Tanzi's Game (Vince Tanzi Book 3)

by C I Dennis

  We could do that, if Barbara wanted to. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe I was damaged goods, and she’d helped nurse me back to a semblance of the man who she had initially fallen in love with, but the effort had cost her too much. The whole issue would normally have been at the top of my list, but getting Lilian back was the only thing on my list now. My troubles with Barbara were going to have to wait.

  Rose DiNapoli’s flight had beaten us to the airport, and she already had a taxi waiting. She was wearing her customs uniform, and she carried a small bag.

  “What’s in there?” I asked her, after I gave her a friendly hug.

  “My gun, the impoundment paperwork, and a swimsuit,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what role I’m supposed to play here, customs agent or boat bimbo, so I brought both.”

  “We haven’t figured out your part yet,” I said. “But you’d make a pretty convincing bimbo.”

  She smiled. “I sure hope that was a compliment, because it didn’t sound like one.”

  I introduced her to Sonny and Roberto, and they shook hands. She led us to the taxi, and a few minutes later the driver let Rose and me off at Charter Boat Row while Sonny and Roberto continued on to get some food for the trip. Rose found the local cops who were on duty and showed them the documents that she’d brought, giving the Department of Homeland Security full possession of the Mikelson on the grounds that Javier had used it to illegally transport laundered funds. That happened to be the truth, seeing how Javier had told me that much of the cash that he’d dropped off the Cuban coast on our previous trip was dirty.

  I didn’t have a bathing suit with me, but I did have every lock picking tool that I owned, and this time I was inside the cabin in less than fifteen minutes. Hotwiring Javier Pimentel’s million-dollar boat would be a different matter, though. The ignition wires were threaded through a hardened metal tube, and I had to attach a diamond-coated blade to my Dremel saw which kept shooting little metal fragments into my eyes as I lay on my back under the helm of the flying bridge. This was going to take a while.

  “Looking for these?” Ms. DiNapoli said, and I banged my head on the helm console as I sat up. She had changed into a blue-and-green tankini, with the top section visible through a loose, scoop neck T-shirt. She held out a set of keys on a ring with a small float attached. “They were in the master stateroom,” she said.

  “Doh,” I said. “You’re very resourceful for a bimbo.”

  “Thanks, I think,” she said, smiling. “I’ll put my uniform on again when we get closer. In case we need to let them know that we’re not messing around.”

  I heard somebody board the boat and spotted Roberto and Sonny on the deck below us, holding plastic bags. “Got us some conch fritters,” Sonny said. “You missed out the last time, so we got ten orders.”

  “That ought to do it,” I said.

  “Don’t know about that,” Sonny said. “Roberto already ate three of them on the way back.”

  *

  Piloting a seventy-foot boat out of the Garrison Bight was a challenge, and I had come dangerously close to backing the Mamarta into one of the power line supports that crossed the body of water near the channel. I’d handled a forty-footer here a couple of winters before, but the Mikelson was so overpowered with its twin diesels that it took me a while to gain control. After a while we were out of the harbor and headed south past Wisteria Island and Sunset Key, into the Florida Straits. Roberto and Sonny sat next to me at the helm. Rose had claimed a sheltered spot on the deck behind us and was lying on her back in the warm sun. She had shed the T-shirt and was wearing her movie-star sunglasses with her curly dark hair tied up in a tight bun. She looked quite excellent in her bathing suit, and it took all the resolve that I could muster to keep my eyes on where I was going and not whack the million-dollar yacht into a buoy. As if I didn’t have enough women problems already. Lord, why do you torment me so?

  Tanzi’s Tip #9: Whenever you think you’ve dug yourself into the deepest hole possible, someone can always find you a bigger shovel.

