The Ortega Gambit: A classic crime thriller

by J. Palma

  "Why don't we call the police?"

  Finally registering his question, she burst into laughter. After a long moment, she said, "The police? What are they going to do? They'll just be in the way. They can't help us."

  Terrified, Charles began to sob. Soon his sobs became a hysterical meltdown. The nanny held the child close to her, pressing her cheek to his head. Lucina remained silent during his fit, not because she wanted him to cry until he formed his own conclusions about why the police were useless, but because she didn't know what to say to shut him up. She gave his back a light rubdown, and his crying slowed into sobs, finally ebbing into sniffles. Not exactly crisis averted, more like crisis delayed. She wanted to tell him everything would be all right but she couldn't because that would be a lie, and she didn't like lying to people she cared about.

  After the boy calmed, she spread the map out between them and circled in lipstick an area Upstate. The address, obtained from a small piece of paper in Tony Pipes' fanny pack, was not entirely helpful by itself. But the message scribbled above it was: bring Polaroid here when done. She had committed the address to memory. The name in the circle was Andes.

  She stabbed the center of the circle with her finger. "That's where we're going. Do you know this place?" They both studied the map and the network of roads leading to Andes.

  "The family cabin is there."

  "Very good."

  "I'm hungry," Charles said, his voice still whimpering. She covered the boy with the purloined leather jacket. She returned the map to her shoulder bag. After breakfast, buying the charger, the snacks and drinks, she had ninety bucks and change.

  "Eat the chips."

  "I'm tired of chips."

  "We'll eat a better meal tomorrow. I promise."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I showed you on the map."

  "It looks far. I mean, why are we going?"

  "To visit your aunt. But first we need sleep." Like mother and child, she dozed off with Charles' head against her shoulder and slept better than she had in a long time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  AN HOUR BEFORE sunrise, Lucina awoke with her neck stiff from sleeping awkwardly in the front seat. She turned on the radio with the volume low enough not to disturb Charles and listened to the morning news. Still dark as night, a slight coolness persisted, but the weather forecasts promised another hot one. Every fifteen minutes or so, she flipped to another channel. Convinced the news broadcasts would not mention her or Charles, she drove off.

  Getting out of Beacon was a piece of cake. Once she got on Main Street, she followed signs for Interstate 84, which would take her across the Hudson.

  According to her map, Andes, New York, was a little more than a three-hour drive north. But before she made her final move, they needed to eat. Her stomach growled and hurt with hunger and she’d promised Charles a meal other than chips. After crossing the Hudson she found a McDonald's and pulled into the drive-thru. Before she could order, a radio announcement came over the speakers, ruining her morning: "Charles Howell, heir to the Howell fortune has been kidnapped by the family nanny. Lucina D’Alessio is believed to be armed and mentally unstable and has a history of violent outbursts..." The newscaster concluded the announcement with a tip number and a generous fifty-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Charles' rescue.

  A sudden fear struck her like a knife pressed to her throat. She high-tailed out of the McDonald's lot and slipped into a nearby gas station, parking away from the pumps, confused and distressed. Charles had stirred awake by now. So, there she was. Out of ideas. Starving. The radio broadcast had really stuck it to her. She handed the boy her shoulder bag.

  "The gun is in there. Loaded. You ever shoot someone? No? Very easy. Point and pull the trigger. Just like the movies. If any of those men find you, you shoot."

  "Wh-where are you going?" He didn't understand her change of temper. His eyes swelled, ready to cry.

  "You hungry? I'll get you something to eat."

  "You promised we'd eat something better. I'm tired of eating like a hobo."

  "Would you rather eat shitty food? Or die?"

  Seven minutes later, she walked across the gas station parking lot with a plastic bag bulging with two pastries, two bottled waters, a Hershey's bar, a bag of beef jerky, and sunflower seeds. With her hand on the car door handle, a voice rose behind her.

  Through the window, she watched Charles' hand slip inside her bag. The booming, jovial voice coming from behind her belonged to the clerk. She mouthed the word "no" and the child understood and shoved the gun back in her bag.

