Enduring the slow customs process was their greatest challenge at the moment, but they’d survived. James kept a protective arm over her shoulder the whole time, even once they’d entered the cab that dropped them off in the center of Kingston. He’d been on her hip while she quickly selected a few sundresses, T-shirts, and pants for them, and gathered toiletries that he could stuff in the small knapsack. Eerily quiet, she monitored his mood, but understood it. He was now freaked out after the near brush with disaster, like she had been during the heat of everything.
“Baby, breathe,” she said quietly as they crossed the street. “We’ll get inside a nondescript hotel or rooming house, no majors ... get you something to eat, a cool shower, and a change of clothes. Then we call Akhan.”
James just nodded and watched her buy some fruit and bottled waters and juices to take to the room in a small, cement walk up that simply had a painted sign that said HOTEL.
American cash being the universal language, they had no difficulty getting an out-of-the-way room for the night in Kingston. The fact that there was spotty hot water was not an issue, given that it was already hot as the blazes outside. She let James hit the shower first, and set out mango slices and oranges, cheese and crackers, and water and juice while he freshened up. Knowing that he’d feel calmer once out of his getaway clothes, she didn’t tell him about the plan that had formed and taken shape in her mind while on the plane. She simply got in the shower behind him and allowed the tepid spray to wash away her worries for the moment. That was the key to remaining sane: Take each moment by moment.
He was already dressed when she reentered the bedroom, and had pulled on the pair of khaki slacks, white Polo knockoff collared shirt, and generic brown leather men’s sandals she’d laid out for him. He’d eaten half the spread of goodies she’d left on the dresser, which was also a good sign. His color looked better and he appeared to be more relaxed.
“How’d everything fit?” she asked, stripping her towel off and finding a bright orange sundress to slip on.
“It worked, but you forgot drawers,” he said with a smirk.
“No, I didn’t,” she said chuckling, and finger combing her hair.
“I put on the swim trunks, instead.”
She poked out her bottom lip. “Bummer.”
He laughed. She had him.
Ever so casually, she sat down on the side of the bed, swiping a mango slice and a bottled water. “I’ve been thinking.”
He stood. “Oh, shit, here we go.”
They both laughed.
“OK, what, Laura? My nerves are shot.”
She peered up at him, munching on mango. “We need backup.”
“Tell me something new.”
“We have backup we’re not using.”
He sat down on the bed and gave her a sidelong glance.
“They messed up this time, and hit an Italian jobber. I have a direct number to the head guy down at the casinos in Jersey, who might be interested to know that Russians did it.”
James ran his palms down his face and stood again. “Oh, shit, Laura ... have the Italians go after the Russians? Woman, are you crazy? After we narrowly got out of that casino-inspired jam before, you wanna call Joey Scapolini?”
“Yeah. Why not?” she said, smiling. “Caluzo got us a security car, on Steve’s call, right? Now, how do we know if it was casino family or not that got whacked in the limo? The guy who tried to hit us definitely didn’t know that we, of all people, might have had an Italian jobber as a driver, and just eliminated what he thought was some Joe-regular guy.”
James fought a smile, but didn’t commit.
“These Main Line assholes wanna play hardball, so let’s play—street variety,” she said, pressing her point. “Last I saw, Scapolini had Tony Rapuzzio as his driver, so who knows who this kid that was our driver was related to?” She stood and wagged her finger. “Never make assumptions, and you know the Italians already have an axe to grind with the Russians moving into Philly and Jersey. Now add on the indignity of the same folks that almost snatched the casino-charter-building contracts out from under them having a hand in trying to mess with friends of theirs—which resulted in a wrongful death of kin ... heeeey. Who knows what might happen?”
“Well we damned sure don’t want ’em to think we had a direct involvement in them losing one of their own—that’s for sure.”
“My plan has merit, James.” Laura put her hands on her hips. “Besides, it’s a poor rat that has one hole.”
