome, bade us goodnight after extending an invitation for a pre-Christmas party at a park near Los Piños. Danielle had talked to the boy and his sisters the whole time and had been smiling ever since.
“You’re a long way away,” I said.
She looked over to me as I sat on my lounger. “Sorry, just thinking.”
“About?”
“Everything. My job. Desi.” She glanced at me. “You.”
“What about me?”
“Sorry I’ve been distant,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
“I do.”
She sipped her wine. “Oh, oracle, do share.”
“You got shot.”
“There was that.”
“And that dented your confidence. Worse still, it dented your confidence in me. And that made me . . . I don’t know. Pull away. I thought I was just comfortable. Happy to get fat and lazy. But it wasn’t that. I was playing it safe.”
“Go on,” she said.
“I guess I didn’t want to take risks when it came to you, because taking risks meant I could lose you. But it wasn’t until you were away that I realized playing it safe might mean losing you, too.”
Danielle nodded. “I felt that, you know,” she said. “Like we’ve been drifting. Drifting together and drifting apart. But while I was away, it was like a lightning bolt. Like I’m not doing myself justice, not giving it my all. And all of a sudden, these important people gave me the time of day and valued me. And I realized that the problem wasn’t that people didn’t value me before, it was that I wasn’t putting enough value on myself. That changes. Today.”
I smiled. “Glad to hear it.”
“You too,” she said, getting fired up now. “I agree with what you are saying. So cut the crap. You are who you are. And I fell in love with that guy. Yeah, I got shot. And you’re right, that hit me harder than I wanted to admit. But I know you didn’t do that. And you need to know that, too. Bad guys did that. And there are always bad guys. And for whatever reason, we are the people to stop them. So cut the crap.”
I had nothing to say to that, so I said nothing.
“And one more thing. Ron says you’re looking at replacing the Escape with a minivan.”
“Ron says a lot of things.”
“No minivan. Are you kidding me? The Miami Jones does not drive a minivan.”
“I agree. But just to be clear, what does the Miami Jones drive?”
“Not a minivan.”
“A Ford Escape hybrid?”
Danielle screwed her nose up.
“I was looking at a Porsche Boxster,” I said.
“A Porsche? Can you afford that?”
“A used one. A few miles on the clock, but plenty to go.”
Danielle thought about that for a second. “Convertible?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Can I drive it on weekends?”
“Mi coche, su coche.”
Danielle nodded. “A Porsche,” she said again. “That could work.”
I was already liking this cutting the crap business. I went with it.
“More wine?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. Have to run in the morning.”
“You do?”
“And you. Don’t think I don’t see that muffin top.”
“It’s more like a baby cupcake.”
“Pfft.”
“Okay, then. A
run. What’s the bet?” I asked.
“City Beach to the State Park and back. Loser pays. Since you just won some money you don’t need.”
“Loser pays for what?”
She didn’t look at me, but I could see the twinkle in her eye.
“A vacation to Jamaica.”
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About the Author
A.J. STEWART WROTE marketing copy for Fortune 500 companies and tech start-ups for 20 years, until his head nearly exploded from all the stories bursting to get out. Stiff Arm Steal was his fifth novel, but the first to make it into print.
He has lived and worked in Australia, Japan, UK, Norway, and South Africa, as well as San Francisco, Connecticut and of course Florida. He currently resides in Los Angeles with his two favorite people, his wife and son.
AJ is working on a screenplay that he never plans to produce, but it gives him something to talk about at parties in LA.
You can find AJ online at www.ajstewartbooks.com, connect on Twitter @The_AJStewart, Facebook facebook.com/TheAJStewart or Google Plus.
Books by AJ Stewart:
Stiff Arm Steal
Offside Trap
High Lie
Dead Fast
Crash Tack
Three Strikes
Acknowledgements
THANKS, AS ALWAYS, to all my readers who send me feedback. A huge thanks to Constance Renfrow and Beth Balmanno for their editorial expertise; all the beta readers, especially Heather, Andrew, Maria, and Lauren; and the folks at the Starbucks in Ralph’s of Sherman Oaks, where this book was partially written between ice coffees over a very hot valley summer. These books don’t happen in isolation, so thank you. Any and all errors are mine, especially but not limited to my lifelong love of the Richmond Tigers. That’s just heartbreak, right there.
If you’re looking for it, there is no Jai Alai fronton in West Palm Beach anymore (thanks to Linda Hanna for pointing out that there was one, but it closed, riddled by debt, in the early nineties). Hey, it’s fiction, so I made it up. There are (currently) Jai Alai frontons in Dania Beach, Fort Pierce, and Miami among others. I say currently because everything regarding the pari-mutuel system is true, and Jai Alai in South Florida is an endangered species. To see video of what the game looks like, and learn more about the fate of this unique sport, visit www.ajstewartbooks.com/jai-alai.
Jacaranda Drive Publishing
Los Angeles, California
www.jacarandadrive.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover artwork by Streetlight Graphics
Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Stewart
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author.
High Lie Page 21
