The Death Box (Carson Ryder, Book 10)

by J. A. Kerley

  Stuff? Stuff!

  “Thanks, Vince. I owe you a bottle of whatever you’re drinking.”

  “Shit. I went bottom shelf. How ’bout I lie?”

  I assured him he was drinking single-malt and rang off. I turned to Gershwin, tapping a rhythm on his thighs to burn off nervous energy.

  “Damn, Zigs. I’d figured Feldstein was talking about brush, clearing it off for houses. He was talking about clearing out some kind of equipment that looked to the guy at the bar like derrick superstructure or scaffolding.”

  “Which you think it was?”

  “Neither. I think the land was rented as an overflow lot for crane towers and booms. They take up a lot of room.”

  “Cranes?” Gershwin frowned. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “Our preacher man out at Redi-flow, Ziggy. Kazankis’s daddy had a rental-crane biz, remember? Olympia.”

  “The old Olympia building’s by Redi-flow, Big Ryde. Miles from here.”

  “Doesn’t matter. All Kazankis needed was a few acres of cheap land to store the big crane parts. This is actually closer to Miami, where I figure the bulk of the cranes got hauled to.”

  Gershwin went still as stone. I saw him making the connections in his head and considering the implications.

  “We go see Kazankis now?”

  “Not with the hazy recollections of one old card sharp to go on. Let’s see what Clayton comes up with. And let’s put the microscope on salvation man before we talk. I want to see into his holy pores.”

  George Kazankis sat at the wooden desk in his shadowed office, penciling on a spreadsheet under the amber glow of a desk lamp. Outside his window the light on the high tower blazed over the black cross and the conveyor assemblies resembled skeletal remains set against the stars. He rose and checked the main room a second time just to be sure: a half-dozen empty desks; he was alone.

  Kazankis returned to his office. Hearing tires on the gravel lot, he walked to the front door, flipping off the lock and alarm. A black Escalade pulled to the door, the moon reflected bright and full across the windshield, as though the vehicle was propelled by celestial forces. The driver’s door opened and Orlando Orzibel uncurled from the Escalade and walked to Kazankis.

  “You wanted to see me, Jefé?” Orzibel said.

  Kazankis raised an eyebrow at the Escalade. “You drove here by yourself, Orlando?”

  “Chaku had to handle a problem.”

  “Anything important enough for me to know about?”

  Orzibel flicked the question away with the back of his hand. “Nada. A client at a strip club missed a payment.”

  Kazankis nodded. “The usual bullshit. Morales will handle things, right?”

  “If he doesn’t, I will. What do you wish from me, Jefé?”

  Kazankis beckoned Orzibel inside. The pair walked the short hall to Kazankis’s office. He resat at his desk and stared at Orzibel.

  “I seek reassurance, Orlando.”

  Orzibel stiffened. “What do you mean, Jefé?”

  “We’ve had problems recently. Ivy Hatton. The discovery of the bodies. Then I see a news story about two cops ambushed at a restaurant.”

  “I can explain, Jefé. The attack was a—”

  Kazankis’s raised hand cut Orzibel short. “If it doesn’t affect me directly, I don’t want to hear about it, Orlando. There’s a fresh shipment due tomorrow and all I need to hear is that I’ve no cause for worry about anything.”

  “No worries, Jefé. All pay-offs are made. Joleo and Ivy Hatton’s replacement, Landis, will pick up the box between Customs shifts. It will be delivered to the hut and …”

  “My special drivers will meet them,” Kazankis finished with a nod. “Mr Scaggs and Mr Salazer will deposit the product in your specified places. And I expect you’ll take product downtown for local use.”

  “Like I said, Jefé, nothing has changed.”

  “How about Landis, the new guy I sent as Ivy Hatton’s replacement? You sure he knows his part?”

  “Joleo tells them everything they need to know.”

  Kazankis’s eyes narrowed. “Joleo didn’t fucking tell Ivy how to keep his mouth shut, now did he?”

  “I think he did, Jefé. Many times. But Ivy did not listen.”

