by Amore, Dani
*
I was up early the next morning. The freeway was packed but I eventually made way to the hallowed ground known as Grosse Pointe. I swung my rental car onto Lakeshore Drive, and when I got to the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, turned left and cruised north along Lakeshore Drive. I caught flashes of the lake in between the pine trees, circular drives and mansions with their security gates. When I came to one of the biggest homes on the strip, I immediately saw the mailbox, which was a miniature replica of the huge home. I drove by slowly and took in the monstrosity. I’d read that it was nearly forty thousand square feet, with fifteen bedrooms and twenty or so bathrooms. When I saw it, the only doubt I had about the numbers was that someone might have underestimated.
•
It took me the better part of two weeks, which included lengthy staring sessions at aerial photos of the mansion and its grounds. There had also been dozens of articles written about the construction of the home, including plenty of photos. I also hacked into the home’s security center and downloaded everything I would need.
My preparations included a dry run and an unsupervised, unauthorized tour of the place. When I went back for the last time, I brought my equipment with me. I utilized the blind spots in the security camera angles, keyed in the alarm code and made my way inside. The security personnel were stationed at specific posts, including the exterior gate, and a small building just off the main house where another guard monitored the security cameras.
I went to the study, where an interview in one of the local business magazines had been conducted. The interviewer had marveled at the design of the space, stating that it was more of an art gallery than an office. I had to agree. It was two stories and the upper floor had a handrail that extended out over the lower level. I found what I needed, pulled a chair over to where I wanted to sit. And then I waited.
•
She walked in with a cup of tea and a cell phone. The phone was pressed to her ear, and she sat down behind the desk, which was situated near the front of the room. It was a nightly ritual for her. In several magazine pieces, she had described her routine of logging into the company’s stock portfolio every evening and studying the day’s gains or losses. She said it gave her comfort. That it helped her sleep better.
•
“Don’t bother hitting the panic button,” I told her. She looked up at me, not exactly fear in her eyes, but annoyance. And recognition. The phone was on the top of her desk. I knew she had a Bluetooth earpiece but it wasn’t in. And I knew she wasn’t on speakerphone. The call button, wired into the surface of the desk, was now dead.
“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” she said. The funny thing about people like Victoria Kuchin was that when they had absolute power, they rarely had to hide anything. If they wanted to fuck you over, they just did. No obfuscation needed.
I reached over the desk, took her phone and slid it across the hardwood floor into a darkened corner.
“I came here to get my brother,” I said, and gestured to the canvas I had taken from the wall and leaned against the edge of her half-acre desk. She didn’t even glance down at it.
“Well, you don’t appear deranged,” she said. “So you must be on drugs now, too?”
“DeVoss had fifty grand in cash, Victoria,” I said. “There were seven victims, but only six canvases in his studio. Which meant he’d only sold one painting. And Joe wasn’t homeless like the others. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was.”
“Convinced?” she said. A sneer on her face. “Of what? That your brother was a worthless asshole who ruined people’s lives? Because that’s what he was.”
I shook my head. “I know what you did, Victoria. The cops don’t, but I do.”
Her face was a smear of white against the dark wood behind her. “When I OD’d, it literally killed my father,” she said. “When I finally got clean, the first thing I found out was that the old man was dead. It took me ten years to put my life together. Your brother killed my father. He got what he had coming.”
I nodded.
“I figured that,” I said. “When I realized Joe wasn’t another one of DeVoss’s random victims.”
She looked at me, pure, raw hatred on her Botoxed, heavily scalpeled face.
“I just had to think about it,” I said. “And when I did, I realized that someone hadn’t bought that painting of Joe. Someone had commissioned it.”
Her expression didn’t change. I gestured at the few hundred pieces of art around the room. “Your reputation as a serious art collector is well-known, Victoria. I’m sure your artistic connections told you about the nutcase in Detroit making Jackson Pollack splatter paintings with a shotgun and some poor, homeless bastards. Ruining Joe’s career wasn’t enough for you, it never had been. You wanted him dead, and a piece of him hanging on your wall. Like a trophy, right?”
She laughed then. And on her face, the bleached and polished teeth stood out like a death mask.
It was the first time I’d ever hit a woman in my life. I threw the punch without a thought in my head. It was pure, unconscious, and the only time in my life I experienced what it must have felt like to Joe when he threw a baseball. It was a perfect strike, right on the point of her chin. She flew off the chair and slumped against the mahogany paneled wall. I went to the side of the desk, pulled the canvas aside and lifted the duffel bag I’d brought. I pulled out the rope and the camera and got to work.
