by Manuel Ramos
“My man Gus!” he shouted.
He almost ran to me. He yanked me out of my chair and hugged me like a child hugs her favorite stuffed animal, with crushing intensity. I had to catch my breath when he let me go.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said in rapid-fire, clipped Cuban Spanish. “You took care of the problem, you risked your life. You saved Lourdes.”
I nodded and backed away.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he repeated in English.
I pointed at the empty chair and indicated he should sit down. Soapy stared with her mouth open. Kino had taken over the small room in a matter of seconds. The space, light and air were all his. Soapy and I just shared whatever he left for us.
I smiled back at him and debated whether we should small talk or get to it. Although he continued to grin like a clown, he couldn’t sit still. He tapped his feet and fingers, twisted his trunk right and left and basically looked uncomfortable. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and rolled into the collar of his silk shirt. His form-fitting slacks bunched up at his thousand-dollar loafers.
Kino may have been trying to come off as under control, but the man had serious problems. He was barely holding it together.
“It’s good to see you, too,” I said.
Soapy’s fake cough grabbed my attention.
“Kino, this is Sofía Santisteven. She works for me.”
He jerked his head in her direction. I don’t think he’d noticed her.
“I said I wanted to meet with only you.”
“Yes, of course. But she has information for you that you will want.”
He grunted. Soapy sat back in her chair.
“But first, you wanted to meet before we go to Sardo’s office. What’s up?”
Kino leaned forward, almost stretching his neck over my desk.
“If you say this girl is okay, then she can stay. If she doesn’t respect me and my business, she will be sorry.”
“This girl understands perfectly,” Soapy said. “You don’t have to be concerned with me. I’m working for you.”
“You’re in big trouble if you mess me up,” he warned.
“No te preocupes. Estoy de tu lado.”
Her perfect Spanish caught him off-guard. He took a deep breath.
“Como dije,” Kino said, “I’m grateful for what you’ve already done, Gus. It was more than either of us expected. You risked your life. Lourdes tells me you are a good man, a strong man. That’s all I need to know about you.”
I burped beer. He didn’t seem to notice.
“The thing is . . . I’m worried about Ben, my agent. We have been together since I came to the States. He’s helped me in all kinds of ways. He’s been there for me and Alberto. I think of him as a friend as well as my agent.”
“But something’s wrong?” I asked.
His face collapsed like a dead balloon. His anguish covered his words and I found myself leaning towards him.
“I think he’s stealing from me,” he said. “He’s the one with access to everything I own, everything I have. There have been problems, questions. My accountant started my taxes. He says he can’t understand what happened to a million dollars. Can you believe that? How can a million dollars be lost? How can this happen?”
Soapy and I looked at each other. Kino had beaten us to the punch. We were ready to tell him the same thing. His money didn’t add up, and someone close, like Ben Sardo, was ripping him off. Soapy estimated that over the past five years, more than three million dollars had been siphoned from Kino’s accounts. Apparently, his accountant hadn’t dug deep enough yet. Or maybe he was in on it with the agent, misdirecting him with one million so they could make off with the other two.
“We have to tell you something,” I said. “It’s the truth, and you need to hear it, whether you want it or not.”
For the next twenty minutes, Soapy and I explained all that we knew about his money, and how we knew it. We laid out spreadsheets, email messages and bank statements. Soapy did most of the talking. I didn’t understand everything about how she’d found the information, and neither did Kino. It didn’t matter.
When Kino first hired me, Soapy hacked into his various accounts held by banks, financial advisers, Sardo and Kino himself. Kino had approved me looking at his finances. I told him I needed a complete picture of the Machaco brothers, just in case there was more to what I was walking into than a straightforward payment of overdue gambling debts. Soapy got in and kept following a trail of misplaced money even after I returned from Cuba. That was on her own initiative, and illegal, but I kept that to myself.