  Roberto had programmed the ship’s navigation system to take us to a location twelve nautical miles off of the Cuban coast, just outside of the country’s territorial waters. It was far too deep to drop anchor there, so if our timing was off, we wouldn’t be able to spend the night, and we would have to make the four-hour trip back to the Keys. Everything depended on whether Maria Inés Calderón was checking her email, whether she had access to a fast boat, and whether or not she would believe the story that we had come up with. It sounded pretty good to me, but I’m not an MIT Economics grad, nor a vice president, nor am I sitting on twenty million simoleans in a Cayman bank account.

  “Tell me how this goes again?” I asked him, as he worked the touch screen of the GPS.

  “I tell her I have the money, and then I give her the coordinates. How fast are you going?”

  “Twenty-six knots.”

  “That should put us there just after six PM,” he said. “In an hour or so I’ll email her from Segundo’s account. The boat has satellite Internet, which is good because we’re too far from a tower. I tell her that I’m Javier, and that I have the money, but that we need to talk first.”

  “You think she’ll buy that?”

  “We just have to get her on board,” Roberto said. “This is Javier’s boat, so that will look right. And nobody would have access to her email system except for Segundo, and probably Javier. I think we have a chance.”

  “So she comes aboard, and I go into my act, and meanwhile a Cuban Navy ship is next to us, ready to blow us out of the water if they don’t like us.”

  “All we need is six words, Vince. I want to make a transfer.”

  *

  We were an hour away from our destination and Sonny was at the helm singing made-up sea shanties in his deep baritone, which was helping to cut the tension and had Roberto smiling. This might have been an enjoyable trip if I hadn’t been so worried about how we were going to pull off our planned conference-at-sea with Roberto’s aunt. Too much could go wrong.

  I was down on the cockpit deck with Rose, sitting across from her in the twin padded fishing seats that someone might sit in if they were actually fishing from the boat rather than dropping off coolers full of cash or running scams on Cuban government officials. I’d found the Elle sweatshirt in the Zodiac tender where I’d hidden on the last trip, and I gave it to Rose, as she was cold but was not ready to give up the swimsuit. It was five o’clock—I call that “ice-rattling time” at my house, and there was a full bar in the galley that was well stocked, but I didn’t want to start drinking yet, no matter how beautiful the day or the scenery.

  Rose raised her sunglasses and tucked them back into her hair. “So, Vince. You remember when I told you that you looked cute in the priest’s collar?”

  “Yes. And I accused you of flirting.”

  “I’m still not flirting. But you said, ‘I already have enough trouble at home.’ What did you mean by that?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “A friend of yours,” she said. “Me.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It always is. My ex-fiancé emailed me this morning. He wants five grand for what he calls my half of the deposits.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And I think I’m going to send it to him. He’s entitled to it. It takes two to screw up a relationship.”

  “I just said the exact same thing to my physical therapist. She and I were talking about why my wife left.”

  “Your wife left you?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “Temporarily, I guess. She’s having an affair. And meanwhile, I got in too deep with the physical therapist.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I didn’t mean to. She crawled into my bed when I was asleep. She’s—kind of obsessed with me. Every time I see her, she comes on to me. It’s partly my fault, though.”

  “Some people will stop at nothing,” Rose said. “You’re a good man, Vince.”

/>   “You don’t know me. I’m fifty-two years old, and I can still make some colossal mistakes.”

  “You don’t stop making mistakes just because you’re old.”

  “So I’m old?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She took the sunglasses from her head, folded them, and rested them in her lap. “I’m going to pour you a little rum out of Javier Pimentel’s bar. He has the good stuff. The really good stuff. We customs agents are very picky about what we confiscate, you know.”

  “Rose, I shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t argue with me,” she said. “It’s gorgeous out, and you need to relax a little if you’re going to pull this off.”

  Tanzi’s Tip #10: Just say yes.

  *

  We were twelve miles off the coast of Cuba, drifting. I had shut down the twin engines because they gulped fuel, and at the current price of diesel I wasn’t about to shell out for any more than the two thousand gallons that the Mikelson already held. I may have taken Javier Pimentel’s boat, but I didn’t have his credit card.