  "Excuse me, ma'am, you left your change back on the counter." She inspected the man, a giant towering hulk with a beer gut and suspenders in a military haircut. He handed her four dollars and fourteen cents.

  She smiled. "Thank you."

  "You should be more careful with your money."

  Lucina could drive west on Interstate 84 clear across the continent until she reached Portland. All she had to do was keep driving. Forget about revenge. Forget about those monstrous people with their hideous greed. But she was conditioned by anger, poverty, and jealousy, and she could not just turn her back. She took the exit and merged onto 87, northbound.

  Wearing nearly the same outfit she'd been wearing since Bear Mountain—black leggings, a striped tank top, t-shirt, and a stolen leather jacket—she wished she had thought of buying deodorant. But her stink was of little concern to her. She had an image in her mind of Dot sitting somewhere with her servants tending to her every need. Lucina wanted nothing more than to stand before Dot, defiant and alive and witness her reaction. She touched the shoulder bag beside her that contained her life's belongings, and she smiled as she felt the outline of the heavy silver pistol.

  In Kingston, she filled up the tank, loaded up on more junk food and a pack of Marlboro Reds, and paid with the credit card.

  She consulted her map once more and a few moments later the car was pointed west-bound along Highway 28. Andes was near.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EVERYONE CALLED THE accountant La Tombola because he was short and squat like the drum used in the Italian game of chance. In Tombola, participants spun a drum, like in bingo, and then reached in through a small door to select a ticket for a prize. Unlike the game, however, the accountant did not believe in chance, but rather in the predictability of ledgers, profit and loss statements, and cash flow.

  On the outskirts of Casa di Mora was a traditional stone hewed farmhouse. Like many in the region, the farmhouse had a bunker-like root cellar and at a quick glance, the farmhouse and surrounding fields appeared abandoned.

  A closer inspection would reveal a steel front door with a heavy deadbolt lock. Wrought iron bars crisscrossed the windows. Two cars were always parked in front. Each had a driver with a walkie-talkie and an AK-47 across their lap with views for miles in any direction. Each had orders to shoot to kill. Stationed at the cellar door, a third man had instructions to toss an incendiary grenade below in the event of a police raid. The house didn't have plumbing. The men used a mess bucket in one of the rooms. The mess bucket was emptied in the field behind the house. Fresh water was drawn by hand from a well.

  Three underlings joined La Tombola in the cellar that once housed casks of olive oil. They worked ten-hour days, six days a week. Each had a desk. No computers. Everything was done with pencil and paper, as it had been done for generations. Beneath a blue gray cloud of cigar smoke, La Tombola sat in a metal folding chair about to start his day. A truce had been negotiated between the clans, and soon, money would once again flow into the Lazzaroni clan coffers.

  The bosses had met in Costa Del Sol, the tourist coast of southern Spain. Each side agreed peace was much more profitable than war. As a signal of good faith, the Lazzaroni clan partnered with the DeNuzzi clan in a real estate development project, building one thousand condo units in the resort town of Malaga. They would get paid twice for the work, and neither wanted something as
meaningless as a misunderstanding between the clans to interfere with the windfall of profits. The building material would be mixed with toxic refuse from a waste disposal job from Milan. The company in Milan was paying top dollar to remove the waste, and the Spanish real-estate development company, unknowingly, was paying top dollar to use the contaminated material as building supplies.

  Underling One asked, "Ciro is asking to move forward with payment for the Cortéz.” The Cortéz, a container ship with a home port of Athens, Greece, transported cocaine from Colombia to coastal Spain. Once in Spanish waters, smaller runner boats picked up the cargo and from there, it reached the shores of Europe, spreading like gangrene from an infected wound. Expected profit from a single trip was about eighty million Euros. The Lazzaroni leased the boat for shipments, which required significant upfront capital to operate the boat and purchase the cocaine, usually by the ton. Funds had been frozen in light of the clan wars. Today was the great thawing of such funds.