•
I drove north along Jefferson, until I got to the first public beach access. I grabbed the canvas and a few items from the duffel bag. I walked down to the shoreline, found a small jumble of rocks and set the canvas on top. I squirted some lighter fluid on it and tossed a match into the middle. The canvas and wood stretcher were immediately engulfed in flames. I sat on a fallen log and watched the last bit of my brother go up in smoke. It took another few minutes for it all to burn down to nothing.
•
The suicide of Victoria Kuchin made the sports page of the Los Angeles Times. I skimmed the article when I grabbed a coffee from my favorite coffee bar on Main Street in Venice, a stone’s throw from my condo. It appeared that the heiress had never really gotten over her various addictions, and she’d been found in her study where she’d hung herself after shooting up with heroin. I left the article in the coffee shop and walked out into the California sunshine and smelled the damp, salty ocean air.
I walked a few blocks up the street until I came to the shop. It was a small operation, known for their exacting standards and high prices. I picked up my order, which was quite large, and went back to my place.
•
I ripped the brown paper from the framed photograph, and found the hanging wire on its back. I went over to the space I’d cleared on my wall, just to the left of the picture window looking out over the Pacific. I hung the framed photograph there. It looked good. It was a black-and-white shot, a bit abstract, but one could vaguely make out a form that looked somewhat human. The figure appeared to be hanging, almost twisting slightly.
I made sure the photo and its heavy frame were hung perfectly straight. Then I sat down, looked at the photograph, and looked back out at the water. This was my favorite place in the world. It was where I loved to sit and think, and where I would always remember my brother as he was when he was playing. Smooth, carefree, living life like a cleanly hit ball soaring into the blue sky, unaware and unconcerned with the completion of any predestined arc.
Scale of Justice
The two men knelt side by side, peering into the deep darkness before them. They could hear movement and an occasional splash. Like something big and dark was moving quietly in the liquid blackness.
They knelt on the remaining edge of a wooden floor. But the floor itself had been torn out, and only a small ledge was left. The vast space below them was the house’s basement, now filled with something that stank of rotting meat. Something that was alive.
Their hands were tied behind their back
s and a man with a semi automatic stood behind them, the barrel of his gun suggesting the general direction of the back of their heads.
The men kneeling were much alike, and much different. They were both Hispanic, short and stocky. The commonality of their sharp noses, large foreheads, and elegant lips put a vague genetic connection on display.
But the man on the left had pimples on his face, wore baggy pants, skateboard shoes and an untucked, oversized black T-shirt.
The man on the right had dark hair, graying at the temples, a crisp white button down dress shirt, black dress pants, and black wing tips. There was also a black apron tied firmly in place.
Behind them, a figure emerged, flanked by lean men dressed in dark clothes, save for large diamond jewelry, the occasional white baseball cap and large amounts of cologne.
The younger of the two kneeling men started to turn his head, but the man standing behind him placed the muzzle of the semi automatic firmly against his cheek. He turned his head back toward the darkness ahead of them.
The large figure emerged from the dark, a good head taller than any of the other men in the room, and twice as wide. The planks of the floor creaked underneath his massive weight. He walked until he stood practically over the two men.
The older man lowered his head spoke in a soft voice. “Jesus and Mother Mary, please…”
The big man slapped the back of the old man’s head. “Shut up,” he said. He was slightly short of breath. The old man could smell him, his breath had the scent of old beans and rice.
“So who’s the motherfucking junkie and who’s the pussy ass thief?” the big man said, his voice high and soft.
He reached down and slapped the younger man. “Talk, bitch,” he said.
“I…I…” the younger man’s voice caught and he choked.
“I am the thief, sir,” the older man said. “I am the one you want, not him.”
“I already know you stole from me you old maricón,” the big man said. He seemed to consider the old man for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”
The older man hesitated.
“You are Diego Villanueva,” he finally said.
“Yes,” the big man said. “And do you know who Diego Villanueva is?”
“You are the leader of the Detroit Kings,” the old man said.
“Yes, old fuck, but why am I here?”
“Because you own the restaurant where I am employed,” the older man said, his voice soft and hesitant.
“That is fucking correct,” Diego Villanueva said. “So when you stole from the till, you were stealing directly from my pocket you wrinkled old piece of shit!” He reared back and booted the old man in the ribs. He fell to his chest on the ground and groaned.