We told him that it looked like Sardo was the thief, and that’s why I wanted to meet at his office. I would tell Sardo what we knew, with Kino present, let him defend himself, and then Kino could decide what to do. His options were to turn Sardo over to the cops or simply fire him and move on. It was entirely up to Kino. I also thought for a second that another option was for Kino to hurt Sardo, but I kept that to myself, too.
By the time we finished, Kino had finally eased up on his clenched fists and jaw. The news from us appeared to calm him down. I guessed he felt better knowing that the discrepancies he saw weren’t only in his imagination, and that he wasn’t paranoid. There actually was something wrong.
“We’re late,” Soapy said.
We picked up the paperwork, turned out the lights and followed Kino out of the building and into the street. We climbed into his low-slung Porsche.
Jerome would’ve had a tricky time sitting in Kino’s ride. I could barely believe it—I was actually wrapping up a job where I didn’t need Jerome’s special skill set. I was grateful for that.
— Chapter 29 —
GRATITUDE
The night guard at the skyscraper where Ben Sardo had his office knew Kino on sight. As soon as he saw us he opened the building doors. He smiled like he’d won the lottery. He must’ve said, “Anything you need, Mr. Kino,” at least a dozen times before he finally used a key to call an elevator for us.
Sardo’s suite of offices was on the nineteenth floor. When we exited the elevator, glass, chrome and leather surrounded us. Lights from other downtown buildings reflected off metallic corners of coffee tables, chairs and desks. Photos of heroes of every professional American sport hung on the walls. The place smelled like money and promises of even more money.
We found Sardo in his corner office, down a long hall and out of sight of the oversized reception desk in the suite entrance.
Sardo’s business space was filled with display cabinets, bookshelves and framed memorabilia on the walls. Chrome and black leather chairs were spread around the room. Off to one side sat a short leather couch.
The cabinets held trophies, signed baseballs and souvenirs such as tickets and VIP passes. The books on the shelves were about pro sports or making money in pro sports. A black baseball bat sitting on a mahogany shelf contained numerous autographs in silver Sharpie. Hanging on one wall was a string of eight by tens of the biggest names in baseball adorned with notes of gratitude made out to “Ben” or “B.S.”
On the wall behind Sardo hung a chrome frame that held thirty-two baseball cards, four rows of eight. A brass plate attached to the bottom of the frame was engraved with the words 1956 Topps Hall of Famers. I recognized Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Roberto Clemente. The cards looked new and shiny, but they were more than sixty years old.
Ben Sardo sat behind a green-glass desk that was as big as a pool table. He wore pressed black jeans, black running shoes and a crimson Harvard Law School sweatshirt. The buttoned-down collar of a white shirt with blue pinstripes peeked over the neck.
He was on the phone.
“Sure, send them up,” he said before he hung up and saw us.
The agent turned on his electric smile. “Joaquín!” he shouted. “Man is it good to see you.” He stood and opened his arms to greet his client with a big hug.
Machaco walked up to his agent, stared at him for a few secon
ds, then he punched the agent in the nose with a swift powerful jab from his right hand. Sardo fell to his knees. His eyes rolled up and down. Blood leaked out of his nose and across the H of his sweatshirt. He looked at Kino with a cockeyed grin. His hand stretched up to Kino. It trembled like the last leaf on the branch. Kino pushed away Sardo’s arm. The agent fell forward, out.
“What the hell!” Soapy hollered.
“Jesus!” was what I managed to say.
Soapy and I knelt beside Sardo. He wasn’t dead, but his nose looked seriously injured. I tried to slow down the bleeding with a monogrammed handkerchief I found in the back pocket of his jeans.
Sardo groaned and mumbled, but he stayed unconscious.
Meanwhile, Kino strutted around the office, swearing in Spanish and kicking things like Sardo’s chair and a shiny silver wastebasket. He knocked over a cabinet, ripped photos off the wall.
“Calm down,” Soapy repeatedly told him.
It was no use. Joaquín Machaco was angry, and he kept looking for things on which to vent that anger.
“What happened?”
Soapy and I turned to the voice. Alberto Machaco and Marita Valdés stood in the doorway.