  La Tombola inhaled on a cigar and said, "Make it happen."

  Underling Two lifted his head from his desk. "Ivan'ov is asking for 200 bananas." Bananas were code for AK-47s. When the Iron Curtain fell, the Lazzaroni clan shrewdly bought weapon stores in Hungary and hired the unemployed soldiers to function as guards. They never had to relocate the armories. Now, any requests for weapons were sourced from Hungary. "He's indicated the usual payment methods and terms."

  Again, La Tombola signaled to move forward.

  Underling Three, a young man with wire-rimmed glasses and early male pattern baldness, inspected his notes and consulted the ledger before him and said, "Signore, what about New York?"

  La Tombola had a whip brain and could recall in detail the status of nearly every line item in the various ledgers in use. Without hesitation he said, "There will be no further payment. Assets are forfeited. For all intents and purposes, the work has been completed."

  Underling Three drew a black line through the ledger item, closing the entry out. The descriptions, all in code, read simply three goats sold. Goats were code for people.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  DOT NEVER LIKED the cabin, harboring a great disdain for the outdoors in general. But having sequestered herself here for the last two weeks, the property had grown on her, the way one learns to accept a mole on their face. During this time, she scrutinized the cabin and decided the property had great potential beyond the current utilitarian huntsmen decor. Will, usually affable, had taken to drinking whatever he could find, moping from one sofa to another. And when he had finished the wine and odd beer bottle in the house, he dispatched the driver to Andes for supplies.

  Dot had cornered Will on the living room sofa with his legs up on the coffee table. Beside him, an empty bottle of red and a coffee mug. He slouched in her shadow as she stood at the sliding glass doors with her arms folded. She told him she wanted to remove all the taxidermied animals. The black bear on his hindquarters, the forever roaring jaguar head from Venezuela, the five buck heads, and the moose head all had to go. Dot remained undecided on the wahoo from the Gulf of Mexico and a flintlock rifle from Turkey covered with inlaid pearl. A stuffed piranha mounted and displayed on the coffee table had so far missed her ridicule. When Will was a child, he pressed the tip of his finger against the piranha’s teeth and watched a pearl of blood form where his flesh had met the sharpness.

  Will considered his wife, dressed in jodhpurs, leather boots, and a white button-down blouse. He found her ridiculous. Anxiety had wracked his nerves since they arrived. With each passing day the job remained unfinished, his anxiety worsened. Like most men in his situation, he settled his nerves with copious amounts of alcohol. But forgetting often came with the price of a dull headache. And to make matters worse, the dishwasher broke, forcing them to eat from paper plates with plastic utensils as no one thought to clean the dishes by hand. Dot had kept the staff outside, wary they may overhear something they should not.

  In her polished leather boots, Dot marched before him, gesturing as she discussed her future remodel. "After we do that, we'll add a fireplace there. We'll use locally quarried stone, of course. This will be the main focal point of the room. We have to get it right. Right now, your eye jumps from disbelief to wretch to vile. We can knock this wall down and combine the lounge with the living room. The layout now defies logic and common sense. Pocket doors are so nineties. I don't think this is a load-bearing wall so I don’t anticipate any issues. Can you see what I'm talking about? One massive room with the gorgeous view in front of you. Your brother really had a terrible sense of Feng Shui. And why didn't he put in goddamn air conditioning? That's a sin."

  Will didn't move.

  "Will, my dear, have you listened to anything I just said?" She seemed irritated with her husband's lack of shared interest.

  Immediately, Will steered the conversation to other more critical matters. The uptight image of his wife, arrogant and detached, did not allay his fears. "You walk around here”—he sat upright, his feet flat on the wood flooring— “and that's what you're thinking? For chrissakes!" In a strained voice he said, "You don't find any of this upsetting?"

  Surprised by his tone, she dismissed his concerns with a flick of her hand. "What? The wood paneling?"

  With his voice veering between fear and contempt, Will said, "She used her card in Kingston. That's not far from here. Why would she come all the way out here? Have you thought of that? That’s not a coincidence. How did she find out we're here?"

