To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  Redon stopped her. “Weren’t you concerned with him as a renter? He was notorious.”

  “Not really. I didn’t even know it at first.”

  “How did you know to call me?”

  “I saw you on a special news report. You were dashing, Cortez. So in control.”

  He adjusted his tie, smiling. “Please, dear lady, go on.”

  “When I went to the house, everything was still there, untouched.”

  “How often did he stay there?”

  “It was hard to say. Sometimes for a few days, other times for weeks.”

  “Alone?”

  “Like I said, just with his assistant who always paid the bills. And the women.”

  Breathe, old boy, breathe. Redon fought the urge to dance around the café. “Tell me about these female visitors.”

  Señora Herrero pursed her lips. “Harlots,” she said with disdain. “Buxom, wearing sinfully skimpy clothing. Drinking and probably drugs…late-night frolicking in the hot tub.” She looked off in the distance and shook her head.

  So she’s against his bringing hookers to her home but she’ll gladly steal his money, he thought, sticking his tongue into his cheek to avoid a smile. Redon leaned forward, having waited to ask the most important questions. “Where did you find the bearer bonds?”

  “In a briefcase. It was well-hidden.”

  “Locked?”

  She smirked and diverted her eyes.

  “Where were the bonds issued?”

  “A bank in Luxembourg.”

  “Are you completely certain they’re genuine? Like I said, bearer bonds are outmoded. Although, to be fair, I’m not surprised a man like Navarro held some—they’re most certainly a favored instrument of money launderers.”

  “Acusador Redon,” she said sharply, “while I may look like I should be home baking cookies, I’m an accomplished businesswoman. The bonds each have a face value of fifty thousand U.S. dollars and have matured completely. They’re no longer drawing interest, but they’re absolutely viable.”

  “I hope you haven’t fallen prey to some sort of prop,” he said. “Because I’ve not seen bearer bonds since—”

  Redon was cut short by the older woman’s action. She reached into her large purse and removed a single sheet of folded linen paper. Taking her time, she unfolded the thick greenish paper, flattening it on the table before them, turning it so he could read the text.

  It was, indeed, a bearer bond—or a fake of the highest quality—marked by several official seals. “Fifty thousand United States dollars,” he croaked. Redon’s mouth was dry, very dry. After a long draught of the faintly sulfuric mineral water he reverently touched the paper as he asked the critical question.

  “How many of these bonds did you recover?”

  “Just so you know, I do not have them with me.”

  He nodded. “The amount, please?”

  “Well, there’s an entire sheaf of those bonds.”

  A sheaf! His throat was so swollen and dry he couldn’t even swallow. “How many?” he managed, knowing his squawking voice sounded ridiculous.

  “I’ve counted them three times, Cortez.”

  “Very good.”

  “And I’m quite accurate.”

  “Please, darling…how much?”

  She smiled, drawing the moment out. “There are three hundred thirty-nine bearer bonds. The total value is sixteen point nine five million, U.S.”

  Cortez Redon’s jaw came unhinged.

  She moved her hand over his, rubbing it like a lover might. “And I’ll split it with you, Cortez, every dollar. But in order to do that, you have to come with me to Luxembourg and use your influence and experience to make certain that the bank will accept the bonds without trouble. That done, you can go your own way, as will I.”

  Fighting the urge to let his mind race, Redon narrowed his eyes, focusing on the proposal. “Madam, forgive me, but if you’re as successful as you say, why would you want to create a problem of such a large amount of excess cash?”

  “My money is tied up in real estate. And need I tell you what has happened in real estate?” She finished her water. “There is a beach somewhere in this world with sugary sand, and it’s calling my name. I shall sit on that beach, reading good books, dining famously, as I spend that cash over the balance of the ten or twenty years I have left. I’ve no children or grandchildren,” she said wistfully, “so walking away for me is not of any concern. And I shall go someplace where cash is welcome payment.”

  With such wealth on the table, Redon was easily convinced. His mind began to race. With his adequate state salary and his lifetime of legitimate investments, he’d created a nest egg of over one million euro. That number would be quite a bit higher had he not made a few bad moves prior to the long bull market at the end of the previous century but, nonetheless, it was quite enough to support his overweight wife—provided she lived frugally. He wasn’t concerned about his two sons, ungrateful shits they were. Both were well beyond the age of accountability and could fend for themselves as far as he was concerned.

  But the jewel of Redon’s “retirement package” was the nearly three million euro tucked away in Switzerland at the Banque Hottinger. Nearly all of it had come from his illegal dealings with Navarro and Xavier, along with that one tidy addition he’d made years ago in return for throwing a murder trial (but that was another story). As his secret fund had swelled, he’d found it harder and harder not to leave his wife. She’d grown fatter by the day, now taking painkillers just from the discomfort of holding up her massive girth. It sickened him. Every time Redon mounted a skinny young woman, staring up at him as if he were the lord of creation, he would instantly think about the bliss of his long-awaited escape to the islands.

