To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  “I’m not so sure,” Navarro said. He sipped his brandy, his voice velvety. “Regardless, he will learn in good enough time.”

  “Won’t he ask for his release when he learns?”

  “I don’t think so,” Navarro answered.

  “And the Berga guard you had hired?”

  Navarro shook his head.

  “I see,” Redon said.

  The guard had taken nearly twenty thousand euro through an intermediary. He’d agreed to protect Cesar, and to smuggle occasional items in. But it wasn’t long before Navarro learned that the guard was actually working behind his back for Los Leones.

  The guard was no longer alive, killed during a violent “robbery” on one of his nights off.

  Redon crossed his leg and nervously ran his hand up and down his calf. “Señor Navarro, not to be coarse, but I have a question that’s quite personal in nature.”

  There was a slight dip of Navarro’s head.

  “Los Leones keeps killing the men you send in, and doing so in ghastly fashion.” Redon swallowed visibly. “Forgive me for asking this…”

  “Speak, man.”

  “Why, señor, don’t they just kill Cesar?”

  The mobster flicked the cigarette into the fire and sipped his brandy. Then, in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, he hurled the snifter into the stone fireplace, the crystal shattering as the brandy flamed in a ball of heat. He cut blood-laced eyes to Redon, his lips crinkling in anger. “They’re doing it to torture me. They’re going to suffer Cesar until the final day, and then they’re going to gut him.”

  Shaken by the outburst, Redon smiled weakly and said, “If Cesar can lead Hartline to his aggressors, perhaps Hartline can kill them before they kill him.”

  Navarro closed his eyes, his voice a whisper. “I pray…le pio a Dios…he will take this job and protect my only son.”

  “Cesar’s a fine young man,” Redon said obsequiously.

  Navarro’s eyes opened.

  Redon stared at him.

  Navarro slowly turned. “Cesar is a piece of shit.”

  The two men grew silent.

  Chapter Eight

  Outside the bedroom the music blared, making the mirror vibrate on the wall. Having dimmed all the lights, Xavier stared at himself, his hands straining on the edge of the marble countertop. His anger was visible, marked by tremors and bulging veins. Xavier couldn’t comprehend that, despite the growth of Los Leones, they were still in financial peril.

  Earlier, after the lieutenants had left, Xavier sat naked in the hot tub, trying his best to unwind. Then he was surprised by that little over-educated shit, Theo Garcia. Garcia had not left with the others. Instead, he pulled up a chair and harangued Xavier for the better part of an hour.

  As always, Theo had started with hard expenses. These dealt with drug-processing facilities, boats, transportation and people on Los Leones’ payroll. “Things have been trimmed as far as possible,” Garcia said with a grave expression. He moved on.

  His next line item, as usual, was what he called soft costs. These were items Garcia deemed unnecessary, although he was blind to the specifics of many of the actual transactions—something that was by Xavier’s design. But the little accountant, degenerate little prick though he was, was no idiot. He deftly pointed the dirty end of the stick at Xavier, telling him that “the highest level of leadership is spending well in excess of two million euro per month on security, transportation, meals, housing and personal entertainment.”

  Upon hearing this, Xavier had eyed the little man—stared him down.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, señor,” Garcia had said, averting his own eyes.

  The end of the summary had dealt with mundane items. The net result was essentially this: the top line was up, but only modestly. The bottom line, however, had shrunk. And though he never came out and said it, Garcia most definitely hinted that the bottom line was being vacuumed away by Xavier’s extravagant lifestyle.

  “We have no cash reserves,” Garcia had warned. “One bad month could wreck our entire organization. If you do not have the cash for our government payoffs, or if your legions do not receive the money they’re owed, you could be dealing with a mutiny that would result in your certain—”

  “Cállate!”

  “My apologies,” Garcia said, as insincerely as humanly possible.

  As he had actually considered grabbing the little accountant and holding him under the overheated water, Xavier, quite overheated himself, sat on the side without covering himself. He took a few deep breaths, finally asking, “Assuming our expenses remain the same, what can we do to increase the bottom line?”

