by Les Edgerton
Oh, God, oh, God. I’m fucked. I’m dead. What do I do? What can I do? C.J. looked at the chair and sat down. “Fidel, I need to go to the bathroom. Could I please use the bathroom?”
Castro’s smile returned. “Oh, surely, Senor St. Ives. Please forgive my manners. But if you could wait a minute or two, por favor. I have a little bit more to talk with you about and you can go relieve yourself. This is muy important. You will want to hear this.”
He stepped over in front of St. Ives and bent down, putting his hands on the banker’s knees and staring directly at him, his eyes inches from the banker’s. C.J. could smell his breath and his stomach roiled at the sweetness of it.
“Senor, I do not think you remember our talk. Do you know why? Because you are no longer el presidente, it would seem. Did you know that? I assure you, I was surprised to receive this information. I learned other things as well. It seems there are lots of people who like to give me information these days. Some of it is quite puzzling, I must admit. Would you like to hear them? Maybe you could help me understand some of these things. There is one I really don’t understand. Have you been to the DEA?”
“Fidel, I have to go to the bathroom. Now.” C.J. stood up, terror visible in his expression. “If I don’t go to the bathroom right now I am going to piss all over your floor. Let me go to the bathroom and I’ll explain everything.”
Castro took his hands and put them on the banker’s shoulders and pushed him back down into the chair.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to piss on my floor, senòr.” He turned to the other man, a short, swarthy man who remained silent during the conversation. “Felipe, go see if they are here and bring them in.”
When the man left, Castro walked over behind his desk, picked up something and came back and handed C.J. a large tin can, the bottom of which was littered with cigarette butts.
“You can use this.”
Completely degraded, but in absolute distress from his bladder, C.J. got up, turned his back and urinated into the can. As he finished, the office door opened and three men came in--Felipe, another of Castro’s men he thought was named Octavio, and Eddie. Felipe held a gun on the other two. Octavio looked sick. C.J. could see both of his eyes were almost closed and there was blood on his shirt.
C.J. felt his knees buckle and he stumbled, dropping the can. Everybody jumped as liquid splashed. He sat down heavily in the chair and tried to zip up with sore fingers.
“Is this the detective your wife set on you?” Castro gestured toward Eddie.
C.J. looked up at Castro. He couldn’t stop the shudder at the look in the man’s eyes.
“Maybe. No. I don’t know.”
Castro reached over and slapped him. The way he slapped him looked like it was in slow motion, casual-like, but it knocked out one of his front teeth. C.J. felt his mouth fill with blood. All his strength drained from him and he felt himself growing faint. And then, from somewhere deep inside, the adrenaline kicked in and he felt the energy return, more energy than he’d ever experienced and he stood up, ripped his coat off and tore his shirt open, buttons flying. In the same instant, so quickly that no one had time to react, C.J. ran to the door, but instead of opening it and attempting to flee, he stood in front of it and hooked his fingers behind the connector cable that went around his waist.
“Eddie,” he said, new-found power in his voice. “Eddie, tell them what will happen if I pull this cable apart. Explain it to these greasers, Eddie. Tell them we’ll all blow up. That I’m wired with a bomb.” The man called Felipe made a move with his hand to the inside of his jacket, but Castro held a restraining hand up and the man lowered his hand.
When Eddie finished confirming his story, Felipe aimed his pistol at C.J. He said, “Patron, how ‘bout I shoot this piece ‘a shit.”
***
Fidel Castro, drug baron and one of the toughest and most ruthless mothers in all of the Southeast, was enjoying all this, although you couldn’t tell from the way he acted. It was all going down just as he’d learned it would. Felipe was doing a fine job of acting himself. There wasn’t the remotest possibility he was going to shoot the banker and they both knew it.