  Unfortunately, Redon had never been able to make the math work with his three million euro. At a conversion of about four million dollars, he’d struggle to make three percent. So, living on dividends only, he’d only generate $120,000 a year. Given the lifestyle he’d come to expect, that wasn’t nearly enough money to satisfy him

  But now, after this glorious turn of events, he could walk away with twelve million dollars U.S., which would immediately put him in a different strata with the discreet banking community. He’d be able to assure himself a very safe five percent return, perhaps as much as ten if the economy turned.

  At five percent on twelve million dollars, tax-free of course, he was looking at an annual return of nearly $600,000. That’s not private jet money, but it’s fine dinners, a damn nice second-row villa on Seven Mile Beach and first-class tickets whenever I feel the need to fly.

  Unable to help his avarice, Redon closed his eyes, thinking of the vacationing women, and how impressed they would be with his shiny sports car, his villa and, of course, his outdoor hot tub. Though he didn’t care for drugs, he’d make sure to keep a stash of coke and weed, just to loosen the vacationers up…and, he thought with unrestrained glee, there’ll be a whole new batch of them each week. All I need to do now is travel to Luxembourg and Zurich and buy a good established identity.

  Then the realization hit him: I can be on the beach in a week!

  He opened his eyes, again clasping his hands over Señora Herrero’s, unable to contain his jury smile. “Madam, provided you and I can trust each other to keep this to ourselves for as long as we both shall live, I’d say this is the beginning of a lovely, albeit brief, partnership.”

  “There’s one item I’m hesitant to mention.”

  “Please do,” he sang.

  “Through some incredibly subtle inquiries, I learned that the authorities believe Ernesto Navarro was killed by a rival gang. Supposedly, they’re assuming his operations.”

  “Go on,” he said warily.

  “It did occur to me that perhaps I should approach them with these bearer bonds instead. Perhaps they would give me a larger percentage than you.”

  Cortez Redon nearly fell off his stool. “They would take every last American penny of t
hat money because they would kill you,” he spat. “They would kill you viciously.”

  She touched her hand to her mouth.

  “Madam, scrub such thoughts from your mind,” he admonished. “You’re speaking of Los Leones…savages.” He softened his face. “But by working with me, you’re assuring yourself of safety, of security and refinement. Do you understand?”

  “You’re heaven-sent, señor.”

  “We both are.”

  He watched as she placed the bottle of mineral water in her purse and used a wet paper napkin to wipe her glass and the table where her arms had rested. Easing herself off the stool, she glanced outside. Bringing her eyes back she said, “Now, Cortez, as you might imagine, I have not used my real name today. And, if I get the remotest inclination that you’re following me or trying to find me, I will make this deal with someone else.”

  Showing his palms, he dipped his head and said, “I’m only interested in working with you, madam—not following you.”

  “I need your mobile number.”

  He handed over his card.

  “Very well,” she replied, dropping it in her purse. “I will call you tomorrow, early. Can you be ready to go at a moment’s notice?”

  Uncharacteristically showing nervousness, he chewed on his thumbnail, thinking through all the loose ends. He did own a term life insurance policy, one that was purchased long before the euro conversion. It was worth about 800,000 euro and, despite his disdain for his marital partner, would go a long way in making sure she could easily survive without him. If he were to choose an activity, such as sailing alone—something he did on occasion—and were to come up missing, a case could be made that the insurance company should pay even with the absence of a body. It would be a battle for her, but there was precedent and a good team of lawyers would have a solid case, especially with his standing in Catalonia.

  “As you might imagine, I have quite a bit to do, but I think, starting tomorrow, I could leave with several hours’ notice.”

  “Fine. You’ll hear from me. Make sure you answer when I call.”

  “I will.”

  “Please pay the tab,” she said with a wink. He watched as she pushed the door open with her rump, still careful not to leave any fingerprints, and headed down the street away from his office.

  Mind lurching into overdrive, Redon turned to find the server so he might pay. But, to his great surprise, standing next to the glass counter, her large blue eyes on his, was the tall Polish bombshell from earlier.

  Feeling his lips parting uncontrollably, he said, “How long have you been here?”

  “When I finished changing my tire, I parked and came in to thank you.” She gnawed on her lip, dipping her head. “I guess that was your wife.”

  “My wife?” he blurted. “No, no, no, dear…that was not my wife. That was a, uh, business meeting.”

  Redon watched her head come back up, mirth spreading over her face. She took two steps toward him, towering over him.

  “Sorry I stopped talking on the street.”

  “Don’t be,” he whispered.

  “I was feeling…tempted. Sometimes, when I’m lonely, I’m too easy.”

  His mouth moved but he made no sound.

  “Is there someplace we can go?” she asked.

  “Go?” he croaked.

  Her hand dithered on his lapel, moving behind his head in a massaging motion. “I’d like to be alone with you. I realize that sounds bad but, please understand, my time in Spain has not been good and I’m truly craving the company of a cultured man. I’ve got all afternoon and no plans tonight, either.”

  Feeling his jaw muscles fail him again, Redon stared up at her and thought, Of all days! I’ve been paying for ass for twenty years now and, on the day my bejeweled ship finally comes in, when I’ve got more to do than I can fathom, I get propositioned by a Polish girl fit for a Mallorca stripper pole.