  “If all of our expenses remain the same? Including executive expenditures?”

  “Yes,” Xavier growled through clenched teeth.

  “Then you must increase the top line without adding more expense. And the easiest way to do that, rather than encroaching into new geographies, is by eliminating Ernesto Navarro, or his son, and taking over Los Soldados’ operations, including their drug and gun inventories.”

  “Did you say ‘the son’?”

  “Yes.”

  Xavier had begun to laugh. He ran his hands back through his wet hair, shaking his head before his laughter had abruptly halted. “You may know numbers, Theo, but you’re one of the stupidest, most irritating people I’ve ever had to deal with. For the hundredth time, Cesar Navarro is a pigeon. We’re trying to use him to get to his cowardly old man. But if we kill Cesar, then the old man is a vapor. Do you follow?”

  “All I know is you must eliminate the Navarros. If you don’t, Los Leones is at high risk. If I were you, I’d be concerned about Los Soldados converting your men with the promise of more money. They can afford it.”

  Xavier wanted to strike back but what Garcia had just said made him stop and think.

  My own men turning on me. It could happen.

  “There is another option,” Garcia said.

  “What?”

  Garcia looked at Xavier, then averted his eyes. “Never mind, señor.”

  “Get out of my face.”

  Garcia began to walk away before Xavier called out to him.

  “Yes, señor?” Garcia asked at the threshold.

  “Theo…if we have any level of financial failure, I will blame you.”

  Garcia departed.

  The little bean-counter had all but ruined Xavier’s evening. Trying to forget the earlier exchange, Xavier now straightened, eyeing himself in the mirror. The many hours spent with his trainers, with his massage therapists, under acupuncture and the injections of various anabolic steroids, had left him with the hard body of a twenty-five-year-old. The day’s sun had set his skin aglow, making it warm to the touch. He was warmed further by the drugs and the anticipations of his evening’s plans.

  Xavier walked to the bedroom door, hearing the young Dutch women laughing and talking out in the main sitting rom. Lucky perras…they don’t know what they’re in for.

  “But tomorrow,” Xavier whispered to himself, affected by Garcia’s warnings. “Tomorrow we will increase our efforts to kill Ernesto Navarro.”

  Xavier opened the door. Tomorrow.

  * * *

  Gage keyed the door and stepped inside. The small hotel room smelled glorious, of Justina’s toothpaste and shampoo and her scent in general. He found her on the balcony, sitting there in a lime-colored cotton dress with her hair down. Beside her was a glass ashtray with three lipstick-marked cigarette butts. One slightly curled division of Justina’s blonde hair fell down over her cheek as she lifted her eyes to him. Her freshly tanned skin made her teeth seem all the more white as she smiled at him.

  “May I take you to dinner?” he asked, forcing a smile, not yet ready to reveal what occupied his mind.

  They found an open seafood restaurant on the crescent beach of Tossa de Mar. There was quite a chill blowing in from the sea so they took a table inside, near the rear of the restaurant. Three different times, as they waited
on their food, Justina asked Gage what was wrong. Each time he reassured her, telling her they would discuss it later, insisting they enjoy their dinner first.

  Finally, after eating half of his food and struggling to make suitable small talk due to his jumbled mind, Gage flattened his palms on the table. “What would you say to getting out of here tomorrow?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you and me get on an airplane, or a train, and leave Spain.”

  “For good?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “Not exactly. I’m thinking we just go away for a few days. The Costa Brava is beautiful and charming, but I think it would be nice to simply have a change of scenery.”

  She sipped her water, turning away as she rolled a piece of ice around in her mouth. After a moment, she crunched the ice, her face alight. “I’m in.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Anywhere but Poland,” Justina said. “I love my home and family, but not if we’re going somewhere to relax.”

  “Okay,” Gage said, listing a number of possibilities.

  Justina couldn’t decide, finally telling Gage to surprise her. Gage paid the bill and they left the restaurant.

  After a brief walk on the beach, cut short due to the chill, they headed back to their hotel. Just before walking up the hillside from the beachfront road, a man in a wheelchair emerged from a darkened alley.