That St. Ives showed up to steal his money was no surprise. That, he’d been expecting. Two days ago, a familiar voice had told him all kinds of amazing things. That St. Ives was no longer connected to the bank in any way. That phone call had come seconds after C.J.’s call from the Fairmont. After C.J.’s call, Castro would have contacted Senòr Derbigny himself if he hadn’t called first. C.J. wasn’t the best liar.
He might have been surprised that the man was wired with explosives, except that he knew about that, too. Another valuable phone call, one telling him about his employee’s treachery, led him to that information. He’d admired the way Octavio had hung tough, for many hours, even, but nobody could hold out forever against the kind of torture a Cuban with experience in The Revolution could administer.
He forced down the smile that threatened to emerge. He’d love to be there when Kincaid opened up those suitcases and found they weren’t filled with stacks of hundred dollar bills. He wondered if he’d appreciate the joke.
A day before, in planning this with his lieutenant, Felipe, he’d told him to wait a minute before shooting C.J. and exploding the two of them as he handed the suitcases over to Reader. Felipe was to follow C.J. when he left and exterminate the two of them when he made the delivery.
“Watch Senòr Kincaid’s eyes,” he’d said, the two of them sitting in this same office only a few hours before. “I want to know exactly what this chinga’s face looks like when he opens them up and sees phone books in there!” They both howled at the thought.
He thought about playing out the little drama a bit longer and then grew tired of the idea. It was time to get on with business. A powerful man awaited him and he didn’t like to be kept waiting. It was time to play out the charade.
***
“No, Felipe,” said Castro, slowly, getting back to the moment. “Put your gun away. I believe this man speaks the truth. What is it you want, Senor C.J.? You want to leave, I think? Go ahead, leave, puta. I’ll find you.”
C.J. was feeling the glow of authority and power. His Cajun upbringing was coming back, memories of the days when he hunted alligators in the swamp with his father, fearless boyhood days spent in the swamp wresting a hard living from the bayou. “Yes, Castro. I want to leave. I want the money. If I don’t show up with the money, I’m dead. So, I’m not leaving without it. You don’t give me the money, I’m pulling this right now.”
Castro hesitated, but only momentarily when C.J. lifted his elbow away from his side in an exaggerated gesture, to show him he would pull the connector cable if he didn’t do as he’d ordered.
“Now,” he said, once the suitcases were placed on the floor beside him. “Lie down. All of you.” He looked at his former partner in crime and for the first time his features relaxed somewhat. “Give me your gun.” Castro shrugged, reached to his back holster and complied. He’d already unloaded it in anticipation of what C.J. would do. He nodded to his men and they dropped to the floor on their stomachs and he did the same.
Except Eddie. “Hey, you gotta take me with you, St. Ives. You don’t take me with you, Reader’ll kill you. I’m his partner.”
C.J. smiled. “I don’t think so, asshole. I think maybe your boss will thank me. Saves him the trouble of having to kill you himself. You don’t really think he planned to split this with you, do you?”
Eddie stood there, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. He took a step toward C.J. and the banker pointed the gun at him.
“Lie down, you slimy fucker. I’d love to shoot you.”
Eddie’s face darkened, but he did as C.J. ordered.
As soon as Eddie hit the floor, C.J. was gone, running through the door out into the warehouse, adrenaline making the suitcases lighter than they would be normally.
Immediately, Castro’s men jumped up, Castro himself risin
g more slowly, brushing off his clothes, holding up his hand to his men. “No. Let him go. It’s all right.”
He said to Felipe, “Give him a minute or two. Don’t let him know he’s being followed. Take Orlando with you. Meet me across the lake afterwards. I want to know everything. Remember his face. I want to know what his face looked like.”
Felipe nodded, gestured to Orlando and the two men went out the door at a trot.
Grady saw the two men rush out of the office, just a few feet from where he was hidden. Beautiful! Just the way he thought it might happen. Jack would be proud of him, figuring this out.
