And yet, for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint, I suddenly had a strong feeling that, crazy or not, he was indeed soaring overhead on a puddle-jumper to JFK, and from there he’d be on an overnight to South America. In fact, I was certain of it. Just as I became instantly certain that Damian Spinelli, while he might or might not be channeling Sam Spade, had done all of those things he’d told me, not simply that he believed he’d done them. But, even if it had all played out only in his rather fevered mind, in many ways it didn’t matter anymore. I knew then and there that the Jackal-hopper was one astonishingly special individual. And, it was my great gift to know him . . . no matter how stark raving mad he drove me . . . and everyone else.
As I left the Night Owl, I looked skyward and said a prayer for the skinny kid in the cargo pants and the fedora, that God would keep him safe and bring him back home . . . where we all loved him a hell of a lot more than we realized.
Chapter 16
Their Man in Caracas . . .
and Los Teques . . . and Esmeralda . . . and Damned Near Every Place in Between
(Miller note: The following was personally transcribed by me from three microcassettes that arrived within the course of one week after my meeting with Spinelli.)
The flight to Caracas was a pain in the keister. After clearing customs, which took a few pesos more than I remembered from my days smugglin’ rare plants back to the States for medical research, I was in a taxi headin’ south through Los Teques, then out into the countryside, north, east, and west of nowhere. I’d learned that Luke Spencer had also headed out of Port Charles just about the same time. Different airline, different stops, but if his information was anything close to mine, he’d soon be in a taxi on the same road. I only hoped he wasn’t ahead of me. My final destination: just outside the city of Esmeralda on a southern arm of the Rio Orinoco . . . ’bout six or seven hours away. Or twelve, if the taxi you was ridin’ in had bad shocks, like mine. It had taken almost two hours of cyber-hackin’ kung fu to access the location of Vaca’s secret hideout. Before gettin’ on the plane, I had put together the pieces of the Corinthos-Vaca puzzle as best I could. Seems Sonny had been dealin’ with Vicente Vaca for about three years and no one had gotten wise until Sonny had put out a contract on Lulu Spencer so’s Dante could marry a Vaca daughter and cement the partnership. Vaca had a big house in the capital city of Caracas and he spent enough time there to put on a grand show, as if he was actually a stand-up guy, an upright citizen and all that. But his main compound was far south, halfway between Brazil to the east and Colombia to the west. It was supposed to be a secret hideout . . . but I never met a secret I could keep; all it took was several clicks of my wireless mouse to activate the heat sensors and high-definition camera in the NASA satellite I’d already tapped into. I needed to get to Sonny before Luke Spencer did; needed to warn him that serious trouble was on the way. Although it was beyond me why I gave a rat’s ass. Mister Sir Corinthos has always made it clear that he would just as soon wipe me off his shoe as look at me. But he was good to Morgan . . . and that was enough to get me on a plane to try to convince Corinthos to either take it on the lam for a year or so, or try to make nice with Luke Spencer.
The taxi driver took me through every little backwater village, most of ’em not on any map anywhere. Beautiful but dirt poor . . . and I mean dirt. No electricity, no pavement—hell, no roads. Just ramshackle buildings, lean-tos, an occasional mercado and always a cantina. All the towns began to look alike, including the people. Real pretty, but sad around the eyes. They all seemed to have these sad, dark eyes . . . especially the kids. The little kids. Damn, but there were a lot of little kids.
And then it hit me.
All these kids looked exactly like Sonny Corinthos. Well, sure . . . damn, o’course! Sonny Corinthos had been travelin’ this same road for the last three years and he musta got out of the taxi or limo or llama or whatever at various points to get a drink or a pan dulce or an empanada. And that was all it took. Just like back home in Port Charles, Sonny would only need to look at a dame and bang!, nine months later, there’d be a new rug rat somewhere. Then I started seein’ the signs; I’d been seein’ ’em all along, I just hadn’t realized that “Sonny” wasn’t a comment on the weather, but was actually a name. Women of every age, and every stage of bein’ preggers, holdin’ signs that read “Señor Sonny . . . te necesito!” “Sonny, mi amor . . . este es su niño!” “Sonny, mi corazón!”
