by Todd Merer
“Uncle wants to see you,” Albert said. “Tomorrow.”
My present pad was underwhelming. Instead of the prime real estate I used to inhabit, I now dwelt in a sublet studio in a soulless high-rise. But not for much longer. Because I could feel it in my bones: I had my mojo back. My old blue magic. Yes! I fixed myself a Negroni and drank it while puffing a cigarette.
Old-time drink, old-time habit.
Old times were here again.
I was getting a buzz on. Realized I wanted a woman. Photos from my sex life’s album ran behind my eyes. My first woman, naturally. Also a memorable one-night stand whose name I forget but whose scent I can still conjure. And, of course, not to disremember—although I try to—my ex-wife, Mady, the love of my life. Nor Jillian Chennault, beautiful Jilly, whose siren song had drawn me into the spider web that had gotten me suspended and prompted my decision to resign from the White Powder Bar.
Jilly . . . I gave a little shiver.
On the far side of the Brooklyn Bridge, there is a cemetery on a hilltop crowded with ornate mausoleums. Jilly was forever locked inside one. She’d been alive when the mausoleum was permanently sealed.
Ach. Forget women. I had another Negroni.
I channel-surfed in search of an old black-and-white war or gangster flick I could lose myself in. No such luck. I settled for the news: a twenty-four seven broadcast out of—gimme a break!—Bogotá . . . city of my karmic disaster.
The images sat me up straight:
Night. Rain-slicked highway. A dozen cop cars: red bar lights blinking, blue bubble lights turning. AR-toting cops outlined by blazing flames. A newscaster with bright red lips kissed a microphone as if it was her lover. It wasn’t, but it was the next best thing: a massive news cycle that would paste her face on Colombian TV for years to come. A major cartel war.
I’d personally viewed some of the last war’s killing fields. Tortures, executions, massacres of innocents. I’d thought the cartel wars were over but wasn’t surprised they’d begun again. It was an inevitability because the cocaine on board the sabotaged fishing trawler must have been worth in the hundreds of millions. Meaning it was jointly financed by a consortium of cartels, undoubtedly organized by the boss of bosses, Sombra. The loss of so much product had unleashed predictable consequences. People wanted their money back, or someone else’s money, or revenge for some old slight. There were plenty of the latter.
The one thing I couldn’t figure? What insane desperado had the cojones to make a move against Sombra? Whoever the idiot was, I’m a betting man, and if I had any money, I’d have put it on Sombra’s nose. But no matter who won, there would be blood. People would die simply for knowing people.
I knew an awful lot of people. Much too many.
I was definitely never returning to Colombia.
CHAPTER 2
It was a squat square building with a tall first floor and two low-ceilinged stories above, topped by a copper dome time-tarnished to a bilious green. The columns alongside the entrance were sooty. The original bronze entrance doors had been replaced by cheap revolving doors made in you-know-where. It was an ugly building on ugly Canal Street, the spine of ugly Chinatown. It didn’t have a sign, but everyone referred to it as the Pagoda, although its real name was the Association of Guardians and Trustees of Foochow Tradition. Also known to law enforcement as the New York HQ of the Foochow Tong, a criminal organization of Chinese Americans headed by the man I was there to see, an ancient, mole-spotted, gray-haired man with Buddha-like jowls and a pot belly: Uncle Winston Lau.
I was ushered into Uncle’s private office. We shook hands. His was as limp and cold as a dead carp. He bade me take a seat as he plopped back behind his desk, where he sat with his lizard eyes probing mine.