“Now,” Castro was saying, “Octavio and our friend here. What shall we do?” To answer his own question, he walked over, put his hand inside one of his men’s jackets and pulled out a gun. Weapon in hand, he walked up to Octavio and shot him three times in the stomach, his hand on the man’s shoulder almost in a friendly manner. As Octavio slumped to the floor, Eddie jumped up. In his hand was the gun he’d hidden in his boot.
“Now, greaser,” he said to Castro, bringing the gun up to the Cuban’s head. “I’m walking out of here. You and me, cowboy.”
Castro’s response was to bring his own gun around to bear on Eddie’s face. Toe-to-toe, they stood in a classic Mexican standoff.
Eddie’s face went white, but he said, “You shoot me and I’ll still have time to--”
Kabam! Castro’s gun erupted and Eddie stood there, his gun arm slumping a split second before he did, surprise in his already dead eyes.
“Shoot me?” Castro finished for him. “Maybe. If you don’t take so much time talking about it, macaroon.” He turned to his men and laughed aloud. “This cucaracha has seen too many movies, I think. That’s the trouble with Mexicans and their famous standoffs. All you need to do is just shoot the fucker. Nobody’s reflexes are that good. A Cubano just shoots, my friends. Remember that.”
His demeanor changed to all business. “Juan, you bring the limo around. The money’s already onboard.” He ordered the other men to put the cocaine in the trunk.
Grady waited until they had gone out the front door and then he swiftly raced to the same door and watched them pull away. In seconds, he was starting his own car, the limo still within sight.
We’ll see how slick you are now, Reader, he whispered fiercely to himself, keeping behind the limo just enough not to be spotted. I got your ass now. He picked up the cell phone on the seat next to him and dialed a number. Two rings later, he was delighted to hear Sally’s gravelly voice.
“Got something here you might be interested in,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re gonna be a hero. Call your boys and tell them if they get to...” he shuffled through papers on the dashboard and found his notebook. “...to 27123 Parks Road in Chalmette, they can be on the eleven o’clock news.”
“Something big?” Sally said.
“I’d say so,” said Grady, chuckling. “The DEA’s gonna be mad your guys made this find.”
“And what’s that?”
“Castro’s warehouse. There’s no coke here now, but I saw a safe that I’ll bet money has some interesting contents. There’s also some dead bodies here. I think if your friends arrest Castro you’ll find the gun he’s carrying is the one who killed them. They should get enough evidence to nail a murder charge on him. Castro and his boys are gone, but they may be back. One way or the other, they’re going to be in a bad way, if what I think happens does.”
“Gotcha. It’s happening the way you thought?” Sally said. Grady could hear the smile in his voice when he replied in the affirmative. “This ought to buy me a lot of favors.”
“That’s kinda what I thought,” Grady replied, and disconnected Sally and dialed another number.
“It’s happening,” he said. “Get in your car and start driving. I’m pretty sure they’re headed across the lake, where I said. Just head that way and I’ll keep you up-to-date. Stay away from the place until I call you. I don’t want you hurt, but I may need your help. Just keep the line open.”
“Okay, Grady,” Whitney said. “You’re the boss.”
Damn! Grady thought, tossing the phone on the seat. That’s one sexy voice!
“Hell,” he said aloud, his adrenaline pumping as he followed the limo which he could see was definitely heading to the lake. “That’s one sexy woman! Yeow!” He screamed the last into the night as the car ahead of him approached the Pontchartrain toll booth.
This one’s for you, Jack, he thought. Payback.
CHAPTER 30
A BLOCK FROM THE Pontchartrain bridge, the worst possible thing happened. Grady’s car got sideswiped by a drunk leaving a bar on Causeway Boulevard.
The damage to the car itself wasn’t much, a scrape along the front passengere. Grady would have liked to chase down the asshole who’d hit him, some middle-aged slob who gave one sobering glance at what he’d done and put the hammer down, leaving the scene like he had nitro in the gas tank. Only he couldn’t. All he could do was shake his fist at the fleeing miscreant and deliver a few choice cuss words. The right front tire was punctured and settling to the pavement, flatter than a soufflé after a California earthquake. People walking by, mostly drunks stumbling out of the bars that lined the streets on both sides, kept on going, after staring briefly.