Jeez . . . the guy was single-handedly populatin’ Venezuela. And from the looks of it, he was gonna be just as hands-on an old man to these kids as he was to his legits back home. Actually, maybe these kids would have it a little better . . . maybe he’d leave ’em alone so’s they wouldn’t be likely to get shot in the head or land in the slammer . . . etc.
I understood the draw: His dimples alone made most dames fall over sideways. And I’d seen him be generous and, yeah, charming. But this! I was just amazed at his stamina; there musta been at least fifty kids, and ten more on the way.
Just before sunset, the taxi driver suddenly stopped short, sendin’ me into the passenger side headrest.
“Six hundred eighty-five American dollars, por favor. You get out here.”
“You ain’t gonna take me all the way in?” I asked, knowin’ full well what the answer was gonna be.
“You get out here. Señor Vaca knows my taxi; he has seen me before in Caracas. I took a big chance in bringing you here in the first place. Out now.”
“Okay . . . okay, pal . . . I’m goin’,” I said. “Here’s seven hundred fifty U.S. presidents. Now, I don’t know how long this will take . . . whatever it is I gotta do, but if you’re around in a day or so, when I need to get back . . . there’s plenty more verde where that came from.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Out.”
He left me standin’ at the head of a dirt road (big surprise) that led straight into some dark hills. I started walkin’ into the overgrowth, kickin’ pebbles and stuffin’ my hands in my pockets. I was just an ordinary Yank out for a stroll in Godforsaken territory. It wasn’t ten minutes before I had a sense there were at least three long-range pea-shooters pointed directly at my own corazón. Fifty yards farther along the road and I knew I was also bein’ followed on foot. I saw some twinkly lights ahead and decided to just keep walkin’, even though the “bird” calls and the “wolf” calls all around me were signalin’ my every move.
Twenty minutes later, with darkness fallin’ fast, I hit the main hacienda and a double line of muscle with semiautomatics. Obviously, someone had given the word that I was to be left alone. I walked up the steps, across the veranda, and into the house without so much as a peep from any of the hired guns.
Two of Señor Vaca’s enforcers met me at the door.
“Raise your arms, if you please.”
It was polite . . . but it didn’t leave any room for doubt; I didn’t do what the nice man said, and I was dead in my tracks. They patted me down, took the roscoe and the mini-roscoe hidden on my lower leg. Suddenly I felt naked . . . like Maxie must feel when she got out of the shower . . . or bed . . . or while she makes breakfast . . . or sits at the computer . . . etc.
I was escorted into a long, low room lit entirely by candles . . . the drippy kind. Little hardened piles all over the floor. Some of it drippin’ onto the boots of the sentries posted at every window. Señor Vaca was standing at the far end, and next to him, Sonny Corinthos. They each had a tumbler in their hand and Señor Vaca, with a nod of his head, indicated that one be poured for me. Tequila’s not my favorite, but when an underworld kingpin says you should drink, you drink.
“You are very brave . . .” Señor Vaca began, then he turned to Corinthos. “What is his name again?”
“Spinelli.”
“Ah, yes, Spinelli,” Vaca said, lookin’ back at me. “Most hombres, they know not to venture too far down my road, but you . . . you like to take chances, eh?”
“When I need to,” I said.
“Why do you need to, Spinell
i?” Corinthos said.
“The best-laid plans, Mister Sir.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Corinthos asked.
“Simple. Your hit on Lulu Spencer didn’t go off as planned, and now her father is on his way here to . . .”
“What?!” Corinthos said, stunned. “What are you talking about? I never put a hit out on Lulu Spencer!”
“Now’s not the time to clam up, Corinthos,” I said. “Dante knows that you tried to poison his gal so that he would be free to marry Vaca’s daughter. Only trouble is, Lulu didn’t take the bait . . . Dante did. He’s in a coma right now . . . and he looks like a blueberry . . . but he’s gonna be fine.”
“Dante . . . ? My son is in a coma? And you think I had something to do with it?”
“Dante let me know that you were pokin’ into his private life only a few days ago. Now, c’mon, Corinthos . . . shoot straight!”
“I only asked Dante about Lulu because I wanted to be certain when I came down here that I could call the wedding off!”
“What?”
I suddenly noticed that it got very quiet outside . . . no night noises. Nothin’.
“It is true, Señor Spinelli,” said Vaca. “We have been discussing the best way to tell my wife, Anita, that our daughter will not be marrying the young Corinthos-Falconeri.”
