She giggled just a little. “When I find you, I’m going to use a pair of scissors to cut off your testicles one at a time.”
*
Utter exhaustion grabbed ahold of Mike shortly after takeoff from Barcelona. The guy sitting beside him thought it must have been drugs; he’d never seen someone sleep so deeply on a plane. The flight attendant didn’t bother to wake Casper for the standard airline meal.
On cue, he awoke before landing. It had been a dreamless sleep for which he was grateful.
The Philip Goldson International Airport was ten miles from Belize city, but it was a stopover only. Mike went straight to the terminal to catch the tourist flight to San Pedro Island. With any luck, he would be in a hotel room soon to plan his next moves.
Since Casper had no luggage, he hustled with his backpack to check in for the commuter airline. The counter was outside of the secure area. That meant going through the gatekeepers again—this added to the building tension.
A small line formed in front of the airline cashier. The tourists were out in force, and most of them Americans. Mike stood behind a few couples who acted like friends. He winced a bit when the couple near him hugged and kissed each other like teenagers. Cassie entered his thoughts once again, which only added to his edginess.
He sensed someone approaching from behind him and felt them invading his space. Ordinarily, Mike was not so paranoid.
“Hey, Collin!” A man tapped him softly on his arm. Casper turned fully prepared for a life-and-death confrontation.
“Collin.” repeated a black man with a broad smile.
His fear was immediate, but the man’s grin was unreadable.
“Do you know me?” he asked the man softly.
“Sure I do. We’re both friends of the junkyard maven. You know, the chubby guy.”
Mike tried to process the intimation that the two of them were connected to Augustino. A pregnant pause rested between them.
The man lowered his voice. “Yes, Collin, that plump fellow you are thinking of.”
Casper didn’t show any outward emotions, but what the hell? There it was, he thought; his landlord had tentacles spread out at least to Central America. It was hard to fathom the minuscule probability that a seemingly benign, part-Italian, part-Sicilian businessman was someone to be reckoned with. Add to that the freaky impossibility that the two of them crossed paths. The odds of that were miniscule.
“Is there something I need to know?”
The exceedingly smooth voice of this intriguing and well-spoken, possibly Jamaican operative merely responded with, “You are absolutely off the radar.” He looked up at the screen listing all of the departures and then back at Mike. “Oh my gosh! I just realized I’m at the wrong counter. Well, it’s been good to see you again, Collin. Cheerio.”
Augustino’s guy turned and walked away, across the hall, around a corner, and disappeared. It was Casper’s turn to buy his ticket to San Pedro, so he pulled out a hundred-pound note and laid it down.
Chapter 18
Rosalita, undisputed queen and ruler of the multi-billion dollar drug industry in the metropolis of New York and perhaps beyond, turned to face the young man who’d entered her shoestore.
“I’ve got peanut butter and jelly or turkey on rye. I’m guessing you want the turkey.”
Luis, the boy who’d adapted to her demands and gotten a 92 on his last math test, nodded. “Turkey, please.”
She laughed. Mostly it was her happiness that this child could be a success. It all started with Rosalita. When he grew to be an accomplished person, she would be proud.
“Okay. Turkey it is. Then you straighten up all the area back here. Today’s payday. I can’t tell you what to do with your money, but I think you should open up a bank account and save it.”
The boy surprised her. “I think you should use my paycheck to reduce my debt to you for the sneakers you gave me. I think that was $29.99 minus $1.82. I still owe you $28.67. Ma’am.”
“Did you just call me ma’am?”
He had a genuine sparkle in his eye. “Did I use the word incorrectly?”
“No. You are correct, Luis. But you keep that money. You did nicely on your test, so now we are even. What did your mother say about your grades?”
Luis fidgeted. “My mom said that she’s afraid that I will want to run away from home and move into your shoestore.”
“Is she proud of you? Did she say that you were a good boy?”
“Yes. She said that if I keep up my grades, then I won’t become a loser like my padre.”
“That is true. You are going to keep up your grades. Luis, now I think of you as my investment. If you disappoint me, I will have to break your legs.”
He looked mortified. But then she laughed hard and loud. “Luis! I am like a mother. I want you to be a big success, but I will also be tough on you when you mess up. Can you live with that?”
“Does this mean you are going to bake cookies?”
“As long as you put all those shoe boxes in the right place.” She pointed to the wall, which was a little bit in disarray.
“Can I finish my turkey sandwich first?”
When the boy left, Rosalita called Peter. He answered on the third ring and waited. She sat back in her chair. “What do you know?”
“I think our friend was in Italy. In a small place called Pellaro.”
“Are you talking about the picture from the clinic in Anna?”
She could hear Peter suck in air through his teeth.
“How do you know these things?”
Rosalita laughed. “I watch a lot of television and read a lot of news. It gives me a worldwide view of things.”
“The picture was fuzzy. He had an oxygen mask, but a lot of things about it make sense. It’s peculiar how people like him can’t disappear.”
“How far are you?” she asked.
“Maybe thirty minutes—on my way.”
When her lieutenant arrived at the store, she ushered him into the stockroom. He noticed the knitted dress and sweater. The woman always appeared like a simple store owner. She spun around quickly and slapped him surprisingly hard across his left cheek. It stung. He remained silent.
