Mario walked fast so he’d approach Cyrus head-on. One thing he’d learned quickly was not to come up behind the homeless. It took little to spook them and no telling what they might swing in defense.
Cyrus greeted him like they were old friends. Mario had treated him nicely for the short time they’d spent together. Dressed in jeans and a starched button-down collar shirt, he got a strange look from Cyrus. It was time for Mario to come clean. It took some convincing that as a cop he’d always be grateful for his help. Cyrus gave in and agreed to take a ride. As they drove, Cyrus had the air-conditioning vent blow into his face. Mario could only imagine living without air conditioning, and it wasn’t even summer.
Not far away was Big Gabe’s Car Wash. Gabe had an office and living quarters in an old shotgun house behind the retail business. Looking at Gabe, no one would ever guess he was worth a few million bucks. Why he hung around the business all day, no one knew. Mario walked Cyrus down an alleyway to the back door of the living quarters.
Gabe invited them in. Cyrus was reluctant, when seeing his size. People didn’t call him Big Gabe for nothing, standing over six foot eight. No telling what he weighed.
“Is this the man you called about?” Gabe asked.
“Yes, sir.” Mario gave a nod.
Gabe looked Cyrus over and made a call to the front office. Soon after, an employee came in with a clean logo shirt and gray cotton slacks, the same uniforms the car wash workers used. Given a plastic bag and shown the restroom, Cyrus stripped and threw out the bag with dirty clothes. An employee would wash and dry Cyrus’s outfit, much like they did with rags from the car wash. The shower ran until the hot water ran out. Gabe shouted that Cyrus was welcome to use the razor, deodorant, and hair gel. Twenty minutes later, Cyrus surfaced with his hair combed, shaved, fresh clothes, and a smile. He admitted he’d not showered in a few weeks and that was during a rainstorm.
Gabe offered breakfast, and Cyrus wasn’t shy. A meal at a table with real plates and forks was rare for him. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon were served, and they all ate.
A few times, Mario caught Gabe glancing at Cyrus. It was like he wanted to say something but was hesitant.
It’s hard to relate or strike up a conversation. What do you talk about to a man living on the streets? How’s your day going? What’s living on the boulevard like? All type of questions you’d like to ask.
“How are the eggs?” Gabe finally said.
With a shift of his eyes, he said, “Good.”
Cyrus ate slowly and used his napkin more often than necessary, maybe self-conscious of eating at a table with other people. One thing for sure, he was appreciative and polite.
Mario saw something he’d not noticed. Cyrus, cleaned up, looked like any Joe on the streets. He could have been in any business environment and been accepted. What was his story? Mario had to get him talking.
Gabe reached for the coffee pot. Poured coffee and blurted out, “How long have you been living on the streets?”
Cyrus’s face showed surprise. Took a sip of coffee, brushed his lips with the napkin again. He didn’t answer.
Gabe went into a story Mario had heard before, but every time Gabe told it, a little more was revealed. Gabe had a deep, alluring voice, it matched his size, and when he spoke, most listened. He got Cyrus’s attention when he detailed how he and a friend came to the United States from an underdeveloped country. They had only fifty-two dollars between them. No matter how lousy it was living on the streets, eating out of garbage cans, and going without, it was far better than where they came from.
Cyrus finished his breakfast, glancing at Gabe a few times. He listened.
Gabe pushed harder, explaining that he felt Cyrus’s pain. He added more to the story than Mario had ever heard. Before he came to the United States, he and his friend lived in a small, makeshift house. Their fathers built a tunnel under both houses that connected. Stored food and water for eight people. They knew the day would come, and it did, early on a Sunday morning. Rebels took over the village. Rapid gunfire got closer. His mother and his friend made it to the tunnel. His friend’s parents and his father never made it down the ladder. They heard the guns blast through the house, room after room. They stayed down for twelve hours, and during the night escaped. Knowing there would be roadblocks leading out of town, the mother drove through farmlands and wooded areas until the car stalled. They went by foot, until a rebel spotted his mother and took her down with one bullet to her back.