  Roberto was up in the flying bridge, watching the shoreline for activity. Sonny was pacing back and forth on the lanai deck like Captain Ahab. Agent DiNapoli had gone below to change into her uniform and get her sidearm in case there was any trouble, although her automatic wouldn’t be much good against a naval gun. I was still sitting in the fishing chair, nursing the last of the rum that Rose had poured me and rehearsing my lines.

  “She just emailed, and she’s on the way,” Roberto yelled from above me, and we let out a collective whoop. Sonny came aft, and I sent him into the saloon to stay out of the sight of any approaching boats. Not long afterward I saw a shape on the horizon, and I decided that I would also go inside, so that when they drew near they would have to guess who was aboard. If Maria Inés happened to spot me through binoculars she might turn around, and our rendezvous would never happen.

  The approaching shape grew larger, and to my relief it was not a naval vessel—it was a cigarette boat, one of those noisy, floating dragsters that could make fifty knots or more, and it was coming up fast. I heard the engines throttle down as they drew near, and the captain expertly maneuvered the arrow-shaped craft alongside our starboard beam and hailed us. The seas were nearly calm with a light breeze, and Sonny and I came out to help them tie up to our side, catching lines while three dark-skinned men fastened rubber fenders between our hulls to avoid contact between the two expensive boats. The men were dressed in civilian clothes, but they didn’t look like civilians—they were young, muscular, and agile. If this ended up in a fight, we just might lose.

  Maria Inés Calderón emerged into the cockpit of the cigarette boat from below decks and then stepped over the rail and onto the deck of the Mikelson. She was dressed in tailored khaki pants, blue Top-Sider sneakers, and a white fleece jacket with the sleeves pushed up to expose a gold Rolex on one wrist and a thick diamond bracelet on the other. The finance minister looked more like Mitzi from the Boca Raton Yacht Club than she did a hero of the socialist republic.

  She gave me a dismissive look, as if I had blocked her way. “Where’s my brother?”

  “Down below. Seasick. Come inside and we’ll pour you something.”

  “I don’t drink,” she snapped. “I didn’t come out here to socialize while Javier pukes.”

  “Please,” I said, holding open the door to the saloon, and she entered the big teak-paneled room. I closed the door behind me, and it was just the two of us except for Roberto, who was in the galley pretending to be absorbed by his laptop.

  “Who’s the child?”

  “He’s not a child,” I said. “Have a seat.”

  She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the saloon, across a brass-covered coffee table from where I stood. “Javier is going to put in an appearance, I presume? I’ve never known him to be seasick before.”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “What do I want? Come again?”

  “To make,” I said. “You want to make.”

  “Mr. Tanzi, I don’t follow you. Not at all. You told me before that you represented the Pimentel family, and I know that’s false. I believe you know why I’m here, so let’s get on with it, or I’ll be leaving.”

  “What would you prefer?” I asked. “Cash now? Or do we make a trans—what do you call those?”

  “Make a what?”

  “A bank trans—” I said. “What’s the word?”

  “You mean a wire? But you just said you have the cash here?”

  “I could trans—whatever it to your boat.”

  “You’re confusing me,” she said. “This is nonsense. Don’t tell me that you don’t have the sixty million.”

  Goddamn. I was counting, and I was still one word short, no matter what I tried. I just couldn’t get her to say it.

  “Transferencia,” Roberto called from the galley. “That’s what Mr. Tanzi is trying to say.”

  “A transfer?” she said.

  “Bingo,” Roberto said, and he smiled at me. We did it. It was all I could do to not burst out laughing, I was so relieved.

  “Say again?” I said to Roberto’s aunt, just in case the three separate recording devices that we had brought hadn’t picked it up.

  “You heard me,” she said. “What kind of game are you two playing? And where’s Javier?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Javier couldn’t make it. And there’s no money.”

  “I figured as much. I’ll just call my men aboard, and we’ll settle this.”