“Then why did you order Lulu to be poisoned?” I asked.
“Been meanin’ to ask you the same thing, my friend.”
I turned and saw Luke Spencer standing in the doorway, a rod in each hand, one pointed at Vaca, the other at Corinthos. Instantly, the guards in the room had the business ends of their own guns pointed at his head.
“You must be Vicente Vaca,” Spencer said, with a half-smile. “Tell your men to put down the metal and walk out of the room. If they fire, I’ll be able to get off at least two shots and that just might leave your daughter and little Dante without papas . . . and I don’t mean potatoes. Get it?”
The room was as tense as Kate Howard . . . on a good day. For a moment, I thought Vaca was gonna give his goons the go-ahead to fire. Then he gave the signal and his boys lowered their weapons and exited single file. And not one of ’em so much as glanced at Spencer on their way out. These men were finely tuned.
Now it was just the four of us.
“I have done as you asked, señor,” Vaca said. “Now you will put your guns down, yes?”
“No. I want Corinthos here to tell me why I shouldn’t blow a hole the size of Texas in his rotten hide.”
“Spencer, I had nothing to do with an attempt on Lulu’s life. As your friend . . . as one professional to another . . . I swear on my own kids’ lives. Now, c’mon . . . put down the guns.”
Luke didn’t move.
“Spinelli,” Corinthos said. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him. Tell him I am just as shocked as he is.”
“Luke,” I said, real quiet. “Luke, I believe him. When I arrived he had already broken the bad news to Vaca. Dante is in love with Lulu and that’s it.”
“And I had just told my good friend Sonny,” Vaca piped up, “that all is ‘jake’ as you say in America. My daughter has run off with someone else. Someone whom she truly loves.”
“The milkman,” Spencer sneered. “The village blacksmith, maybe?”
“No. The village midwife.”
There was dead silence in the room. Then . . .
“Oh.”
“Oh!”
“Oh!!!”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that somebody tried to kill my peanut,” Spencer said, lowerin’ his arms. “And if not you, Corinthos, then who?”
That’s when the heavy curtain over the far window was pulled aside and a fifth person stepped into the room.
Bernie, the numbers man who’d been hidin’ in the corner for God knew how long, a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol in his big, fat paw.
“Excellent question, Mr. Spencer . . . don’t!” Bernie yapped when he saw Luke about to level his guns. “Don’t move a muscle or, believe me, sir, I will not hesitate to . . . what’s the phrase you thugs use? Spinelli?”
“Blow us away?” I said.
“Exactly! Thank you, Jackal . . . although I should be putting a bullet into you, seeing as how you spoiled my plans.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said.
“That’s all right; it’s one hitch in an otherwise brilliant scheme.”
“You know this man?” Vaca said to Corinthos.
“He’s my accountant. Been with me for years. Thought he was loyal,” Corinthos said. “I don’t believe this.”
“Of course you don’t,” Bernie said, steppin’ into the room. “Spencer, Spinelli . . . join us over here please. Vaca, Corinthos, center of the room, if you will. That’s it. Of course you don’t believe it, Sonny-boy. After all, I’m just the accountant, right? Happy in my office, calculating all of your ill-gotten gains while I got next to nothing.”
“I paid you well.”
“A fraction! A damn fraction! And who was the one who really made all the moves in the organization? Who was the one who kept you two, three steps ahead of your competitors? How difficult do you think it really was to plan the assassination attempt? To get the poison shipped from Venezuela? To bribe an out-of-work sushi chef? To make it look like you were behind the whole thing? Who has the brains, Sonny-boy . . . really? You? Don’t make me laugh!”
“You can’t take all of us, Numbers,” I said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Spencer said.
“Wanna bet?” Bernie said. “I’ll even tell you how I’ll do it, because you’ll never be able to stop me and I, the lowly bookkeeper, will finally run the Corinthos empire. You see, it’s like chess . . . you have to know how your opponent thinks and will think five, eight . . . ten moves ahead. Which is why I am fully prepared for this little snafu. What was supposed to happen is that Spencer was going to arrive here tonight just as he did, take out all the guards who were in his way, just as he did, then enter the hacienda and blow Sonny’s head off without even a courtesy hello. And that’s what you would have done, right, Spencer?”