“You know this will get construed into us owing the Mafia. You ready to deal with that?”
She let her hands fall away from her hips and blew out a breath. “If I have to give them some of the land, so be it. I’d rather burn it to the ground than see any of that Micholi rat pack have it.”
“Six in one hand, half a dozen on the other, if you ask me.” James stared at her.
“Both sides are deadly, James. So why not deal with the friendliest element we can negotiate with for now?”
“All right,” James said grudgingly, and smiled. “You call Scapolini, but make sure you let that bastard know you’re married.”
“I will ... if it comes up.” She gave him a sly smile, which he returned.
“You’re not a part of the bargaining process. Ever.” He gave her a look with a smile, but in a way that told her not to play with him.
She nodded respectfully and got some crackers and cheese and didn’t say another word for a moment.
“We’re gonna have to clean up that D.C. incident, though,” he said, lost in thought, swiping another orange section from the dresser top.
“Been thinking about that, too,” she said, guzzling water. “Got more untapped resources,” she added, dabbing her mouth dry with the back of her wrist.
“Like?”
“Like Megan’s father works for the State Department, and I’d bet Sean’s people are tapped into some high-level governmental post as well, given they’re cousins, went to the schools they did, and are living in the U.S. If those families thought their kids were at risk because some greedy, Philadelphia Main Line bastards had lost some land to inner-city black folks—through a legal will and legal deed transfer ... hmmm ... I wonder what they might be able to dig up on the old boys, if provoked?”
“Damn, Laura,” James said quietly, leaning over to stroke her cheek. “You have an evil mind.”
“I have a practical mind,” she whispered, kissing him more deeply.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said in a low, sexy tone. “Last night you looked beautiful, even running in bare feet.”
She laughed and flopped back on the bed. “I didn’t thank you, though—did I?”
He covered her and chuckled. “Nope.”
Joey Scapolini put the phone down slowly. “Tony ... we’ve gotta call a meeting. It’s your nephew. He didn’t come home last night.”
Anthony Rapuzzio set his drink down slowly and swallowed hard. “What happened to little Eddie? It was just a limo job for Caluzo. That kid is only twenty-three, twenty-four. What the fuck coulda happened, Joey? What am I gonna tell my sister? Oh, Christ. How bad?”
“Russians. Vladimir Chertoff blew a hit on Laura and her cop. They got another one to stand in, and he fucked up the job in the Caymans—house job on ’em. Then they sent an enforcer, real pro, he took lil’ Eddie’s limo. Kid never saw it coming. Silencer. Ordered by Main Line developer boys. Now it’s personal.”
Scapolini balled his hand into a fist as he stood and went over to his hulking bodyguard cousin and hugged him. Bitter sobs wet his suit shoulder and made him look up to the ceiling.
“We have to fix this, Joey. It ain’t right!”
“First we send the Main Line a message, then go have a conversation with those Russian muthafuckas.”
Prison COs stood around the body scratching their heads.
“He was in solitary confinement, yo. How in the hell did another prisoner get to him to slit his throat? This o
ne was only in here because he was a doctor and couldn’t go into general population till he got moved to a country club facility. There wasn’t enough time for him to have made any enemies. Damn!”
The other guard scratched the hair on his neck. “This is gonna be some fucked-up paperwork and long reports,” he said with a weary sigh. “Get Sutherland’s body out of here, before he draws flies.”
Megan clicked her cell phone off and walked through her parents’ British-styled home like a slow-moving shade. Her entire life had changed through one visit, one attempt to help a friend, and she wanted her world to go back to the way it had been. Shunning privilege as an option of rebellion was one thing, but truly living impoverished and on the run was unacceptable. She’d spent so much time lambasting her father for selling out, working for the man, big government, but today, after what she’d heard, she hoped that he had connections, strings, favors, markers, anything out there in the universe that he could call upon to protect her and Sean.