The office was private—a rear room with bricked-over windows—but the meeting wasn’t. A third man was there, a young brute in a suit who stood glaring at me. He was tall for a Chinese and might have been handsome but for the ridged scar that ran from a corner of his mouth up his cheek and into his thick jet hair. Scar. I knew him from back when he’d led the Green Dragons. For a couple of years, the GDs had run wild in Chinatowns in Manhattan and Flushing and Sunset Park. Extortions. Murders. Drugs. Assorted mayhems. The victims had been too terrorized to complain to the NYPD, so the feds had stepped in and resourced a Southern District indictment that dropped the Dragons quick as a .357 slug to the cortex. I’d represented the head Green Dragon, a then-twenty-year-old nasty beyond his years. That was Scar. I’d gotten him a sweetheart deal because witnesses suddenly had developed bad memories. Of course, the government didn’t reveal this, hoping Scar would plead or rat without a trial. Armed with foreknowledge of amnesiac witnesses, I’d declared Scar ready for Freddie: “My client is prepared to clear his name of these accusations.” Sure enough, on the eve of trial, the government, the big G, relented, and I’d pled Scar to a flat, three-year bit that equated to time already served. He hadn’t even thanked me.
Now Scar had upgraded his clothing but not his attitude. When I entered, he didn’t so much as acknowledge me. Guess he figured showing even a dollop of niceness might lower his hard-guy status in Uncle’s eyes.
Uncle spoke a few words in Foochow.
Scar translated: “Nice seeing you.”
Hmm. Uncle had been fluent in English when I’d met him. Maybe he’d reached a point of forgetfulness.
“Nice seeing you as well,” I said.
Scar didn’t bother translating. Meaning Uncle’s English remained more than passable. He was simply being the same wise, careful man who’d survived a life of crime. Considering the possibility I might be wired, or that the feds had illegally bugged his space—a far more likely occurrence than John Q’s think—avoiding English-to-Foochow translation provided Uncle with the ultimate defense: he never was aware of my words.
Uncle said something in Foochow and held his hand out. Instantly, a greenback snapped crisply into Scar’s hand, an insignificant single the thug pushed in my face. For a moment, I was tempted to tell him to shove it up his keister, but I didn’t because, abruptly, something familiar happened:
My palm itched.
Colombians say an itchy palm is a harbinger of money to come. I’m anything but superstitious but—so help me God—when my palm itched, greenbacks soon followed. This would surely be the case if I again became Uncle’s go-to lawyer. Which, I hoped, just might be—hence the token offer of a dollar bill. As his lawyer, I couldn’t testify about our dealings. I took the buck.
Uncle spoke. Scar translated: “Now you’re my lawyer?”
I nodded. “For this conversation.”
Another Uncle-to-Scar-to-Bluestone: “Albert says nice things about you. I made many recommendations for you.”
“I appreciate the kindness.”
Now Uncle spoke English directly to me. “I have a friend. Just a friend, no business, never. I do this as a favor. You understand, yes?”
I certainly did. It was like asking Groucho if he liked cigars. No doubt Uncle’s “friend” was a thief he did monkey business with. Uncle didn’t do favors gratis. I just hoped it wasn’t a white-powder case, for—tempting as it might be—I’d turn it down.
“My friend need lawyer. I no know why. I just say, talk to Mr. Benn.”
“Again, thank you.” I meant it from the bottom of my pocket. I was thinking Uncle was into lots of things. Maybe it was an extortion or money-laundering case built on illegal remittances from Chinatown to China.
Or so I hoped. In any case, there was no way I could meet a client in my pad. I needed a lawyerlike conference room . . . maybe in that rent-an-office on East Fifty-Ninth—
“My friend is waiting in next room.”
The next room had bare walls. From atop a small table, an elbow lamp illuminated the room, which was empty but for a chair facing a couch. When I entered, a startled woman stood from the couch. Her eyes were red. For a moment, she was a deer in my headlights. Then she dabbed her eyes, composed herself, fac
ed me.
Funny thing, I didn’t feel as if she were looking at me, more like she was showing herself to me.
So I looked.
She was the most beautiful sad woman I’d ever seen. How can I recount the ways? Because she had big brown eyes and long chestnut hair and skin as smooth as heavy cream and long legs—I’m a leg man—with ankles slender as a fawn’s? As I gaped, I wondered: How had this obviously sophisticated Anglo female come to be a “friend” of a Chinese crime boss?
Didn’t matter. What did matter was that I didn’t make her as a heroin dealer. And whatever her problem was, she looked as if she could afford me.
I introduced myself, adding, “Just Benn is fine.”