  Probably sensing his hesitation, she leaned over, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear. “I’m sure you have to get back to work and you’re probably married. Just think of it as a long lunch and,” she said, cupping his head in her hands, “you have to promise me it won’t be a one-time thing. Since I turned eighteen I’ve exclusively dated older men and, while I’m here, I’d like a boyfriend like you…one who can take care of me.”

  “I should go buy an El Gordo ticket today,” he mumbled, speaking of the Spanish lottery.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, darling,” he replied, dropping ten euro on the counter and leading her out. “There’s a hotel just down the street here—” He froze in the doorway, feeling a stab of stupidity. “That is what you had in mind, isn’t it?”

  “Cortez,” she said, leaning to his ear, “take me to that hotel and make beautiful love to me.”

  Acusador Cortez Redon nearly lost his balance. But, after recovering quickly, he tugged her hand, unable to keep from skipping down the Carrer de Pau Claris.

  * * *

  Standing across the street under the breathing lavender blooms of a Jacaranda tree, Xavier Zambrano watched Acusador Cortez Redon interacting with the tall blonde in the doorway of a place called El Café de Limón. Minutes earlier, Xavier had spotted him in the café, sitting there talking to the dumpy old woman with the beehive hairdo. Having crossed the street to await his exit, Xavier now had watched the entire scene play out, one that reminded him of the types of grifts he and his fellow neighborhood punks had run as teens.

  The tall blonde, who for some reason seemed familiar to Xavier, had approached the café from the parking garage down the street. She’d nearly tiptoed in her approach to the café, peering through the large glass front from its edge. Then she eased into the café and watched Redon and the older woman from the far side of the dining area.

  After a few minutes the older woman exited and, just when Xavier had been about to follow her, she walked away but quickly came back, peering through the window just as the comely blonde had done. Finally, smiling at what she’d seen, the older woman crossed the perpendicular street and that’s when Xavier had followed just to see her get into the passenger seat of a white Volvo parked on the first level of the parking garage. Realizing she wasn’t going anywhere, he moved back to his position across the street—where he was now, watching the tender exchange between Redon and the tall blonde. Then, with that familiar inflamed glow of fresh lovers, they hurried down the street hand in hand.

  Cortez, you horny idiot. You’re too small, too old, and you look like a fairytale elf. Are you gullible enough to think that piece of tail would be interested in you?

  Xavier followed from across the street and was able to see the older woman’s silhouette in the shadowed garage. She lowered herself in the passenger seat but turned, watching the couple pass by from her furtive position.

  This was definitely a hustle of some sort—and Xavier remembered the message he’d seen at Redon’s office: a woman claiming to have Ernesto Navarro’s money. He looked around, finding no other people who seemed to be interested in the couple’s movements.

  Why would two women be working such an angle on Acusador Cortez Redon?

  He pondered it, not thinking too long about it because, just past the garage, he watched as the couple stopped in front of a Martel Hotel—one of hundreds spread throughout Europe’s larger cities—and devour one another with a kiss. Redon’s hands, already lower because of his small stature, roamed up the back of the tall blonde’s legs, cupping her rear end with his fingers before they eventually probed underneath her short skirt.

  Then, laughing like thieves, they entered the hotel.

  His mind warring over which path to take, Xavier turned left, walking back toward the café. He entered the side of the parking garage by jumping a waist-high wall, closing on the rear of the Volvo with great speed and stealth. The light of a mobile phone could be seen in the darkened car—the old woman was typing on it. Unable to discern if the car was locked, he dropped below the window at the back and wait
ed a moment before he lightly tapped on the sheet metal of the rear hatch, rhythmically setting a slow beat, very soft.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap—never changing tone or speed.

  Nothing happened.

  He continued to tap, the sound not unlike an annoying dripping from above.

  Still no response from the woman.

  Like a patient snake stalking its prey, Xavier continued to tap.

  * * *

  Señora Moreno had just replayed the recording of Cortez Redon. It wasn’t as clear as she would have liked—actually undecipherable in spots—but his indictment of Los Leones was clear as a bell, and might come in handy later.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  She turned her head. What in the world is that?

  It went on and on. Señora Moreno wondered if it was droplets of drainage water dripping on the car from the level above. But the constant rhythm was irritating and continued on for several minutes while she texted several instructional messages to Justina. Finally, when the noise didn’t abate, she unlocked the car and stepped out. She viewed the diminutive spare tire that Justina had installed. It seemed to be on tight. She walked to the rear of the car, where the sound had come from, viewing the roof as best she could and finding no evidence of water droplets. In fact, standing still, she could no longer hear the sound.

  Looking out at Carrer de Pau Claris she glanced both directions, seeing nothing but parked scooters, swaying trees, and two businesswomen in smart suits walking with white bags that probably contained their lunch.

  Feeling an unnerving shiver travel up her back, she took a steadying breath and walked back to the passenger door. With one final glance around the mostly empty parking garage, Señora Moreno again took her seat in the Volvo.

  And, just as she did, the driver’s door opened and a man, menacing black blade in his left hand, dropped into the driver’s seat. He clamped one hand over her mouth and put the point of the blade to her throat.