She found her father in the study, where he normally took his afternoon tea and pored over dense portfolios while on the phone, before going back to his office downtown or catching a flight to Washington.
“Daddy,” she said in a quiet voice. “Can we talk?”
Her father looked up from the stack of folders on his wide mahogany desk and peered at her over half, Ben Franklin glasses.
“You haven’t called me daddy in years, baby,” he whispered.
Tears rose to her eyes and she swallowed hard, then glanced around his impressive sanctuary filled with leather bound law books. “I’m in trouble,” she whispered.
He was immediately on his feet to rush to her and embrace her. “Megan, tell Daddy what’s wrong. Your mother and I can fix this.”
She buried her face against his shoulder, wetting his blue Oxford button-down shirt with quiet tears. “People in the government are chasing me and Sean because we found out some things we shouldn’t have.”
He held her away from him, wiped her face, and stared at her hard. “What people?” he demanded. “If they are not as high as the President, then I know for a fact they don’t want me on their ass over my daughter.”
“What happened to your cousin’s nephew is as upsetting as what happened to our Vladimir,” a thick Russian accent said into the phone. “Our client double-crossed us and went to freelancers when they became unsatisfied with Vladimir’s work.”
“Then you got our message, that we’re unsatisfied by the way you guys don’t have checks and balances on your fucked-up Russian freelancers,” Scapolini said. “Shame about that fire that burned out several stores in K. and A., and, oh yeah, my condolences on one of your old, Main Line clients ... a doctor, I think? Prison’s a bad place for an educated man to be.”
“He wasn’t our client,” the voice snapped through the receiver. “How many times do I have to tell you that? He was cut off from his associates, a nobody now! Who cared if he died in prison—he wasn’t one of our paying customers.”
“Oh, no? Then a colleague maybe? A vodka-drinking buddy from a long time ago, huh, maybe?” Scapolini was on his feet walking with the phone. “All I’ma say is this—you guys fucked up. You need to become more organized. You made a grave error. An apology is in order. Some show of good faith that it was really an accident. Accidents happen, true, but you still gotta repay the family for the inconvenience—Capice? So you tell your client that I took a head for my cousin’s nephew’s, but I still ain’t really feeling a complete sense of total satisfaction!”
“What?” Akhan whispered, as they all sat on the back porch of Braithwaite’s hidden house in the bush.
Laura and James calmly took turns relaying the chronology of events as small insects dove at them, despite the smoking pots of Citronella candles. Steve, Jamal, Najira, Akhan and Brother B sat with plates laden with jerk chicken, fried plantains, callaloo greens and cabbage, pigeon peas and rice, with tall glasses of sorrel punch gathering gnats, but nary a fork moved as the couple spoke in hushed tones.
Fully sated from making the critical phone calls, taking a nap, and making love to release tension, James spoke between bites of home-cooked food, while Laura also dug into her plate with abandon. It was what it was; wheels had been set in motion. The Main Line had pressed their backs up against a corner, and they came out fighting like any good street rat would—no holds barred. That was the one thing that the boys at Micholi had discounted; yes Laura and James were educated, had reached a significant level of affluence, but they had roots from ’round the way.
“But you called the casino boys?” Steve said, still incredulous.
“Eat your food, man, while it’s still hot,” James said, stuffing a Johnny cake into his mouth. “We figured, why not, after all was said and done.”
Laura shrugged as she picked the meat off a chicken wing. “Screw waiting around for them to find us,” she said, monitoring her language for the sake of Akhan and Brother B. “We got the State Department in a bit of a lather, too.” She took a swig of sorrel and watched her cousin Jamal slowly begin to eat.
Akhan looked at Braithwaite and slowly smiled. “I told you she was a Scorpio.”
Braithwaite nodded and blew out a long breath. “Shame she wasn’t around during the sixties.”
“Ashé,” Akhan said with pride. “Risky, but brilliant. I suspect that a chain of events will begin to unfold. Those who were only involved on the tertiary level, will run for cover and begin distancing themselves. But those intimately involved will have to make a move now. That’s what we must watch.”