Kino stopped pacing.
“That son of a bitch!” he shouted. “That punk! ¡Robándome! After all I’ve done for him! This is how he pays me back!”
Alberto grabbed Kino’s arm. He draped his arms around his brother’s shoulders.
“What is going on, hermano? What are you talking about? What happened to Ben?”
“They can tell you.” Kino pointed at Soapy and me. “They have the proof.”
That was our cue. Soapy unrolled her documents and spread them on Sardo’s desk. Alberto and Kino stood next to the desk, Marita moved back a few feet.
I had expected Marita. Alberto was a surprise, although his presence made sense. He was part of the family, Kino’s partner.
I kept the handkerchief on Sardo’s nose, but it was soaked with his blood. Bruises were starting to ring his eyes. While Soapy meticulously arranged her presentation, I called 911 and asked for an ambulance.
I listened to Soapy describe how she unearthed the uncounted money, and how Sardo must have masked his fees and expenses to hide his trail. Alberto asked questions, cursed Sardo and tried to calm down his brother whenever Kino worked himself into another rage.
I sat on the floor. Relief tried to work its way through my system. I took a few deep breaths and thought I should look for a towel for Sardo. His handkerchief was ruined, useless.
I turned to Marita, to ask her to help me look.
She held a small pistol in her hands. The gun was pointed at all of us.
— Chapter 30 —
SANGRE
“Put that away,” I said.
Marita turned the gun directly at me. “Stay out of this, Gus. This is not your problem.”
“What is this, Marí?” Kino asked. He shook off his brother and walked towards Marita. “What have you done?”
Alberto faltered, as if his legs had lost their strength. He followed Kino, but he didn’t say anything.
“Give me the gun, Marí,” Kino said.
He reached out to her. She twisted the gun and pulled the trigger. Soapy screamed. The glass in the baseball card display exploded; shards landed at my feet, by my hands, on Sardo. Several of the cards flew into the air, then floated to the ground. A few dropped in Sardo’s blood.
Kino staggered backwards. He and Alberto stood next to one another, their mouths shut in tight narrow frowns, fists clenched.
“At last, al fin,” Marí said. “I have you both.”
“For what?” I asked.
I was still on my knees, trying to deal with Sardo.
“Poor Gus. The truth is right here, in this room. Can’t you see it?”
She held the gun on the Machaco brothers.
Alberto stepped forward. “Give me the gun, Marí. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
He reached for the gun. Marita pulled the trigger again.
I shouted, “No!”
The bullet hit Alberto in the shoulder. He spun around and collapsed on the short leather couch.
Marita froze. She studied the gun in her hands as though she didn’t know what it was.
Kino roared. He jumped on Marita, knocked the gun away and threw her to the ground. He pulled back his fist to strike her.
Soapy and I shouted, “No! No!”
He looked at us and sat back on his haunches. Alberto twisted and turned on the now bloody couch.
“You fool,” Marita said. “You’re still protecting him, still acting like his older brother, even after all he’s done to you. He’s your blood, tu sangre, but that’s not enough. Blood can betray.”
Kino looked at his wounded brother. Blood dripped from Kino’s left hand. I guessed he’d cut himself on a piece of glass when he trashed the office.
“You shielded him in Cuba, when he pushed Claudio to his death,” Marita continued, sounding out-of-breath. “You took the blame because you knew nothing would happen to you. You were the rising star, the future. Alberto would have gone to prison. Even Miguel thought you killed his brother.”
“That’s history, Marita. You knew the truth all along but never told Hoochie. You covered for Alberto as much as me, as much as anyone.”
Alberto groaned.
“Alberto needs an ambulance,” Kino said.
“He can die,” Marita said.
“Don’t listen to her,” Alberto said between groans. “She’s crazy, always has been, you know that.” He staggered his words.
I agreed with Alberto. There was something off about the woman. I stood up. My hands were covered with Sardo’s blood and I stepped in Alberto’s blood when I moved.
