The scarred man shook his head. "Animals. We are not like that. It is not our style. It was karma."
"Karma?" Nicholson said.
"Whatever happened to Torres; the law of karma is that you reap what you sow, yes?"
Nicholson looked at the man. "So you think Torres got what he deserved?"
The man's face twisted into a parody of a smile, and Nicholson felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He looked back at the road and realized that his forehead was beaded with perspiration. He wiped it with the back of his hand before the sweat ran into his eyes.
"It is not for me to judge what Torres deserved. I'm just a businessman, like Mack Collins was." The man crossed himself and bowed his head for a few seconds. When he looked up, he said, "You are wise to join us, Nicholson. Your former associates aren't nice men."
Nicholson swallowed the wave of fear that swept over him. "Horton says Schultz has some high-level cover."
"Everybody's got some high-level cover in this business. What's Horton's point?"
"He's thinking that might be enough to show you and your people that he's serious."
"Telling us Schultz has some high level cover? That's like telling us it gets dark outside when the sun goes down. I thought you said he was smart, this Horton."
"Not that. He's talking about who Schultz's cover is."
"Who Schultz is paying? Or who he works for? That might be worth something, yeah. How's he gonna do that?"
"He didn't say -- just that he's working on it. By the way, he says Schultz thinks he can find out who runs your organization."
The man laughed. The normal sound coming from his hideous, frozen features had a frightening effect. "Poor Schultz," he said. "Even I don't know who runs our organization. But I know that if he finds out, he's dead."
"I thought you said he was dead anyway; it was just a matter of when the time was right."
"Good for you; you pay attention," the scarred man said.
"We're only about ten minutes from the airport. What time's your flight?"
His passenger shrugged. "When I get there. I always fly private."
Chapter 11
Cary Horton was thinking about the meeting last night. He was stretched out on the bed in his hotel room, lights dimmed, shoes off. He'd had a late night last night, and tonight promised more of the same. He'd given up on falling asleep; his mind was racing.
The man with the scarred face had been non-committal, and his disfigured features had given nothing away. But, he had listened to what Horton had to say; that must be a positive sign. Horton had talked to Nicholson earlier today, looking for his reaction. Nicholson said he thought the man was neutral on Horton, that he'd tell his people about Horton, but refrain from endorsing him until they had a little more interaction.
Nicholson had agreed that finding out who was behind Schultz would probably help Horton's case. "Look, Horton," Nicholson had said, "you got nothing to lose, playing along with us. Schultz is a dead man; it's just a matter of time. You stay with him, you'll go down with the rest of his organization. You might as well give it a shot, man. That's where I came out, myself."
Horton had figured out a while ago that he needed to get past Schultz. Early on, he'd been thinking that he could replace Schultz and do a far better job of running things than his uncle did. The more closely he watched, the more apparent it became that Schultz was just a front man for somebody with a lot of stroke. Whoever it was had an inside track with law enforcement. Schultz always knew when a major bust was going down; he never got caught.
Taking Schultz out of the loop had always been Horton's plan "A." When the competition had come on the scene, selling out Shultz's operation in exchange for the chance to run south Florida for the new people became his plan "B."
Either way, Horton needed some muscle of his own. Kilgore was a perfect match for his requirements -- hard as a rock, and almost as smart as one. He was easily led, but slightly unpredictable, which was why Horton was just as glad he had not been at the meeting last night. He wouldn't have made a good impression on Scarface.
Tonight would be a test for Kilgore. Horton had considered that the dumbass could blow the whole game. Sam would be the only one there who didn't know that their victim wasn't one of the interlopers. Nicholson was cool; he was on board, and he was smart.
Horton would definitely have a place for Nicholson in his organization. He wasn't so sure about Kilgore. If Kilgore blew it tonight, Nicholson was poised to take Sam out, and Horton would shoot Kilgore. He and Nicholson would tell Schultz that they'd been ambushed, if that happened.
Horton glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Sam and Kilgore should be here in an hour. Maybe he could still manage a quick nap. He set the clock and willed himself to relax.
****
Art Jansen wondered where Horton was. He could always tell when he was out in the field. Schultz would send a two-word text, that said, "Call me." That was about as literate as he got. Jansen much preferred the detailed text messages that Schultz forwarded to him from Horton. He could study them; return to them to refresh his memory if he needed. And they were fully encrypted. Schultz still lived in a world of the spoken word and burner cellphones. No wonder he hung around with Sam the Barber; they were both throwbacks to the old days. Even Kilgore could send texts, and he couldn't tie his shoes without instructions.
He sighed and opened his desk drawer, taking out a fresh prepaid phone. He dialed the number Schultz had given him earlier. "That you?" Schultz answered.
"Yeah. What's up on your end?" Jansen drew out his greeting so that Schultz would have time to recognize his voice. They never used names until they were sure who was on the line.
"They got Torres," Schultz said.
"Got him? Who got him? What are you talking about?"
"Ah, they went to collect from him this morning, right? That loan that was due?" Schultz said.
"Yeah, so? You telling me he didn't have the money?"
"Yeah, that too. But that ain't it. He was stuffed in the trunk of his car, dead." Schultz said.