She allowed a small nod. “I’m Stella Maris.”
Stella Maris? As in, “Star of the Sea”? Was it an alias? Maybe she was a Stella who married a Maris. “Any relation to Roger?”
“Pardon me . . . ?”
“Never mind.”
The door opened, and Uncle leaned in. “I go now. You talk, talk, talk.”
He left the door open. His footsteps creaked over old linoleum, and the outer door closed. Quiet now. Except for my beating heart.
For on second look, Stella really was stellar. As an old-movie aficionado, I put her on a par with Gene Tierney. Her proximity affected me but not in the usual way. Sure, she was beautiful, but I didn’t want to bed her. Crazy as it seems, I wanted to protect her. Go figure that. I couldn’t at all, but no denying the fact.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she said.
“Sitting down would be a good start.” I sat and motioned for her to do the same, and she did. She wore the kind of simple black dress that costs as much as a good used Mini Cooper. Silken with a pleat that parted when she crossed her legs.
“Whenever you’re ready, Stella.”
She sniffled. “It’s difficult . . .”
“Take your time.”
She sniffled some more, then spoke softly. “Other than my grandfather, those I consider family are dead. My parents, my cousin, Awn . . .”
“Awn is . . . ?”
Ignoring my question, again she teared up. “My grandfather is too old and sick to get about. He asked me to discuss his situation and then, if you think you may be of help, to meet him.”
“Exactly what is the situation?”
She wiped her eyes, sat up straight, spoke firmly. “There are disagreements about an estate. Both sides have deep sentiments about custody.”
“Custody? You’re referring to children?”
“Not children. An esteemed . . . personage. In the past, the disagreements have been unpleasant. Violent, even. My grandfather thinks you may be of help advising him, perhaps even negotiating on his behalf. Will you, Mr. Bluestone?”
“Benn. Tell me about your grandfather.”
“His name is Marmaduke Mason, but everyone calls him Duke.” She fumbled in her purse, an Hermès croc sans the vulgar golden H. She took out a matching croc folder, opened it, and began writing with a silver pen. Cartier.
“I’d be happy to meet your grandfather.” I handed her one of my trademark blue business cards. “For now, I’ll require a small retainer—”
“Oh. Yes, I’m just now . . .” She tore a check free and handed it to me.
I wanted to look at it, but that would be rude, even for me, so I simply slid it into my breast pocket. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t. My grandfather is . . . reclusive. He doesn’t use phones or computers. In some ways, he’s still caught in the past. Not that he’s senile, mind you. Just that his wartime experiences affected him deeply. He was a fighter pilot during the Second World War. I’ve been told that when he left home, he was a happy soul. But he returned a changed man. Controlling. Defensive. Friendless except for his wartime friend, Smitty. Smitty used to say—Smitty’s dead now, too—that Grandfather still had his fighter-pilot’s mentality. That he saw danger behind every cloud. That he was a hunter who felt hunted. May I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I came to you because I’m worried Grandfather won’t conduct himself correctly. He’s . . . aggressive. Perhaps the two sides of the family can’t live side by side, but there’s no need for us to fight. Hopefully you can represent me and negotiate a solution.”
“I’ll try to keep things peaceful.”
She stood. “Thank you. I’ll contact you in a day or so. I can count on you, Mr. Bluestone?”
“Benn. You can count on me.” I saw her to the door, but she paused.
“Mr. Blue—Benn . . . there’s something else you should know. The family . . . problem began long ago. There are those who still hold resentments. Some are quite capable of doing . . . bad things. If that’s of concern to you, I’d understand if you’d rather not be involved.”
Why did I think she was trolling me? Dangling a worm as if she knew I was a fool for trouble? Of course, I bit.
“I have a few capabilities myself.”
Abruptly, she moved closer and kissed my cheek. A brief press of pillow-soft lips. Then she left the room without closing the door behind her. Scar was still there, glaring at me . . . and, I thought, at Stella. Couldn’t blame him because her rear rated like the rest of her: an eleven. She passed from view, but I lingered, listening to her heels clacking in the hallway, wondering why I so badly wanted to help her—
Something hard and fast struck the angle where my jawbones met. Knocked me down and blacked me out. When things stopped spinning, I opened my eyes and sat up.