  “Good evening, friends,” the man said in accented English.

  Gage and Justina stopped. The man who stared back at them was muscular with a mop of curly hair and a bushy moustache. He had no legs. His wheelchair was blocking the sidewalk but his expression seemed pleasant as his head rotated between Gage and Justina.

  “How did you know to speak English to us?” Gage asked.

  “I could tell by the way you walk that you’re American,” the man said, pointing a finger at Gage. “You’ve got that American swagger.”

  “You must have heard us talking.”

  “I did not,” the stranger said. “Not only could I tell you’re American, I can also tell that you’re a soldier.”

  Gage glanced at Justina. “I was.”

  “You are a soldier.”

  Gage took Justina’s right hand in his left. “Can we help you with something, sir?”

  The man held his hand out to Gage. “I just wanted to say hello to a fellow soldier.”

  “Is that how you lost your legs?” Gage asked, shaking the man’s hand and choosing to be direct about his injury out of soldierly respect.

  “Yes, sir. Iraq, February of ninety-one. I was one of the few from the Spanish coalition. I was commanding a Pegaso that got flipped courtesy of a Russian-made anti-tank mine. Been sitting ever since.”

  Gage nodded his understanding. “Are you from Tossa?”

  “Am now,” the man said, his English nearly good enough to pass for a native speaker. “Got a shack up on the hill but most days I like to patrol down here at the water.”

  “Patrol?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “It’s my duty to all our tourists.” He motioned up and down the beach. “Watch yourselves around here. With our poor economy, lots of sharks in Catalonia these days.”

  “We’ll remember that,” Gage said, shaking the man’s hand again.

  The man in the wheelchair looked at Justina and said, “Dobranoc.” It meant “Good evening” in Polish. He tipped an imaginary cap and wheeled back into the darkness.

  As Gage and Justina walked up the hill, Justina was incredulous as she asked, “How did he know I was Polish?”

  “And how did he know I was American?”

  Justina broke the tension by laughing.

  Typically, Gage would have been very suspicious of such an encounter. But, for some reason Gage couldn’t discern, he believed the man in the wheelchair to be genuine. He’d instinctively liked the man—and his instinct was seldom wrong. Rather than dwell on it, he decided to focus his attention on Justina.

  When they arrived back in their hotel room, the tension was thick. Unsure of what to do, Gage brushed his teeth and asked Justina what time she would wake up tomorrow.

  “Well, since I don’t have to scrub toilets at Eastern Bloc, I’d like to train my body to sleep a little later.”

  “I’ll be up early,” Gage said. “And by the time you wake up, I’ll have a trip all planned out, okay?”

  As he removed his shoes, Justina leaned down and kissed him. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt her gently pushing him backward. Not wanting to seem presumptive, Gage stayed upright.

  Though the kiss was glorious, Justina appeared frustrated when she straightened. She walked into the bathroom and told Gage to sleep well.

  Later, as Gage stared at the dark wall, Justina pulled him behind her, just as she’d done the night before. Despite the tension, their mutual touch was just the sleep-aid they both needed.

  They were asleep in minutes.

  * * *

  Not far away, Xavier Zambrano was having a much more frenetic evening. Before him, five beautiful and naïve young women danced with one another, sufficiently drunk and, for at least two of them, flying high on cocaine. Finger paintings of color followed each woman’s movement, highlighted by the hue of her clothing. The house-style music thudded, pulsating from the villa’s hidden speakers. Xavier was lounging in a leather chair, sipping his tonic water, enjoying the scene playing out before him as he decided which one, or ones, he would take first.

  He’d already forgotten about the thumb-crushing incident with Camilo, his narcotics lieutenant. And he’d managed to set aside the grave proclamations from Theo Garcia. His mind now was solely focused on his own pleasure as he merrily prophesied the dreamy tales of the virile Spanish millionaire these young Amsterdammers would recount when they reentered their pathetic lives in a week.