“Sit your worthless ass in that chair.”
They sat across the desk from each other. She eyed him disparagingly.
“Why, Peter, do you screw up?”
He knew better than to offer any defense for whatever sin he’d done.
“You have failed to find the reporter. You missed the chance to get me Mike Casper. Do you see how unhappy I am?”
“Yes, I see.”
“Did you read the story about Casper? He was living in Pellaro for maybe a year. A year, Peter! His boat sunk, and he swam eight miles to save his life. Then what happened? Tell me.”
“There were two killings. A hired guy and the British girl.”
“Do you know who the hired hitter was?”
“He wasn’t from Bruner.” Peter offered.
“No shit, Sherlock!” She looked like a crockpot boiling over. “He was freelance. What the hell? Someone freelance is looking for Casper! And what happened?”
Peter stroked his fat mustache. His itchy collar was moist and working overtime to irritate the hell out of him. “I’m guessing the girl was romantically tied to Casper. That’s what I’ve gotten based on the news video outside the clinic.”
“Let me tell you what I think. One of our competitors wants Mike Casper. Do you think I go through each day without someone thinking about ways to find me? To compromise me? I put them down like rabid dogs, and replacements show up wanting to be kings. Then I put them down.” She waved her arms dramatically.
“Casper took out that hitter. And my other sources—yes, you’re not the only game in town, Peter—the other contacts said that the guy took a broom handle through his stomach, and then our target broke the guy’s neck. The British woman was connected to Casper. And now, he’s gone. No trace. Except for the fat guy in the picture.
Do you know who that is?”
“He’s the guy who owns the junkyard in Pellaro.”
“Yes, he is. He is also the brother of Finelli.”
She let that sink into Peter’s head. “You mean Sicily Finelli?”
Rosalita nodded. The storm of anger had passed. Now she wanted answers and solutions. “How the hell did Mike Casper end up with them?”
“Now, do you see why I am concerned?”
“Yes, so should we take the risk and talk to the fat guy?”
She rolled her eyes. “Peter, in some ways, I love you like a son, but in other ways, you are worse than the village idiot.”
He accepted her insult as much as it pissed him off.
“Trying to speak to the Finelli brother is like sticking your head into a vice. It’s not pretty—I’ve seen it done. We stay clear of Finelli. He and I are not friends, but we are not enemies. For now, I will be cautiously optimistic that someone local sent that hitter to find our Brooklyn orphan. I will probe gently to track him. You stay on Glenda Jones. And if that investigative journalist gets ahead of us, I will be very displeased.”
Glenda was starting to go a little stir crazy. Nevertheless, bit by bit, she was piecing together a great story. Perhaps, a great and deadly story, even. It was interesting to keep tabs on a variety of players all the way from West Virginia. She had her volunteer amateur snoops who were prodding and probing street dealers, cops, users, and just people who might have seen something. Her small bundle of sources were some of the gutsiest men and women who lived in New York. What they were doing was pretty much like sticking your hand into a tank of piranhas and poking them individually—get too close, too often, and they strip you down to the bone.
“I’m glad you’re so relaxed and comfortable.” Altman came into the house to see his unusual guest prone on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table. Glenda started to straighten up and fly right, but the doc told her to chill.
“You’re early.”
“I was bored. Stitching cuts on ten-year-olds gets a little monotonous after a decade. Is there any food around here?”
“Sho’ is massah. I got black-eyed peas and fried chicken.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? Did I sound derogatory? If I did, then I apologize.”
“Oh, please, Josh! I am totally just rattling your guilt leash. In fact, I made spaghetti and meatballs, and I promise you that it will be fantastic. And I sliced up that watermelon for dessert, the way we was eatin’ it when we was slaves.”
“Oh my gosh! Have I even once even shown a sliver of being a racist?”
“Nah. I’m just screwing with you again. You are so, so easy to mess with.”
“Funny. Let’s eat, and after dinner, you can shine my shoes.”
“Touche!” Now you’re learning, Josh!”
*
“That was great, except for the bit of sauce on my shirt.”
Glenda sat back. Her tall body was feeling utterly full. “You did notice that I have no sauce on my blouse?” She pointed out while removing the dish towel that served as a bib.
“Yes, I know; next time, follow your advice and do the bib thing. Got it.”
“Don’t you want to ask me?” the reporter stood up, revealing a slight, post-dinner roundness at her waistline.
“Geesh. I can barely move,” said Altman as he dragged himself over to the den and dropped like a sack of potatoes. His shirttails were out; his belt was unbuckled, and he felt like he was going to explode in the form of a Jewish doctor / spaghetti disaster on his nice leather couch. “I stopped asking because you generally won’t tell me jack-shit.”
“Times are changing, my well-educated friend.”
Altman didn’t fail to notice that Jones had used the word “friend.” Somehow that was meaningful. He was starting to give a damn about the crazy investigator—that might be hard to explain to any potential girlfriends, but he would deal with that when the time came.
“Lay it on me.”
Jones picked up a notepad from the smoked glass coffee table. “Washington Heights. Like up around St. Nick. Do you know the area?”