“Sounds good,” Luke said.
“At that point, Señor Vaca would have brought out his gun from under his desk and killed Spencer. Then, while his back was turned from me, I would have stepped out from behind the curtain and shot Vaca.”
“In the back?” I said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You want to talk honor? In front of these men? Ridiculous.”
“Yeah, silly me.”
“But because you were here, Spinelli, and Spencer heard you talking, he decided to actually find out the facts before he came in, guns blazing. Because he respects you. And here we are. But I’m a chess man. You all . . . checkers on the front porch. So here we go. First, I’m going to shoot Spencer, since he’s armed. Then I’ll shoot Spinelli, because he’s annoying and shouldn’t be here in the first place. Then I’ll take out Vaca, before he can get to his desk gun, and then . . . my dear, unarmed Corinthos. The man who has made my life hell for the last . . . how many years is it, Sonny-boy?”
“Wanna wait while I count?” Corinthos said.
“I don’t think so,” said Bernie, and he took aim at Luke Spencer.
“Knight to Bishop 4,” I whispered to myself, then, “Wouldya look at that?!”
I pointed to the fireplace. Bernie turned his head, and I shot him right between his kidneys and his liver. Clean through . . . very little blood. Corinthos was on him in one second and I was pullin’ Corinthos off the next.
“Don’t kill him!” I said. “The authorities are gonna want to have a few words with bookkeeping Bernie here, and they can’t do that if the guy has no teeth!”
I threw Sonny into a chair.
“Vaca, keep him there, will ya!”
“Sí, señor. But I must ask . . . where did you get the gun? My men searched you, no?”
“No one ever checks the hat, Vaca.”
“Ahhhh. The hat.”
I looked down at Bernie, sobbin’ into the rug.
“Guess I got your queen, huh, Numbers?”
“The oldest trick in the book,” he moaned.
“For the greenest tough guy in the world,” Spencer said, comin’ over.
“How did you know I would fall for it?” Bernie asked.
“I was in Russia for a while. Made a few friends. You might know one of them . . . name’s Kasparov. He kept a summer house in St. Pete’s. I learned a few things . . . beat him a couple of times.”
“You beat Garry Kasparov at chess?”
“Candy from a baby, Numbers. Vaca, call the local witch doctor and tell him he’s got a patch job. Then tell the local office of UPS that you gotta crate goin’ back to the States. Get your men in here and get this wanna-be punk outta my face!”
As they were draggin’ Bernie outta the room, I saw Spencer and Corinthos shakin’ hands. Then they both thanked me for savin’ their lives, their friendship, and their businesses. Vaca’s daughter walked in, arm in arm, with Florencia, the midwife, and Florencia’s two-year-old boy, who looked exactly like Corinthos. Then Vaca’s wife came in and announced that dinner was ready. We all had a good laugh.
As we were walkin’ into the dinin’ room, however, we heard a shout from the direction they’d taken Bernie, and somethin’ caught the corner of my eye. I saw the flash of gunpowder before I heard the shot. Bernie musta gotten loose.
As I fell, I heard Vaca’s wife scream. I smelled the chiles rellenos on the table.
And then . . . it all went away. . . .
(Miller note: At this point, Spinelli’s voice on the third and final tape faded out, and there were almost thirty seconds of silence. Then another voice began, a deeper accented voice, male, stating that “Mr. Spinelli had been taken to a hospital in Esmeralda and treated for a gunshot wound. His brief stay was relatively uneventful except that a nurse had once heard him talking in his sleep, repeating the word ‘Istanbul.’ Shortly thereafter, Spinelli disappeared from the hospital one night, unnoticed by any member of the staff, and now could not be located.” As previously stated, what immediately preceded was an accounting of Spinelli’s travels through Venezuela as recorded on three microcassettes and sent via the United Fruit Company to my apartment, “special order,” in several crates of bananas (if nothing else, the cooperation of such a mega-conglomerate has all but solidified my belief in the truth of Spinelli’s stories). Aside from a tarantula bite and a spike in my potassium levels, they arrived without incident. The same could not be said of Damian Spinelli. I didn’t know where he was or in what condition. I had alerted Maxie that I had “something” for her and would deliver it if Spinelli didn’t show up within the month. That month came and went; Maxie demanded to see what I had in my possession . . .
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 20