Both Cyrus and Mario’s eyes locked on every word Gabe said. He moved the dishes to the sink and continued. He and his friend walked for hours and were picked up by US Army Special Forces trying to take back the town. By the grace of God, they were helped onto a ship bound for the United States. The captain allowed them to hide in the cargo area. Ten days later, they arrived at the first stop—New Orleans. From the riverbank, they watched as containers of coffee were unloaded. They had no plan of survival.
Mario’s eyes went from Gabe to Cyrus. His detective training told him that Gabe saw something in Cyrus that forced him to tell his painful story. One that left grief on his face fifty years later.
“As they say,” Cyrus said, “the rest is history.”
“Over time, my friend and I built several businesses.” He paused. “We became wealthy, but not overnight. With hard work eventually.”
“And your friend?”
“He died not too long ago,” Gabe said. “His name was Ben Stein.”
If there was a light breeze blowing, it would have knocked Mario to the floor. Gabe noticed his disbelief; it was written all over Mario’s face.
Gabe, bewildered, looked at him to ask, “Howard never mentioned this story?”
“No, sir,” Mario said. “Howard is a mysterious man.”
“Yes, he is—he has his own demands.”
The atmosphere changed. Cyrus looked relaxed. Gabe wasn’t sure why after listening to such a heuristic story. He pushed no further in getting Cyrus to talk.
Gratitude was expressed for breakfast, the shower, and fresh clothes. When Cyrus spoke, it came from his heart. It seemed cleaning up took him out of his shell, to a point. Hearing Cyrus talk, Gabe noticed his vocabulary. He was far from the uneducated bum he appeared to be seen pushing a cart through the streets.
“Cyrus, what’s your education?” Gabe asked out of the blue. Taking Cyrus by surprise and Mario too.
He hesitated—a long time. Then stood up, blinked his eyelids like he wanted to open up. “Why is my story so important?”
“Because I think, in some way, we’re alike.”
“Mr. Gabe.” Cyrus’s expression changed almost to tears. “I don’t see how I’m in your category.”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
“I graduated from UL, University of Louisiana at Lafayette.”
“Really?” Mario blurted out, surprised after seeing Cyrus’s lifestyle.
“I was a high school Spanish teacher—five years.”
Gabe demanded Cyrus to sit and begged for his story. He sat; there was a breakthrough. Like turning on a light switch, Cyrus pounded the table with his fist.
“My story is not—important!”
“Yes it is, and I can help.” Gabe got him talking, and he would not let him stop.
Mario heard stories of his generosity—Gabe preferred people not to know. A woman’s husband was killed, leaving her with two small children. He’d send food to her house, found her a job, and made sure they had a Christmas tree with toys under it every year. That was Gabe, and now Mario knew why. He was giving back. He’d fought through hell and related to down-and-out people from no cause of their own.
Cyrus talked for a second or two; he didn’t make sense at first. Asked for a bottle of water, which was quickly placed in front of him. As a child, he was abandoned, never adopted, lived with foster parents—many—until he was eighteen. Worked his way through college. On graduation day, he stood with his diploma on stage, knowing there was no
t one family member in the audience. As a top graduate, he got a job teaching Spanish and social studies for first- and second-year high school students. He fell in love and married a woman who also was a teacher. They bought a house. Made it home, chose their own paint colors, picked out furniture, planted a garden, and added a swing on the porch. They talked about the future. Life couldn’t get any better. Then it did—his wife was pregnant.
Cyrus took a big gulp of water, it was apparent he was struggling. Gabe gave him a touch on the arm, and he plowed forward.
His wife didn’t smoke, but he did. He promised he’d quit before the baby was born. The day of his wife’s first doctor visit, he drove her. The doctor confirmed she was pregnant, and they would know the sex at the next visit.