  At that moment Sonny Burrows emerged from below, with his shaved head, gold earrings, and sunglasses. He had removed his shirt, and his arms were crossed over his heavily muscled chest like a boxer. Rose DiNapoli came up right behind him in her ICE tactical outfit, with her weapon at her side. She wore an expression that might have sent a Doberman yelping back to its kennel.

  “Are you sure that you can’t stay for a drink?” I asked our guest.

  “You’ll regret this,” she said, scowling, as she pushed open the door to the deck.

  “Aunt Maria,” Roberto called after her. “Be sure to check your email.”

  Maria Inés Calderón took a long look at my fifteen-year-old friend. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, young man.” She turned and climbed back over the rail of our boat to hers and ordered her crew to cast off.

  “Neither does she,” Roberto said to us.

  *

  Rose DiNapoli had been sitting next to me on the flying bridge, staring at the open, limitless water and the emerging stars while I steered the big yacht back toward Key West. She had stopped talking, and when I looked over to her I noticed that she was shivering.

  “Cold?” I asked her.

  She nodded her head in assent. She was still in her uniform and had put the Elle sweatshirt on top of it. I had the windows closed, but the shivering seemed to be getting worse.

  “Rose, are you all right?”

  “No,” she said, in a whisper.

  I yelled for Sonny from below, and he came up and helped me get her down the ladder. We led her to a sectional sofa inside the main saloon where Roberto sat at one end, working on the computer. “Get her a blanket,” I called to him, and he dashed below into the staterooms. He came back with a pile of bedding, and we wrapped her up and propped her on the sofa with her legs elevated by pillows.

  “You got this?” Sonny said, looking at me.

  “Yes. Go up and take the helm.”

  Roberto and I waited at Rose’s side while her breathing slowed and her color began to come back. After a while I poured her a glass of water from the galley sink and held it to her lips while she sipped. “I think I’ve been holding some things in,” she said. “Maybe you’re right, Vince.”

  “You are definitely going to go talk to somebody, all right? I insist.”

  “I guess,” she said. “I’m going below. I need some sleep.” She rose from the sofa and made her way down the steps to the staterooms.

&nbs
p; “What happened to her?” Roberto said, after she had left.

  “The Cuban police took her in for questioning,” I said. “Your aunt was involved. The cops strip-searched her, and she wouldn’t tell me what else, but it was bad. She’s been toughing it out, and I think it finally hit her.”

  He didn’t say anything, probably because he didn’t have any idea what to say about a situation like that. No one did. Roberto returned to his laptop and got back to work.

  I puttered around the galley and cleaned up the empty boxes of conch fritters from Sloppy Joe’s, which we had demolished, along with most of a bottle of Brugal Siglo de Oro rum that had probably cost Javier Pimentel more than the new tires that I had recently put on the Beemer. I would need to take the helm from Sonny soon, as we were getting within reach of the coastline, and there would be other boats out.

  “How’s it going?” I asked Roberto, as I put away the last few drink glasses.

  “It’s going,” he said. “I have it pretty much edited. Once I do, the sky’s the limit. Meanwhile, I made a donation for your friend. I like her.”

  “A donation?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “My Aunt Maria just gave away another hundred thousand. This one went to RAINN. They have a national rape hotline.”

  “We could do this all night,” I said, smiling at him.

  “I know,” he said, and he got back to his work.

  SUNDAY

  Sonny kept me awake for the rest of the boat ride, and I did the same for him on the flight home. We took Rose with us to Vero, as it was too late for her to catch a flight to Miami, and she was still in rough shape. We arrived back to the house at three in the AM. I put Roberto on the futon in Royal’s room, Rose in the study, and I flopped onto the couch. Gustavo was sleeping soundly in my room, and Sonny and Susanna were having a little welcome home party in the spare bedroom, so I turned on a fan to drown out the noise.

  Just before I went to bed Roberto played me back the fruits of our labors on the speakers of his computer. I want to make a transfer, a voice said, through the tinny-sounding speakers.

  “Is that going to be good enough?” I asked him.