  Dot didn't answer.

  "What about Albert and the others? What did you tell them?"

  "I told them that Lucina was headed towards Canada. Would you prefer I lie to you too?"

  He sighed.

  "Relax. I told them to stay outside. To act as our royal guards. I even promised a reward in the outside chance she should come here."

  "But she is coming here." Will stood up. "There is no outside chance. This is a question of when. Not if."

  "Don't be silly." She turned, her gaze set on the Catskill Mountains rising and falling like giant green waves. From here the country spread before them like a rumpled quilt of various size squares and patches of dark green. "I have to admit, she's a tough cookie."

  "A tough cookie? What do you think this is? A job interview? She's not heading this way to talk about a raise or negotiate benefits. She's coming for you."

  "For me? You sound absurd. Don't be a coward." Her voice stiffened. His sudden lucidity annoyed her. Thrusting a finger at him, she said, "Stop being dramatic. Why do you think we're paying as much as we are? It's all under control. "

  Will grew pale, terrified.

  Dot shook her head. "We got Rizzo. And Rizzo has his people. The situation is under control. They're not going to let anything happen to us. I'll tell you when you should worry." She ventured outside and leaned against the railing for a moment, then returned to the living room. "Rizzo has suggested you kill the boy. He's concerned about your lack of commitment."

  "The boy? My nephew?"

  "He was alarmed, as I was, that you never called Lucy. This could have all been avoided if Lucy and the boy were taken from the Larchmont home like we planned. How would she have known to stay home for the plumber? You were supposed to call her and tell her not to leave. You told me you called her. Your lack of commitment and consequent lie are why things are fucked." Now Dot’s eyes, usually steely and cold, gazed at her husband with a hot intensity. Her voice changed. Her usual affected tone had left her, replaced with a Staten Island accent.

  "You're fucking crazy." He picked up his coffee mug half full with red wine and drained it.

  Desperate to empty his mind of the latest exchange with his wife, Will decided he required greater firepower. Whiskey, gin, vodka. Any or all would do. Will summoned Albert. Then the cook. Then the driver.

  No answer.

  "Where the hell is everyone?"

  She said, "I told you already. I sent them outside a few hours ago. They’re probably at the range. I w
ant them kept out of the cabin. Use the walkie-talkie." Frustrated with the poor cell phone coverage, Rizzo had the wisdom to purchase four Motorola walkie-talkies from a general store in Andes.

  "If you listen, you can hear the occasional gunshot. That's them. If you need something, use the walkie-talkie. They have one. Rizzo has one and so does Fat Mikey. It's so exciting. Ours is in the kitchen."

  Will moved to the deck. Indeed, he heard the infrequent pop pop from different caliber guns. And then the gunfire quieted. And then it started up again. He turned, facing his wife. "Where's Rizzo?"

  "He's out front. He's trying to get a signal. Said he needs to call someone in the City. The cell coverage is awful here. Can you believe there is not a working landline here? I can't wait until this is all behind us."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE DRIVER, THE cook, and Albert stood nearly twenty yards from a 1974 VW van rolled onto its side with the undercarriage facing them. The rusted carcass had been there as long as any of them could remember, and they'd been coming up to the Howell cabin with Will's brother since well before Charles was born. Another couple of summers more, and the van would be completely hidden beneath weeds, tall grasses, and leafy vines.

  The guns, selected from an impressive walk-in safe, seemed to reflect an internal desire. Albert brought a Springfield with a scope, the driver took a lever action Winchester, and the cook carried a Mossberg 12-gauge with a black finish and a knock-off .22 Walther PPK. Each servant dressed similarly outfitted in jeans, loafers, and short sleeve dress shirts, as Dot had relaxed the dress code.

  The driver finished a Budweiser, walked to the undercarriage of the van and placed a bottle atop the wheel assembly. He returned to his spot on the line but before he could shoulder his weapon, the cook fired and the bottle exploded.