Braithwaite nodded and took a deep swig of sorrel. “Indeed, just like dominoes. They’ll drop.”
“What are we looking for, though?” Najira asked, beginning to eat slowly, as her nerves calmed.
“The clean up and recovery,” James said. “First the cover up. The whole thing at the Smithsonian won’t be marred, if I were a betting man. It will be just a random event—played off as a drug dealer’s limo and turf fights between drug boys in The District. Cars will find their way mysteriously back to rental car lots, repaired . . . shit like that. Any abandoned weapons will be associated with dead men and drug boys. The media spin will be that everything that went down was just more local crime, and the need to keep up the war on crime, but it will never be linked to us, because then it would necessarily have to be linked to the high-level people after us.”
“What about my gown and your tux, not to mention our ditched fake IDs?” Laura asked as she stopped chewing for a moment to look at James in the waning sunset.
“If D.C.’s finest got to it, with the calls to Cap, it will get lost, permanently, just like a lot of evidence does all the time.”
“Damn,” Jamal murmured. “And here I thought I was just Conspiracy Brother.”
Steve shook his head. “A lot of dirty shit goes down behind all closed doors, even in precincts.”
“Elizabeth, just be careful,” Polanski said in a harsh whisper through the phone. “You were always a good egg, and no matter what you and Donald were going through, some things are just ... I don’t care what you and Sutherland had going on before Donald died. That was between you two. The man was a doctor, was in our circle, and even your husband didn’t turn the dogs against him, affair or not. But they slit his throat in a jail cell. It’s gone too far, Elizabeth, and I want out of it all. You should stay out of it all, too.”
“They killed him in prison,” she whispered, disbelieving. “I had come to loathe him, but I would never ...”
“I know. That’s why I’m getting out now, before anyone else gets hurt.”
“You be safe,” she said quietly, looking around her condo with fear.
“You, too, Liz. I have to go before Marian gets worried. We’re going to play bridge tonight with friends.”
“Bye, Mike, and thank you.”
He hung up the telephone without responding, and called out to his wife as he heard her move through their Radnor home. “Marian! All right! I
’ll be down in a moment, stop eavesdropping for heaven’s sake!”
Angered by the silly games she always played in hoping to catch him in an affair, he crossed the room in a huff, and yanked open the door. A pair of male eyes greeted him, barely visible through the ski-mask. Before he could yell out, a soft whooshing sound, followed by a bullet, pierced his forehead.
Chapter 14
Night sounds of the bush, voices, and laughter blended in with the low, steady timbre of Bob Marley filtering from deep within the house. Pops and cracks laced the old album’s croon, just as the lights sizzled and popped from unwary bugs that ventured too near them. The weary group sat rapt, listening to Brother B and Akhan tell stories about the glory days of civil rights protests, Panthers, and power to the people.
It was their way of chasing away the harsh realities of the present, by going back to the past and recounting the wins and losses, analyzing “the struggle,” which by any other terms would have been called a civil war. Their little party became a tribal council of sorts; all that was missing was a center fire to give ablutions to the ancestors. By any means necessary, they were still standing, after the first round of volleys.
Laura smiled, oddly content to be here, versus many of the other places she’d been. Rum punch at one-hundred-and-fifty-one proof was taking a toll on them all, except the elders, who seemed accustomed to the strength of the brew. Jamal had slid down in a porch chair with his eyes closed, and finally Steve relaxed enough to gather Najira against his shoulder to doze. His acceptance had been delivered through a singular statement by Braithwaite; “You cool—had you been your age back then, you would have marched with us.” Acceptance conferred. Akhan yawned and set off a chain reaction in the group.
James had his head back against the stucco wall, looking so mellow that he could have been poured into a tall glass. Laura cast a lazy glance toward the house, which was more like a barrack than home, but comfortable.
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