On the way home, while stopped at a traffic light, Cyrus reached for a cigarette, to find an empty pack. The light turned green, and he pulled into a convenience store. The parking lot was small, so he double-parked. His wife jumped out of the car and ran into the store to buy what Cyrus promised to be his last pack of cigarettes. She turned back and said, “the last pack, then you’ll stop.” She smiled, and he shouted back that he promised.
Seconds later, two gunshots were fired. A man ran out of the store. The owner quickly followed and shot the man dead on the sidewalk.
In the store, Cyrus’s wife lay dead on the floor. The bullets the owner had fired inside the store missed his target and hit Cyrus’s wife.
Tears flowed down his face. “I’ve never told anyone this story. Other than the police the day she died.”
Gabe gave a few pats to his arm. “It’s good to get it out.”
Cyrus dabbed his tears. “I buried my wife and didn’t leave home for months. I lost my job, the house, and ran through our savings. So, there you have my story.”
Gabe fished around for the right words but there were none to ease the pain. He knew too well a person had to work through it or it would eat him up alive. It explained why Cyrus lived on the streets. He had nothing to live for. Gabe put his arm around Cyrus. “You have a family now. I’m going to help.”
Chapter 21
With breakfast under his belt, a shower, and clean clothes, Cyrus sat in the front seat of Mario’s town car a little differently than when he arrived at Big Gabe’s place. He voiced how appreciative he was of Gabe’s kindness for the third time, and pointed out it wouldn’t have happened without Mario. It was hard for Cyrus to understand why he was plucked from all the people living on the streets and given a second chance. He’d stepped up and asked to buy Mario’s blanket off the cart. The turn of events put him in a position to be offered a new start in life.
“You believe in the law of attraction?” Mario asked.
“I studied it and once believed. I gave up believing positive thoughts bring positive results and negative does the same.”
“Why did you stop?”
“For years, I questioned that day. If the traffic light had been green, I would have zoomed past that corner store.”
Mario finished the line. “And your wife wouldn’t have gone into the convenience store for your cigarettes.”
“Correct.” Cyrus locked his eyes out the passenger window. “How did the law of attraction play out that day?”
Mario could only explain that Big Gabe popped into his head the night before, out of nowhere. Mario wondered why. Out of the blue, he’d remembered that Gabe had an old house he used as an office and Cyrus needed cleaning up. The rest went down unexpectedly.
Gabe reached out and provided Cyrus with what he immediately needed, food and a bath. Cyrus mentioned he taught Spanish and Gabe needed someone to manage his Spanish-speaking employees. Cyrus required living quarters. Gabe had a house he used for a few hours a day.
Mario had part of Cyrus’s answer. “I can’t say why the traffic light was red and why the store was being robbed at that precise moment.” He paused and glanced at Cyrus. “Maybe the law of attraction didn’t take you to Gabe.”
“What do you mean?” Asking questions showed Cyrus had an interest.
“Maybe the law of attraction brought Gabe to you.” Mario sat silently. A glance at Cyrus caught him smearing tears from his eyes.
Mario’s cell phone rang, breaking the tense moment. The call from Chief Parks put Mario and Howard back on the streets as cops; they’d been reinstated. The chief had tried to contact Howard, but he wasn’t picking up. Mario was to relay the message and both were ordered to the Savino compound on the North Shore. The Savino’s money laundering account with millions of dollars was about to be seized. Lina Savino and Pete Gallo would be arrested, and this time the charges would stick. She was sure Mario and Howard would want to be part of the takedown.
Mario made a U-turn and headed back to the car wash. “Cyrus, you’re starting your job today.” When they arrived, Cyrus thanked him for the fourth time. Mario gave him a salute. “I’ll be in touch.”
Mario headed to the Causeway Bridge for what usually took thirty-five minutes doing the speed limit. With sirens and lights flashing, he’d make it to Mandeville just shy of twenty-two minutes.
On the second try, Howard answered. He was delighted to be back on the job but told Mario to tell the chief he couldn’t contact him. The story they landed on was that Howard went fishing. When Mario reminded Howard he didn’t like fishing, he pointed out the chief didn’t know that, so it should be an easy sell for Mario.