  “Fuckin’ Ivy looked and talked tough in prison,” Kazankis said, shaking his head. “He kept to himself. So I made him one of my special salvations. But Ivy took to drink and drugs, Orlando. It made him soft in the body and weak in the mind.”

  “I did not notice the problem until I heard of his loose mouth in the bar, Jefé.”

  Kazankis stood from his desk and walked to Orzibel, his voice suddenly as cold as death. “Dammit, you gotta keep closer track on them, Orlando, y’hear me? You gotta watch everything.”

  Orzibel’s jaw clenched but his gaze dropped to the floor. “It won’t happen again, Jefé.”

  Kazankis stared at Orzibel a long moment. His voice warmed up. “How many we got coming in the new shipment, Orlando? You always check with Tolandoro, right?”

  Orzibel paused. “Miguel says there are, uh … nineteen new products on the way.”

  “Nineteen? You don’t sound sure.”

  “I almost said eighteen, but Miguel found another at the last moment. A fifteen-year-old girl he claims is a true beauty.”

  A hint of a smile drifted over Kazankis’s lips. “That young? A true beauty?”

  Orzibel flashed a grin. “Miguel has a good eye.”

  “Maybe you can bring her by my house before you put her to work, Orlando. If she’s that pretty.”

  A knowing wink from Orzibel. “Si, Jefé. I think I know what you like.”

  41

  Leala sat in the darkness and listened to the pounding of her heart. She had made it back to the shed, but felt strange, even beyond the ugliness with Yolanda and the pimp. It was like eyes following her, but when she’d turned, nothing, though once she had sworn she saw a shadow dart through the alley at her back.

  There was but one thing to do: call the Ryder hombre and tell him where she was. Even going to a gringo prison had to be better than moving through the streets like a rat. At least there would be food and a roof and fewer bugs than where she currently slept.

  It was late, but she would call Señor Ryder.

  Leala stepped from the shed, wincing as a foot crunched over a dry frond. The house was as black as always. A dog barked in the distance and traffic hissed, honked and roared on the wide avenue two blocks over.

  Leala closed the door and stepped gingerly across the thick grass. Again a frond crunched. But behind her, not beneath her. Leala felt her body wrapped in iron bands that lifted her into the air as a huge hand covered her scream.

  It was over.

  Midnight neared and Amili cleared her desk and put away the computer. A shipment arrived tomorrow and there was much to do, but her skin itched and her belly roiled with sick motion and she needed to hide from the world.

  She heard familiar footsteps climbing the stairs and held her breath, hoping Orzibel and the hulking Morales would pass by. But knocking came to her door, impatient. She sighed, said, “Enter.”

  Orzibel entered the room as if it were his, not Amili’s. He leaned against the wall, a long black line: hair, shirt, vest, pants, boots, all a vampiric noir. But the brightness of his smile bordered on angelic.

  “I have the girl in the basement, Leala Rosales. She was hiding in a shed not more than three kilometers distant.”

  “She escaped and you did not tell me?”

  “It is my job to handle such things.”

  Amili leaned back in her desk chair, looking relaxed though the need of an injection crawled in her veins. “This proves what I have been thinking, Orlando. The best thing is for Rosales to return to her village. We give her some dollars and she becomes a part of the past.”

  “We lose money? That is a bad business model, Amili.”

  “It serves everyone best if Leala goes home.”

 
; Orzibel raised a dark eyebrow, as if intrigued by a puzzle. “I thought I knew a woman named Amili Zelaya,” he said. “Now I’m uncertain. Are you having second thoughts about the career you have chosen? The career you fucked your way into and fuck to keep?”

  “Careful with your tongue, Orlando. And never presume to know my mind.”

  “I’m not sure if you know it any more. Leala Rosales is not returning to her little village. She has cost much in time and effort and I intend to have her pay it back.”

  “How do you plan on that?”

  Orzibel produced a smile as cold as the bottom of the ocean. “I am selling her to Mr Chalk.”

  Amili’s eyes flashed. “Absolutely not. The man has rabies.”

  Orzibel ignored Amili. “Upon delivery we receive one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Some time later we will send someone to pick up and dispense with the … leftovers.”

  “You’ll do no such insane thing, Orlando. It goes beyond all bounds.”