“And you,” Villanueva said to the younger man. “You’re so fucked up on X and who knows what else, that you went begging to this old prune for money to buy your crap.” He kicked the younger man in the ribs. Harder than he had on the old man, and then he added a couple more shots to the ribs for good measure.
Villanueva turned to the men standing behind him in silence. “Feed these two pendejos to the alligators,” he said. “They work in the restaurant, right? They probably smell like food.”
He leaned down to the old man. “These gators love Mexican food, do you know what I’m saying? We fed them two informants last week, and they loved them. They haven’t had anything since. They’re really hungry.”
The old man got to his knees. “Please, sir. Please do not kill us. My son made a mistake, and I made a mistake trying to help him, but please do not kill us.”
“Fuck off, old man,” Villanueva said.
“Sir!” the young man finally spoke. “He did not steal from you, I did! He is lying to try to protect me. I stole from you. It was me. I deserve to die, not my father!”
“What is this, Telemundo?” Villanueva said. “I don’t care who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. If I kill you both, the problem is solved.”
He turned again to the men behind them. “Open up the alligator kitchen. Feed them the younger one first. As an appetizer.”
He stepped aside as the men tried to grab the younger man.
“Please, sir!” the old man said and struggled to his feet. “I beg you! I am only a chef, but I will give you everything I have for his life. Everything! Even my life! Kill me instead!”
Villanueva turned back to the old man. An odd look crossed his face, and the old man noticed.
“You are a chef?” Villanueva said.
The old man said, “Yes.”
Villanueva’s men had the younger man at the brink of the ripped out floor where everyone could hear the sound of large animals thrashing in the water below.
Villanueva turned to his men. “Is he any good? Is the food at the restaurant any good?”
“It is delicious, Diego,” one of the men said.
“Is it heavy? All fat and deep-fried?” Villanueva said.
“No, sir,” the old man said. “I make many things alfresco. Very lean, grilled meats, fresh vegetables. Very light, very delicious.”
Villanueva seemed to think this over.
He pointed to the younger man with his chin. “Beat that one within an inch of his life, and then keep him somewhere under you control.”
He turned to the old man.
“Bring this one with me.”
Two hours earlier
The man from Colombia was known as The Machete. His real name was Símon Rios. He was the son of one of Colombia’s most notorious drug runners and had taken over his father’s business by the time he was only twenty-five years old. He had earned his nickname by using it as his chosen method for advancing up the criminal corporate ladder.
The fact that his father had been blow to bits by an American unmanned spy drone at the very end of his twenty-fourth year, had also helped speed his fast and furious rise.
Now, he sat in the penthouse of The Hotel Deco in the heart of Detroit. He was here for various meetings with his many lieutenants. Men who oversaw the American retail outlets for his highly coveted product.
The day had been filled with appointments, mostly successful discussions that resulted in problems being solved and strategies developed for stubborn obstacles. The only sour note for The Machete was the amount of pleading and excuse-making that some of his lieutenants displayed. The American raised ones were the worst. Men in Colombia would rather die than beg like a pussy.
He sat back as his assistants brought in the last petitioner of the day. After this, The Machete planned to go to the casinos and spend lots of money, and find a big blonde American bombshell with huge tits that he could play with all night long.
Speaking of big tits, he thought, as the fat man was brought before him.
“Diego Villanueva,” The Machete said. “How are you?”
“I am good, jefe, very good,” the big man said, out of breath. His voice was high and rushed. “In fact, I am doing so well, that is why I wanted to talk to you while you were here.”
The Machete looked at the fat man, noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Was it from nervousness? Or was it just the exertion of walking the twenty feet down the hall to him? Either way, it was pathetic.
He watched as Diego Villanueva lowered himself into the chair across from him.
The Machete nodded for Villanueva to begin.
“I’m very happy to report on the success of our mutual programs,” Villanueva said. “In fact, we’ve done so well that I am able to provide a significant bonus to my usual contributions for your administration.”
The Machete smiled inside. Whatever the fat man was going to ask for, it was going to be a big one. No one ever offered more than the usual tariff.
“With your blessing, I would like to hand over my organization to my very capable staff, and move into more of a consultancy role.” The big man took a quick breath before adding, “In Florida.”
The Machete steepled his fingers together. Acted like he was thinking
about it. The fat man didn’t move, nor did The Machete’s men. Several long minutes passed in silence. At last, The Machete spoke.
“You claim your enterprise is running so well that you can give me a bonus, yet you also ask me to let you change the whole thing,” The Machete said. “That is a bad business principle. To change something that is working so well. If I do as you ask, maybe next year it won’t be doing well and I will lose money.”