“Fucking drunk!” Grady screamed after the departing hit-and-runner. “Fucking New Orleans drivers!” That, plus a kick at the useless tire got some of the mad out of his system and he tried to figure out what to do. Briefly, he considered calling Sally again and more briefly, the NOPD, but he dismissed both ideas as soon as they occurred. Sally wouldn’t get there in time, not from clear out on Jefferson and the cops?...well, there’d be too much explaining to do and by the time he’d convinced someone what was going down, it’d be too late to do anything. Besides, the idea he was considering wouldn’t work with the cops or anyone else involved.
He changed the flat as fast as he could, cursing the heat and the mosquitoes that descended on him in droves. Finished in under ten minutes, he headed for the bridge and drove over it as fast as he thought he dared without getting a ticket.
“Whitney,” he said, as soon as she answered. “Something’s happened.”
He explained the situation to her.
“I’m already in Covington,” she said.
“Watch for the limo,” he said. “It should be coming by any time.”
“Should I follow it?”
“No!” He almost yelled. He lowered his voice. “No, sweetheart. It’s too dangerous. These are bad folks here. No. I know where they’re going. I just hope I don’t get there too late. Wait for me and be ready to roll. I don’t know this area at all and in the dark it’s going to be hard to find the place, I think.”
“I know this area pretty well,” she said.
“That’s what I’m counting on. When I get to you, we’ll leave my car and take yours.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
He was quiet for a second or two. “I hope so, Whitney. I hope I haven’t blown it. Timing’s everything on this.”
“Grady!” Her voice whistled in the phone. “They’re here! They just went by.”
“Hang on,” he said grimly, pressing down harder on the gas pedal. “I’m coming.”
“Damn it,” he bellowed and hit the steering wheel with the open palm of his hand. “Dammit all to hell anyway!”
He might have lost.
***
Out in the middle of the Mississippi, a coolish breeze that had blown up didn’t prevent C.J. from sweating like a whore in church. In the seat behind him, sat Felipe and Orlando. After Reader had phoned with directions and he’d driven to the river and found the boat, the two had jumped him.
He’d tried the breaking the cable bluff again but it hadn’t worked. They’d jumped in the boat with him.
After an argument.
“The boss said to shoot him,” Orlando said.
“The bos
s didn’t know he was going in a boat,” Felipe said, sneering. “How you think we’re going to shoot him if he’s across the river? We’ll go with him, do it when Reader shows up. Just before we get there,’ll jump out. It’ll be all right.”
C.J. didn’t know what to do. He was fucked whatever he did. The best he could do was go along, try and figure out something along the way.
Hope for a miracle.
***
“You’re not Reader!”
“Me? No, I’m Frenchie. You got something for me?”
Felipe did. Frenchie saw the tiny burst of fire from Felipe’s gun just before the bullet smote his brain.
“Nice shot!” Orlando said, wading in with his boss. “Now what?” he said, looking at the banker who was standing up in the boat a few feet away.
“Now, we show Mr. St. Ives what’s in his suitcases.” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Open one up, senòr,” he said to the man in the boat. “Surprise!”
C.J. looked at the two men and down at the suitcases and then he bent over and unlatched one of the suitcases. When it fell open, he stared at the contents.
He looked back up at the men, knowing in that instant there was only one possibility left. For a brief second, he thought of Amanda. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart, he whispered, and then he began to rip the cable off.
“No!” screamed Felipe, trying to scramble back.
CHAPTER 31
FIDEL CASTRO REALLY ENJOYED rum. Especially Cuban rum, not that gasoline you bought in most liquor stores. For him, Methusalem was the only label he’d deign to let pass his lips. It was from a bottle of that Cuban nectar that he was pouring a healthy portion into a crystal goblet at that precise moment.