  Orzibel uncurled from the wall and advanced. “Yes I will, little Amili Zelaya. And not only will Mr Chalk pay us to remove our problem, it will never be recorded on your books. You have not submitted the reports for this month. To El Jefé, Leala Rosales does not exist. That’s how it will stay: You will remove her from all accounts, her arrival, the rental by Cho … everything. When Mr Chalk’s payment arrives, you will not record that either.”

  “You have gone mad, Orlando.”

  “You, for being such a good little girl, may have twenty-five thousand of Leala’s price. My generosity marks the start of our … what are the words, splinter enterprise?”

  “Our enterprise?”

  “Kazankis – let us break the rules for once and use his name – takes small risks and makes huge profit. I take huge risks and make small profit. I realize he invented the enterprise and devised a clever way to find the right workers, but I am worth far more than I am getting. That is about to change.”

  Amili studied Orzibel. “You forget my closeness to El Jefé, Orlando. For your sake I hope you are joking. But it is in poor taste.”

  “Do you see laughter on this face? Or is it delight at bringing you a gift, sweet Amili?”

  “Gift?”

  Orzibel made a show of patting at his pockets. “Where is it … Ah, here we go.” He produced the gift-wrapped package from his jacket.

  Amili froze, then regained herself. “And just what is that?”

  Orzibel set the package on the desk and used his forefinger to push it slowly to Amili. “Your gift from Pablo Gonsalves.”

  “I know nothing of such a man.”

  “He seemed to know you very well, Amili. He wanted you to have this, something about you needing your dreams.”

  Amili pretended to find a memory and her smile appeared. “Ah, Gonsalves, the poor man. I met him once and now he tries to buy my charms with baubles. As if I wish to be flattered by a—”

  “No, no, conchita. I opened the package. It holds several grams of heroin, extremely pure. Gonsalves called it your monthly gift. That’s a muy grande habit, Amili.”

  “This is all a lie and a set-up,” Amili hissed. “Get out of here before I call—”

  Orzibel flicked his head. In the span of a breath Morales had grabbed Amili and taken her to the couch, pressing her small body deep into the cushions.

  “What … is … this?” Amili choked, the big man weighing her down. “You are … sealing your doom.”

  Orzibel grabbed Amili’s leg and pulled off a shoe. His knife flashed and parted the fabric of her hose without nicking skin. He tore the nylon from her foot and held it to the light.

  “What is this crust between your pretty toes, Amili? Punctures and scabs. And on the other foot as well, I expect. You have the feet of a hidden addict, a housewife junkie. El Jefé has no problems with drugs for the product, but will not tolerate it in his employees. When he discovers his bookkeeper is a junkie you will be gone within seconds.” Orzibel grinned. “Maybe he’ll ask me to hide you, Amili. Would you like that?”

  Morales removed himself from Amili and left the office, closing the door at his back. Amili sat upright and straightened her hair as if it would restore normalcy to her life.

  “What is it you want, Orlando?”

  “Miguel Tolandoro has sent us twenty-three products. I told Jefé we were getting nineteen, and you will record nineteen in your precious books. El Jefé has no way to discover we are diverting workers to rent or sell on our own. This will occur with every future shipment, and will start with tonight’s erasure of Leala Rosales from all records. Her erasure is your second task.”

  Amili frowned. “Second? What do you wish first?”

  “I have been denied your comfort for too long, my little junk princess. That will change, starting now.”

  Orzibel grinned and unzipped his pants.

  With all governmental offices closed, there was nothing to be done tonight. We needed an early start in the morning so we went to Gershwin’s digs, a 1940s-era apartment building on the southern edge of Little Havana.

  “Price is right,” he said, opening the door. “The building’s owned by my uncle Saul and he’s a generous sort. To relatives, at least.”

  It was a two-bedroom unit, one for sleeping, the other Gershwin’s workout room, free weights, exercise ball and so forth. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one long space with a couch and chairs and television at one end, stove and fridge and sink at the other. The front window was filled with potted plants. Poster art was on the white walls, bright representations of local festivals and events. It was a comfortable space.