  Earlier, upon their arrival, Xavier had invited all of the young women into the large hot tub. Then still sober, most of the girls politely declined, probably needing to fall prey to alcohol’s loosening characteristics before acquiescing to something that would otherwise make them feel slutty—at least in front of a crowd of friends. But one girl, cute but the least attractive of the bunch—the one who, on the beach, had asked if they should bring dates—lingered as her friends went inside in search of alcohol and drugs. Once the friends had moved away from the window, the girl, her name was Erica, bawdily slid her dress and underwear off, dropping down into the water as her hand immediately took a position on Xavier’s most private parts.

  She was only a few kilos overweight. With brown hair and coffee eyes, she had a cheerfulness about her that she’d probably cultivated to counteract the greater beauty of her friends. Xavier knew enough about women to pronounce her as intelligent: she knew she would be quite plump at some point in the next decade, and she was wise enough to go ahead and have her fun now. And this evening, to Erica, was almost certainly a microcosm of her life. She probably, even if it was subconsciously, realized that this might be her only chance to have sex with him.

  He appreciated her efforts.

  After a few minutes of stroking him to rigidity, Erica had tried to straddle him. Though it wasn’t easy, Xavier had politely resisted, promising the girl much more intensity, but only later in the evening. He didn’t want to blow himself out too early, especially with the least attractive one of the bunch.

  “Don’t forget about me later,” she’d said, kissing him. His affirming promise added a radiant glow to her face.

  Since then, he’d donned a fashionable outfit of linen pants and an open Versace shirt, getting to know each girl one on one, estimating that, when drunk, they would all be willing to partake in the Roman-style orgy he had in mind. And now, just before he’d come to the sofa, Xavier had popped an erectile tablet in the privacy of the bathroom. Then, adding to his drug cocktail, he’d spiked the ephedrine syringe into his right buttock.

  While holding his thumb over the erupted pinhead of stark red blood, X
avier had devoured his own image in the large mirror in a narcissistic bout of self-adulation.

  The ephedrine effect, especially when mingled with two lines of cocaine and erectile dysfunction medicine, was intense to say the least. Though no one had touched the stereo, the volume had increased twofold. One of the Dutch women, Julia, with white blonde hair, straight teeth and freshly suntanned skin, was wearing a short blue dress. Earlier, Xavier remembered it being a plain blue, the type of dress purchased off the rack in any cut-rate department store. Now, however, the dress shone in electric cobalt, giving off its own light as Julia turned her attentions to him. The finger paintings of earlier had grown to neon-intensity, dragging brilliance with her every movement. Feeling the hotness of his face and upper chest, probably the erectile pill, Xavier soon felt the benefit of his sudden, and painful, erection. He stood, moving Julia’s hand to his firmness, sliding her dress over her head.

  Franca, the one who, on the beach, had been so concerned that he might have cocaine, danced to where Xavier swayed with half-naked Julia. Leaving her heels on, Franca dropped her shorts, working them over her elevated shoes and showing everyone that she preferred no panties. In two deft motions her shirt and bra were gone and, cutting in front of her friend, she pushed herself onto Xavier, the two of them falling back on the sofa as she went about disrobing him with her hands and mouth.

  Even though he’d had at least a hundred other nights like this one, as several of the girls took turns pleasuring him, Xavier laid there and pondered what a superlative feeling female worship was for a man. It felt as if he were making a cosmic connection back through time with other rulers that had enjoyed power comparable to his. And it was times like this that provided complete understanding of why men in power fought so damned hard to hold onto that power. Through the ages, Xavier knew that other men like him had lain back, accepting the pleasure as payment for all their hard work, thinking similar self-congratulatory thoughts while horny young women battled for their affections.

  He lifted his head, surveying the lurid scene and finding that all but one had disrobed. She was holding his mirror, snorting more cocaine. The four naked ones, two on the sofa and two kneeling next to him, stared at him as if he were the only man on earth. He allowed his hands to wander, telling the girls to pleasure one another as he guided Julia, the prettiest one, to his own body. Her lips were locked on Franca’s as she began to move with him and, as he’d hoped, the other two girls, Erica from the hot tub and Ami, the shy one, went to work on each other on the floor next to the sofa.