Marita also stood up. Her legs were smeared with red. One of her shoes had fallen off her foot. Whatever happened, no one was getting away clean. Not this time.
Marita laughed. “Am I crazy to tell you that Alberto’s been stealing from you for years? Am I crazy to say that he was the one who tried to steal the payoff to Miguel? That he brought me in his plan because he knew I wanted to hurt Miguel? That he is the one responsible for Miguel’s death, for the burning of Lourdes’ house, the death of Sánchez? For all of it. Ask him, Joaquín. Let him deny it now.”
Alberto struggled to sit up on the slick couch.
“She’s lying. There’s no way. It’s impossible. Remember that I was shot at in Cuba. Am I responsible for that too?”
“That was the incompetents you hired,” Marita said. “They made mistakes all through your goddamn plan.”
Kino stared at Alberto. His hands shook. White flecks appeared on the corners of his mouth.
Alberto slid further towards the floor.
“It’s not like she’s putting it,” Alberto said. “She’s trying to trick you, Joaquín.”
Alberto’s panicked voice could barely be heard in the wrecked office. Even though we were hundreds of feet above the ground, in an airtight, weather-proof building, the noise of the city leaked into the room. An ambulance’s wail mixed with police sirens, car honks and shrill bus brakes.
The phone on Sardo’s desk rang but no one picked it up.
Kino glared at his brother. “The truth. La verdad. What is it?”
Alberto’s words came out faster, more urgent. “Look, it wasn’t me. She is the one who wanted to steal from Hoochie. She dragged me into her scheme. It was her idea—I had no choice. She threatened to tell Hoochie the truth about Claudio. He would’ve come after me. He would’ve known that I pushed Claudio into the car. He would have killed me. You know that, Joaquín. I had no choice.”
“Miguel wasn’t supposed to die!” Marita screamed. “You destroyed everything. I only wanted the money, to punish him, to make him pay for how he treated me. He wasn’t supposed to pay with his life.”
She choked on her sobs. Tears streamed down her face. She fell limp against the wall.
Kino stumbled backwa
rds.
I looked at Soapy. “Alberto?”
“I didn’t go far enough,” Soapy said, her voice weak. “We thought it was Sardo, so that’s what I looked for. The accounts are mixed up. Complicated. It could be Alberto.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I missed it.”
“Stealing from me for years wasn’t enough?” Kino growled. He zeroed in on Alberto. “You had to have the money that was to pay off your debt? You had to have it all?”
“No, Kino. It’s not like she says. She’s ill, crazy, she’s always been crazy. She . . . ”
Kino threw a punch at Alberto, but he missed. He fell backwards and landed on his side. Alberto moved off the couch. He stood over Kino.
“You have everything!” he screamed. “More than you will ever need. You didn’t miss what I took. All these years, you didn’t know. How much do you need? How much?”
Kino jumped to his feet and smashed his fist into Alberto’s throat. Alberto gagged and rolled to the floor. Kino yanked the autographed bat from its perch on the shelf.
Soapy screamed. She grabbed Kino’s arm. He shook her off and slammed her against one of the bookcases. She groaned, tried to stand but fell back to the floor.
I heard the elevator chime, then the elevator doors open. Men shouted, and several people rushed through the office halls.
“Police! Police! Everyone on the floor!”
Through the glass walls and the high-rise windows, Denver’s neon and fluorescent night sparkled like gilded costume jewelry.
I jumped on Kino’s back and pounded his ribs. He tried to shake me off, but I clung to his body. He twisted, grunted and cursed. My bloody hands lost their grip and when he turned in a complete circle I tumbled off him.
I struggled to a squatting position as I tried to find my balance. He jerked the bat and smashed my forehead. It felt like an icepick pierced my brain. I couldn’t hear anything, my hands went numb, my eyesight blurred. I tried to hold on to the desk, but my fingers slipped and I tipped over. I couldn’t move, couldn’t feel my legs. Blood flowed into my eyes, my mouth.
“Drop the bat!” someone shouted.