“Sure, I worked a little bit at Columbia on 168th. Saw some sickening wounds up there.”
“There are whispers about the woman who is now running the New York show. She is so concealed that you wouldn’t pick her out of a lineup in a million years. By concealed, I mean she is blended right into the neighborhood.”
“Is that even possible?” Josh asked.
“What? That she could run an empire from a little apartment in upper Manhattan? Totally. She has her trusted underlings who don’t even know each other. All she does is make sure that everyone stays in line.”
“It’s New York, Glenda. Does anyone follow the rules since Guilliani?”
“I don’t think you comprehend what I’m talking about. Anyone who doesn’t cooperate gets dead—for example, Ty Williams and the kid Juan. And if she wants to get the message out on the street that dealers need to behave, the queen bee will just leave a few body parts in strategic locations. A message like that is very effective.”
“Has that actually happened? I mean, wouldn’t the honest cops in the city push to bust that kind of ring?”
“Ha, ha, ha. That’s why you are a doctor. You think there must be a pill for that. There is no medicine coming from the cops. They’re afraid because of tremors that come down from Bruner. He’s been telling his people to work slowly and not start a Chicago-style shooting war. Do you see how convenient that is?”
Josh answered with a non-sequitur. “Maybe a cup of tea would help to move that pasta along? Oh, yeah, I can see that re-directing the cops would allow the drug gangs to do business as usual.”
“Not drug gangs, Doc. Just one drug gang. And it’s not a gang. It’s a multi-billion dollar corporation all run by one woman who you might think is a school teacher or a nurse. But wait, there’s more.
“Someone said that rumor has it that a year ago, a cop was killed with a bag of dope. Up until today, it was just speculation that Bruner and the lady were there—that there were pictures taken and that the dead cop was a message to anyone who got greedy. Today I found out that someone got busted for possession of an illegal firearm. He was looking at life because of his rap sheet. He started talking—a little. The guy said he was watching when the cop with the heroin bought it and that Bruner was there.”
“Okay, so that’s it, right? The feds come in, and all the pieces fall into their right places.”
“Nope. He’s dead. The big mouth lasted ten days on Riker’s Island. Probably a record.”
“Damn,” said Josh.
“Yes. That is the legal term, I think.”
Glenda rubbed her gut. A bit taller than Altman, the meal had more territory to conquer, and she was starting to feel human again.
“I guess it’s hard to nail the chief if the witnesses keep dying.”
“That’s why they keep dying. The power people have a vested interest in self-preservation: Bruner and the dirty cops, and the dragon-lady and her empire. Isn’t that lovely?”
“Maybe you should have picked a safer career?”
Glenda grinned. “I have a slogan that I like to use. Ready? Here it is: If they weren’t cops, they’d be criminals.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Doc. Cops have a certain personality type. They are out there because they get a thrill out of enforcing. Some just want to get a paycheck. A few do it because they are philosophical. A lot of them would be criminals if the police force didn’t take them. Like, you take a really athletic kid. He could be a tough guy in a gang, but instead, he gets pushed into sports. So if it wasn’t for sports, he’d be a delinquent.”
“And?”
“That’s me.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. If I wasn’t doing this, I’d probably be doing all kinds of illegal shit. Cops and criminals. Get it?”
The thought of ice cream was drifti
ng into Josh’s brain. “Yes, I think I understand. Is there more?”
“Of course,” said Jones. “The meeting between Bruner and the kingpin was watched, and pics were taken.”
“How the hell do you get this stuff?”
“Because people love me and trust me. Anyway, there was another body in the area, dead and found at the same time. It wasn’t an overdose. It was an enforcer for a dealer named Alan. He was the guy who ran things in Brooklyn. Oh, yeah. Alan is also dead. But, there was someone else there, at least that is the grapevine, and that guy got pics and got away.”
Altman seemed amazed by all the intrigue. “This is better than cable TV.”
“Sure, until someone puts a bullet in you.”
Josh grinned resignedly. “Well, there is that part.”
“After that event in Queens, Brooklyn settled down, and drugs were flowing like a river. The under-boss, Alan, was dead. His enforcers and money people vanished. One of them was supposed to be this super-smart, non-drug user type. Most of my people think that he took the pics. It’s speculation, but people talk. The boss, Alan, sent his guys to film the meeting, and he paid with his head. They found his D.N.A. on a bloody woodchipper upstate. Ain’t that a nice image?”
“No, not really.”
“Now, here’s the good part. For the last year, the word was out that the dragon lady is willing to pay for the location of Alan’s smart guy. Then, poof, the whole hunt was called off maybe six months ago. Basically, there was no point in looking locally because he was either dead, or he split the city, or maybe the country.”
“That guy would be pretty important to you.”
Glenda closed her eyes and shook her head. “If I was in the same room with that guy as an informant, it would be like a critical atomic mass—the drug gang member with ridiculous info combined with the most obsessive reporter in the city. But my guess is that if he runs, he better find a deserted island in the South Pacific and hide in a cave. The bounty on his head would be like 20 million. They would probably send body parts back to New York to mount on the drug boss’s wall.”
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 15