  “Want me to see if a unit’s available?” Gershwin asked. “You gotta get gone from your little wilderness real soon, nu?”

  My soon-to-disappear paradise. I sighed. “I don’t wanna discuss it now, but yeah … ask Uncle Saul.”

  My cell rang in my pocket. I checked the caller: Deb Clayton. “Just had to check that tag, right?” I said.

  “Seems we’re both a bit obsessive. The tag’s from something made by the Maschinot Crane Works in Newark. There’s an ID number and a date, 1977. All I could get.”

  “It might be enough,” I said.

  Gershwin was pacing one end of the apartment to the other, wired on adrenalin. But I’d been in this position more often than he had. “We’re gonna tear into Kazankis like a buzzsaw tomorrow,” I said, tilting back on the couch. “Sleep and get ready.”

  “Tough day, Gramps?” he grinned. “Need me to fetch your slippers?”

  “Get me a pillow and set the alarm for six a.m.,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “And don’t even think you’ll be able to keep up with me.”

  42

  Six in the morning rolled in fast. We showered and sucked down coffee and jammed leftover pastrami and tortillas in our mouths, chasing it with cold latkes. I wore yesterday’s pants, since Gershwin’s waist was two inches skinnier than mine, but I borrowed a blue button-down and socks. He had a fresh pack of bikini briefs, which I bought for ten bucks, a lot of money for so little cloth.

  Freshly dressed and semi-rested, we booked for the office and I waited until seven before making the call. Luckily they started early at the Maschinot Crane Works. “We keep records of everything,” Candi Zefferelli told me after I summarized our situation. “Summa our cranes are decades old and still workin’ like champs.”

  She sounded a bit like a character on Jersey Shore, but hey, it was Newark. I read the number deciphered by Clayton.

  “Gimme couple minutes,” she said. “See what I can dofahya.”

  It took less than one. “That tag you found? Musta fallen offa turret assembly for a fi’teen-ton crane. The turret got bought March a 1978, delivuhed in April to Olympia Equipment Rental in Florida. Got signed for by a man named Avram Kazankis.” She spelled it out. “Sorry, but that’s all I gahfuhya.”

  “Wrong,” I told Ms Zefferelli. “You have my heart forever.”

  I turned to an expectant Gershw
in. “The tag came from a crane assembly delivered to one Avram Kazankis in 1978.”

  “Georgie’s daddy,” Gershwin said. We punched knuckles.

  “According to Kazankis, his father had a bad leg. What you want to bet Georgie was in charge of clearing the leased land?”

  “Finding a big hole in the ground,” Gershwin said, finger-drumming a riff on his desktop. “He knew.”

  I heard Roy’s voice booming down the hall. It was time to see how much clout my new boss had. And how much autonomy I had.

  I stuck my head in his office. “I need a chopper, Roy. Do-able?”

  He frowned. But his only question was, “How many you seating?”

  “Zigs and me.”

  “A little one, then. They’re easier. Every time I need one of the big chops, the damn Governor’s got his ass in it. No one’s gonna shoot at you with missiles, are they?”

  “Hope not.”

  He picked up his phone and spoke for a few seconds before zinging the phone back to the cradle. “One’s being gassed up. The heliport’s on the roof.”

  Within minutes we were strapped in with mic-equipped helmets around our cabezas, Miami turning to a distant skyline as the land became gridded subdivisions set into green land broken by brown stretches of farm field. I was amazed open land existed in Florida, thinking the last piece of arable Floridian earth was in a museum somewhere.

  After a bit the low sprawl of the Okeechobee prison appeared, a grid of gray boxes at first, then we saw the rec area and ball field and towers and high-wire fences topped with wire that could filet meat. The warden knew George Kazankis well enough to use the man’s first name, Kazankis visiting twice a year on average, his rehabilitation programs seemingly beneficial. I was curious at how Kazankis made his picks.

  “I never figured out George’s reasoning for his selections,” Warden Pruit Sloan said. Sloan was a big, brown-suited guy in his sixties, square as a refrigerator, with longish gray hair and eyebrows that looked like tufts of dirty cotton over mobile brown eyes. “George has a high success rate, so I never argued. But his candidates were all over the board.”