Scar stood over me, rubbing his knuckles. “Been wanting to do that for years.”
When I managed to stand, he was gone. My jaw ached as if a wisdom tooth had just been yanked. I couldn’t figure it. I’d done well for Scar when he was my client. Why the grudge now? Lord knows I’ve had serious beefs with violence-prone clients, but I’ve always been able to silver-tongue a satisfactory resolution. I resolved to try a different tack with Scar. Tit for tat with a bat.
It was raining, and I couldn’t bear the rush-hour subway crush, so I dug into my reserves and took a taxi home. Traffic was heavy, and the meter ticked like the second hand of a two-star-hotel clock. I got home sixty-five bucks poorer, but I didn’t give a good goddamn.
The check that Stella had given me was issued by a private bank I’d never heard of. There was no printed name on the check. Only my name, as the payee, in the sum of—
$250,000.
CHAPTER 3
Casco Viejo, Panama.
In the predawn hour, the old city was quiet but for the faint clatter of palm fronds stirred by the onshore breeze. The surrounding peninsular waters reflected the softly lit glass towers of downtown Panama City across the bay. The blackness that was the Gulf of Panama glowed with the running lights of ships awaiting entrance to the Panama Canal. The spiderweb span of the Bridge of the Americas was outlined against the lights of the canal itself.
Along Casco’s seawall, the colonial row buildings were dark. Their low, eighteenth-century silhouette was interrupted by an unexpected verticality: a phalluslike column framed against the starry sky. A lighthouse?
No. A bell tower.
Whispers emanated from the top floor of the tower, a circular room whose shutters were opened to the night; a room in which a slow-moving ceiling fan cast striped shadows across a man and woman, still entwined and breathing quickly in the aftermath of their lovemaking. The man was a large, heavily muscled American with nicked features and an easy smile. His crew cut suggested military or law enforcement, but he had no title or rank, at least publicly.
He squinted at his steel Rolex, then reached across the woman’s breasts to a night table. A Sig Sauer automatic pistol lay there, but instead, he picked up a TV remote. He pointed it at a flat-screen across the room and pressed a button, but nothing happened.
“You’re holding it backward,” the woman murmured.
Her name was Dolores. She was extremely attractive: petite, p
erfect figure, striking pale eyes. She had a way about her that drew men like bees to a blossom. A fact she knew. And used.
The man turned the remote around and pressed a button, but the screen remained dark. He looked at the remote and chuckled.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” he said. “Made in China.”
China, yes, thought Dolores, taking the remote from him and pressing a series of buttons, all the while studying the man’s profile, musing how suddenly changeable life was. A scant year ago, she’d renovated the bell tower as her sanctuary, and for a while, it had been . . . but no longer. Not since the man had unexpectedly appeared several months ago.
They’d spoken all through that first day. From the very start, Dolores had realized the man knew everything about her, and that his proposal was her only—no, her best—path. But she wasn’t one to give in easily, so she refused to commit, demanding first that she be told all that was expected of her.
“One step at a time,” said the man.
“Not good enough.” Dolores had known he had an unspoken goal. And she intended to make herself indispensable to it while pursuing her own ends.
They’d debated for hours. Finally, he’d agreed to verbalize a clue as to his plan, but only if afterward she’d make a decision either way.
As if I had a choice. She’d nodded, and he’d smirked knowingly, confirming her belief that he knew she was bluffing. Good. Let him think he can read me.
His clue was vague: “The Orient. Yes or no?”
The Orient, my ass, thought Dolores. Oh well, let him play his games. “Hmm.” She pretended to consider, then nodded. “Okay, I’m in.”
She was already aware of the general shape of his plan, because she’d paid a great deal of money to a black source that had enabled her to access and decrypt many of his discussions with Washington. She’d known about this man for a long time: that he had been hunting her, inching toward this moment. Of course, her information was scanty. But it was enough to confirm what she’d hoped:
