Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1)

by M. D. Grayson

  As I thought about it, I had no underlying issue with the Calabrias—they’d made their mistakes in the past, and they’d both done their time to pay for it. Gina, of course, had no criminal history—yet. She was still in the clear. As to what they were proposing today—I now understood the reasons for my confusion. Although what they wanted to do was technically illegal, it was at least arguable as to whether or not it was morally bad. There’s that gray-area thing.

  The Mendez brothers, though—they were a whole different story. I was 100 percent black and white with these guys—no confusion at all. They were cold-blooded killers, unrepentant bad guys. They thought nothing of blowing up a sheriff’s station and everyone inside it, or running a truck bomb into a shopping mall. These were the kind of guys that settled business disputes by cutting off your head—and the heads of your immediate family, just for good measure. Gina had an odd sense of acceptable business partners. I guess they were a necessary evil, but that didn’t excuse things.

  For my part, seeing these two guys snapped me back to reality and brought things into sharp focus. Seeing the Mendez brothers walking toward me—smiling, seemingly with no cares in the world—there was no conflict in me; I was suddenly galvanized. No part of me could tolerate the Mendez brothers—they were pure evil. And while I had no choice but to play along with this little powwow today, I resolved right then and there that the Mendez brothers were going down, and I was going to be the one to take them down. Not today, but soon. Sorry, Gina.

  ~~~~

  Francisco Miranda practically ran over to greet the Mendez brothers warmly as they descended the stairs. As the turboprop whirred to a stop, Miranda shook their hands and talked to them. He pointed at our group and at the hangar. He pointed at the airport and the runway. Finally, he accompanied the brothers over to our group.

  “Mr. John Calabria and Mr. Peter Calabria,” he said with a flourish, “please allow me to introduce Mr. Hector Luis Mendez and his brother, Mr. Luis Ramon Mendez.”

  “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” John Calabria said as he stepped up and shook hands with each of the Mendez brothers in turn.

  “We, as well,” Hector Mendez said in heavily accented English. He turned to Gina. “You must be Gina Fiore,” he said.

  “I am,” Gina said, reaching over to shake his hand.

  “You are a very impressive young woman,” Mendez said. “Very brave and very resourceful, too. Not many would have thought to approach us in the manner you chose.”

  “Sorry if my methods were a little severe,” Gina said. “I was pretty sure I had a good idea that would appeal to the leaders of both families.”

  “And sometimes, stupid people stand in the way,” Mendez said, apparently referring to the late Mr. Salazar. “I’m glad you figured out a way around that particular obstacle.”

  “Thank you,” Gina said.

  “It did cost us four grows,” Mendez said. “Perhaps we can speak about this?”

  “We can, and we will,” Gina said. “And trust me when I say that I believe when we’re finished talking, you will not be concerned about the loss of these four fields. Instead, I believe you will consider this loss to be a bargain price for admission to a whole new level of distribution channels in the United States. The potential profits from these new channels will make you quickly forget about the four lost fields.”

  “I like the way you think,” Hector Mendez said.

  Gina smiled. “Thank you, sir. But please,” she said, “let’s move this discussion inside. We’re all set up for you gentlemen in the hangar here.”

  Gina pointed the way to the hangar and, except for the four outside guards from each side, the rest of us went inside.

  ~~~~

  The gigantic airplane door was closed, of course, so we entered through a normal-sized door built right into the edge of the airplane door. The hangar was large, perhaps sixty feet square. Inside, four hanging mercury-vapor lights lit the interior of the empty hangar like an operating room. The shiny, white, epoxy-painted floors reflected the light back against the white insulation on the walls. I felt like I should have brought sunglasses—it was as bright inside as it was outside. Fortunately, even though it was already warming up outside, inside the hangar was cool and quiet.

  A two-story office had been built into the corner of the hangar opposite the entry door, but the lights inside were off, the door was closed, and the office did not appear to be occupied. Instead, centered in the middle of the hangar floor were two eight-foot fold-up tables pushed together and covered by a royal blue linen tablecloth. The tables were surrounded by six chairs—two on each side plus one at either end. A smaller table, also covered by a blue tablecloth, held water carafes and a coffee pot.

  When I was in the army, I attended dozens of meetings of all types—staff meetings, planning meetings, briefing meetings, you name it. Many of these meetings were held in impromptu settings, and more than once in airplane hangars. The layout here was one that I’d seen many times before—it felt like old times. I was ready to jump up and salute when the general walked through the door. Except now it wasn’t generals—it was drug lords and mob bosses. My, how times change.

  “Gentlemen, please have a seat, and we’ll get started,” Gina said. The Calabria brothers took the chairs facing the door while the Mendez brothers sat across from them. Francisco Miranda took the seat at one end of the table and, once everyone was seated, Gina sat at the other end next to an easel, which held a flip chart. Frankie and I sat behind the Calabrias, while the two Mendez guards sat behind their principals.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” Gina said. “This is a very important day for both the Tijuana-Mendez organization and the Calabria family. I believe that we truly have an opportunity here where the combined effort of our two organizations is much greater than the sum of the individual parts.” Gina paused to let her words sink in. Miranda nodded his agreement.

  “Briefly stated,” she said, as she looked at the Mendez brothers, “your team is a world-class master in the art and science of creating a very profitable, renewable product that is in high demand—that is, high-grade marijuana. Our family,” now she looked at the Calabrias, “has local contacts and a distribution network second to none. You create the high-quality product, we can move it for you at prices and in quantities that you’d otherwise not be able to achieve. This is the essence of our proposal. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you the details.” She turned to the flip chart behind her and flipped the cover over to reveal a chart labeled Business Plan.

  Gina spent the next thirty minutes leading the group through a detailed financial business plan showing numbers of fields, percent loss to law enforcement, delivery costs, profit comparison for different distribution strategies. She concluded by detailing bottom-line profits.

  “So subtracting the thirty-million-dollar production costs from the equation leaves a total net profit of approximately $337,000,000 a year. I’ve proposed a fifty-fifty split. Half for the Tijuana-Mendez organization, half for the Calabrias—about $169,000,000 a year for each of us.”

  The hangar fell silent as everyone studied Gina’s chart and absorbed the information. She’d gone through the numbers like a corporate VP pitching a new project to her CEO. Except that I don’t think corporations usually make three hundred million per year on thirty-million-dollar annual investments.

  After a couple of minutes, Hector Mendez spoke. “I know I speak for my brother when I say that we have always wanted to work with the great families of America,” he said. “For many years, we have dreamt of the humble Mendez family being thought of with the same respect and honor as is granted to the great American families such as the Calabrias.”

  John Calabria acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

  Mendez continued. “For too long, the Mexican cartels and the Colombians before us have acted in an uncivilized fashion. This has caused us to be looked upon as amateurs and thugs. Our compatriots around the world view us with scor
n and disdain. In the words of your comedian, ‘We don’t get no respect.’ Truthfully, sadly, we’ve done little to earn the respect we desire. My countrymen have turned my beautiful country into a killing zone. Their greed is limitless. There is plenty of money to go around, but, alas, they have not even learned life’s simplest lessons—including how to share. Luis and I mean to see this change. We wish to take our place among the world’s most respected criminal organizations and, in so doing, begin to show the way to my countrymen. We wish to bring them to the table of respectability, even if we have to drag them there.

  “We wish to thank you, John and Peter Calabria, for honoring us with this meeting this morning. We want to assure you that we hold your organization in the highest respect, and we would like nothing more than to work together on this venture. But we have some questions that need to be answered first.”

  “Please, Mr. Mendez,” Gina said. “Feel free to ask any questions you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” Mendez said. “By my own calculations, at a wholesale value of one thousand dollars per plant, acting alone, my organization would net about $250,000,000 per year. By joining forces, our share falls to $165,000,000 per year. Fifty million per year difference seems a lot to give up for something that’s already our product.”

  John Calabria said, “Fifty million is a lot of money, for sure. But I think you might want to look at it another way—that is, you’d be completely out of the distribution business. You deliver the crop, period. We take it from there. We can pay the equivalent of fifteen hundred per plant and you’re out of it. You don’t have to deal with lower-level people at all. Right now, you’re operating wholesale and retail. My guys will do what they’re best at, which is running the product through distribution and putting it in the retail places that pay the most.”

  He paused for a second, then continued. “And another thing, believe me when I tell you, we appreciate the opportunity to work with you guys as well. We don’t know squat about growing marijuana. Never done it. Never want to. You guys are good at it. But like Gina said, we’ve had distribution channels in place since Al Capone and prohibition—more than eighty years. We can easily move the product anywhere in the country. That does two things for you. First, it allows you to take advantage of better pricing on the East Coast than you’re getting now. Second, it allows you to focus on ramping up production. And that’s where the real money will be.”

  I noticed Gina smiling as her uncle spoke. She’d obviously briefed him well in preparation for the meeting.

  Mendez nodded. “In truth,” he said, “I’d probably be willing to part with fifty million per year simply in order to establish a partnership with the Calabria family. I think the enhanced respectability brought on by the relationship with your organization will be worth at least that much in our other businesses.”

  Calabria nodded. “Thank you for the compliment,” he said.

  Mendez nodded. He turned to his brother. “Luis, I like these gentlemen. I think we should do this deal. What do you think?”

  “It’s good,” Luis said, nodding. “I’m with you.”

  “We think it’s a good deal as well, right, Pete?” John Calabria said.

  “Damn right,” Peter Calabria answered, smiling for the first time. “I always wanted to be in the pot business.”

  Gina smiled. “Excellent. Gentlemen, I think we have the basics of an agreement in hand. I think Francisco and I can meet and polish off the details later—the mechanics of the deal.”

  “That sounds good,” John Calabria said, standing up. “Probably best for all of us if we don’t linger around here anymore than is necessary.”

  “Agreed, amigo,” Hector Mendez said. “Next time, we can meet in my country. I can take you fishing for yellowfin tuna on our boat.”

  “It’s a date!” John said, reaching across to shake hands with Mendez.

  At that instant, a huge explosion ripped through the hangar. The blinding white flash and the thundering noise echoed off the hangar walls. My ears went instantly numb, and I was completely blinded.

  Chapter 26

  MOMENTS LATER, THE deafness was replaced by a loud ringing in my ears, the kind you get after you’ve been to a loud, all-day rock concert and sat a little too close to the PA. Smaller but equally bright orange-yellow stars floating back and forth across my vision replaced the bright flash that had at first caused everything to turn black. The acrid smell of cordite was strong, and the smoke burned my eyes. After a few seconds, the ringing in my ears diminished, and the stars in my eyes began to shrink in size and intensity. My vision started to clear, and I became aware of my surroundings again. I emerged into a complete state of pandemonium in the hangar. All around me, I heard the footsteps of people running in heavy boots. “Get down!” they shouted. “Down on the floor!”

  Before I was fully functional and able to come up with a coherent action on my own, I was roughly grabbed from behind and literally thrown to the ground. I barely caught myself before face-planting on the cold, concrete hangar floor. As it was, I bashed my knee on the floor as I went down. It hurt like hell, but the sharp pain had the side effect of snapping me back to reality. As my vision returned to normal, my vantage point gave me a great view of boots—black tactical boots—running back and forth. Lots of them. I turned and looked in the other direction, and I was able to make out the fact that the boots were connected to the legs of black-helmeted men clothed in black tactical uniforms with the letters DEA stenciled on their backs in bright yellow. Great. I was right in the middle of a bust. This was definitely not good.

  “Nobody move,” a loud voice commanded us.

  I didn’t move. But I was able to ascertain that Frankie was sprawled out on the ground to my right. I could see the Calabrias in front of me, but I couldn’t see Gina from where I was lying. It seemed like dozens of black-uniformed men were visible. Where’d they all come from?

  For a few moments, the room was silent. Suddenly, I felt the presence of a man standing behind me. I couldn’t see him, but I heard him walk up. “Well now, that was fun, huh guys?” the man said. His voice was deep and confident. “Loads of fun. Big bang—nobody hurt. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Special Agent Regis Jackson of the Seattle Office of the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. I’d like to thank you all for coming to this little party this morning. Such a—a difficult location, and you all made a special trip. I am impressed.” Wonderful. I was going to be busted by Officer Joe Sarcasm.

  “I do want to apologize that our refreshments are a little lacking at our party this morning,” he continued. “But not to worry. I’m certain you’ll all be impressed with our overnight accommodations. I’m told that the food served there is, shall we say, unforgettable.” Several of the men laughed.

  “Yes, yes indeed,” he said, now laughing himself. “But this is not fair. I’ve introduced myself to you, yet we don’t know who you are. Let’s get a proper introduction going. Jimmy,” he called out, “push that green button there, open up that main hangar door, and let’s clear the smoke out of here. Make sure you tell the guys outside to stand clear before you do.” He paused, and then said, “Mikey, starting with this shithead right here—” Wham! He kicked me hard, right in the butt, before he continued, “Let’s stand them up one at a time, pat them down, and cuff them. Get a little introduction. May as well be polite, right?”

  Two hands grabbed each of my arms and roughly lifted me to standing. They quickly and professionally patted me down and took my wallet and my 1911 before zip-tying my hands together. I looked around for the first time. Smoke still hung thick in the air, but I had no trouble seeing at least two dozen heavily armed, black-clad DEA agents in the room. The door to the office in the back of the hangar was wide open. Had they all been hiding in there?

  The Calabrias were in front of me, still on the ground. Miranda was on the ground to my left. I couldn’t see the Mendez brothers, but I could see the Mexican guards behind them, sprawled out on the floo
r with four DEA agents right behind them, rifles pointed and ready for action. Looking to my right, from my vantage point, the only part of Gina I could see were her legs. The table hid the rest of her body. Uncle Frankie was still lying on the ground on my right side.

  The large hangar door began to lift upward like a giant garage door as the agents moved clockwise around the table, meaning the next ones to get stood up would be the Calabrias. Agent Jackson walked past me, and I could see that he was a tall, well-built black man, probably in his late thirties or early forties. He was also wearing tactical clothing.

  “Daniel Charles Logan,” he said, reading my driver’s license as another agent handcuffed me. “Thirteen thirty-six Dexter Avenue, Seattle, Washington. Local boy, huh?” He flipped through my wallet. “And what’s this? A CCW permit and a PI license?” He looked at me. “Mr. Logan, or should I say Detective Logan, I have no idea what you’re doing here, but my friend, you are definitely guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong goddamned time. We’ll see what else you’re up to.” His men laughed again.

  He walked past me and pointed to the Calabrias. “These guys next,” he said. He watched as the Calabrias were simultaneously jerked to their feet, facing away from him. Both were frisked and cuffed. He had his men turn them around to face him. He acted in mock surprise. “John Calabria!” he said. “I recognize you.” Then he turned and said, “And Peter Calabria! What a treat! Gentlemen,” he said, turning and addressing his fellow agents, “the Chicago mob is in the house!” A couple of the other agents gave mock cheers. When the cheers died down, Jackson said, “Guys, honestly. I’d have thought by now that you fellas would be out of this shit. You should be sitting on a beach in the Caribbean by now. Soaking up rays, playing hide-the-salami with some sweet young things, and enjoying your golden years. What the hell are you doing working with scum suckers like these cartel idiots here?” he said, pointing to where the Mendez brothers still lay on the ground. The Calabrias said nothing, they simply stared back. “Cat got your tongues, eh? Well, you’ll have plenty of time to figure out where things went wrong, won’t you? Cuff ’em.”