“Did I hear an airplane take off?” Mario asked.
“Possibly.”
“Are you with Julie?”
“Possibly,” Howard said. “It’s like the military. You don’t have clearance, so you’re on a need-to-know basis.” Then he disconnected the call.
Howard sat across from Julie on her jet, sipping champagne. “Where were we?” he asked.
“Something about taking out Roberto Ferrari,” she said.
Mario drove at an excessive speed across the Causeway Bridge, much faster than the bridge police would have liked, even for an emergency. As a courtesy, they cleared the way so he could exit without a problem.
He arrived at the compound that was being protected by DEA agents and local police. He was expected and allowed through the gates. With all the police, FBI, and DEA agents, one would have thought the president of the United States was inside.
Mario’s car was still rolling when he got out. He rushed up the steps and saw a familiar face, Chief Parks. She should have been delighted but wasn’t smiling.
“Get ready for a shitstorm,” she said and kept walking.
Mario followed her to the car. “What the hell’s going on?”
She lit a cigarette. She rarely smoked in public. Something had put her over the top. She took a few quick drags, then let loose.
The DEA had it all planned. They’d watched the money from headquarters, waiting for government approval to freeze the Savino family account and transfer the funds to the US Department of the Treasury. When the DEA finally got the okay—the money was gone.
Parks took a deep drag, then exhaled smoke up in the air. “Not a damn dollar left in the account!” She strolled in a circle. “No trace where the money was transferred.”
She rattled on. Her career was on the line because of her trust in Mario. The DEA was all pumped up and had Washington, DC, expecting a big score and significant arrests.
The chief dropped her cigarette to the ground and twisted it into the dirt. “Here’s the kicker.” She stared Mario in the eyes. “I get all the agencies involved and rush over here to take down Lina Savino and Pete Gallo. Someone was going to jail, if not both of them.”
Mario tried to keep step with the chief as she lit another cigarette. He had many questions, but for now he’d hold them to himself. It wouldn’t take much for her to go bat shit crazy on him.
“You want the kicker?” she shouted again.
Mario nodded his head up and down, not sure whether to respond verbally in fear of setting her off.
“We stormed the house like
soldiers at war. Found Lina Savino in the kitchen and Pete Gallo on the sofa. Dead—shot in the head. There’s no drug money and no one to arrest.”
Chapter 22
At 5:20 P.M., Julie Wong’s private jet touched down at a small airport ten miles from the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. A place that families used to flock to in the summer for the long stretch of oceanfront beach, the Steel Pier carnival atmosphere, and food of all types. But it had long been replaced by casinos, crowded with adults, not only year-round but twenty-fours a day.
Evening traffic backed up on the main road leading to the hotels and casinos, so Julie’s limousine took side streets to Roberto Ferrari’s restaurant.
If anyone could get Howard close to Roberto, it was Julie. She’d been hired by him a few times; the latest to kill Mario but it was called off when his nephew, Michael, begged for a second chance.
They were met at the front entrance by a flashily dressed hostess. Whatever Julie whispered in the sexy lady’s ear opened a path led by two strong arms to Roberto Ferrari. Howard’s eyes roamed the busy place. It was early evening, and the place was packed with well-dressed customers, probably having early dinner before catching a headliner show at a casino. Whatever the reason, most restaurants would kill for this much business at this time of day.
Before getting to the glass room that surrounded Roberto, Julie’s purse was taken from her, and Howard was routed to the kitchen by the two men.
“What’s the problem?” Howard allowed the guy to remove his coat. “Be careful, that jacket cost more than you make in a week.” His attitude changed from the “don’t give a crap” cop to the assassin he was known as in the underground world of two foreign countries.
He would soon be introduced to the man who ran the East Coast and collected money from all the bosses he empowered, building his wealth along the way.
“My name is Sal,” one guy identified himself. “No one has a sit-down with the boss without being frisked.”
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