"You know for sure who did it?"
"Not for sure, no. Normally I'd figure it was them. But it didn't look like their style. See what I'm sayin'?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't. Try again." Jansen said.
"They questioned him before he died."
"Yeah. So? I still don't get what you mean."
"Every bone in his body was broken." Schultz said.
"Don't exaggerate. What did they do to him? Hold him down and use a sledgehammer on his knees? What?"
"I ain't exaggeratin'. It's some kinda thing the Russians do, they say."
"Who said that?" Jansen asked.
"The Barber. He knows shit like that. He even had a Russian word for it, breakin' all his bones."
"Okay, I've heard of that. You think it's a Russian mob trying to move in?" Jansen asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe somebody wants us to think that. Who the hell knows?"
"What's your next move?"
"They're in Tampa tonight. Gonna ask the guy there what he knows. Nicholson's set up the new supplier for them." Schultz said.
"Okay. What about Miami? Who's going to replace Torres?"
"I gotta find somebody to cover it."
"How about the college boy?"
"I don't think so. He'd piss his pants at the first sign of trouble."
"Who else do you have, then? That's your biggest market. You can't leave it uncovered." Jansen said.
"The college boy's sidekick."
"Get serious. He's too dumb."
"Right now, we need balls worse than we need brains. He's tough enough to hold on to it until we get somebody better. The other one wouldn't last five minutes," Schultz said.
"Yeah, okay. Let me know what you hear from Tampa." Jansen said.
****
"How long you known Horton, kid?" Sam asked.
Kilgore took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the old man. "About a ye
ar, I guess. Why?"
"You trust him?"
"He's Pinkie's nephew, Sam."
"That ain't what I asked, son. You and me, we crawled out of the same swamp. I know what makes you tick; you know what makes me tick. Right?"
"Yeah, I see what you mean. He's kind of a chickenshit college boy, ain't he?"
"Uh-huh. Don't go confusin' them two things, Kilgore. There's chickenshits, and there's college boys. They ain't always the same thing. You follow me?"
"Yeah, I think so. But Horton, he's both at the same time. Least ways, to me he is. Got no respect for people like us."
"Uh-huh," Sam said, waiting.
"And if guts was elastic, he wouldn't be able to make a jockstrap for a gnat," Kilgore said.
Sam laughed at that. "You got that right. But you still ain't answered me, boy. You trust him?"
Kilgore focused on the road in front of him, frowning. Sam watched as he chewed on his tongue, rolling it inside his cheek. He cut his eyes over at Sam again.
"Why you askin', Sam?"
"You're smarter than everybody thinks, ain'tcha, boy?"
Kilgore didn't say anything.
"You trust me, Kilgore?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I do."
"You know I go way back with Pinkie, right?"
"Yep, I know that."
"I like you, kid. You're still wet behind the ears, but you got good instincts. I'm gonna tell you somethin', and you could put the screws to me if you was to choose to. But I trust you. I don't trust Horton for a New York second."
Kilgore looked at the old man, frowning. He turned back to the road, and said, "Me, neither. Somethin' about him makes me not wanna let him get behind me."
"Uh-huh," Sam said. "He ain't got your back, boy. He'd sell you out in a heartbeat."
"Why you tellin' me this, Sam?"
"Because there's somethin' wrong about this deal tonight, boy. I don't trust Nicholson, and I don't trust Horton, either."
"You think they're settin' us up, Sam?"
"Could be, I guess, but I ain't getting that feelin'. Neither one's got the balls to do that, I don't think. How 'bout you?"
"Horton don't, that's for damn sure. I don't know Nicholson hardly at all."
"I do. He's a slimy bastard. He'd sell his grandmother for a damn cigarette, and he don't even smoke. But he's short on guts, just like Horton."
"What do you think about tonight, then?"
"I think we gotta see how it plays out. I'll question this guy they're settin' up, but I don't think we're gonna get shit out of him. If he don't know what's goin' on, he can't tell us."
"Then what?"
"Then we ask Nicholson."
Kilgore swallowed, hard. "Horton may not go along with that."
"No," Sam said. "I got a feelin' he won't. I'm gonna do it anyway. You need to decide whether you got my back."
"What if I said I didn't?"
"What do you think?"
Kilgore looked over at him for several seconds. "I think you'd take me out, or try to, anyhow."
Sam laughed. "Like I said, boy, we crawled outta the same swamp. You got my back? Or you want to trust Horton to save your ass when it all turns to shit?"
"That ain't a hard choice, Sam. I'm disappointed you even think you gotta ask."
"I like you, boy."
Chapter 12
Art Jansen sat at a splintered picnic table swatting mosquitos and hoping that Senator O'Toole would hurry. He'd called Jansen an hour before sunup to set up the meeting, saying he'd bring the coffee. Jansen had followed the directions O'Toole had given him, but he'd been dubious when he turned onto the deeply rutted, muddy road and followed it into the edge of the Everglades.
He was no less dubious now that he'd found his destination, "Crawdad Johnny's," the sloppy, hand-lettered sign painted on the half-rotten wall of the tumble-down shack announced. "Beer, Bate, and Crab Cake Sammiches sometimes. Maybe. Open some days, closed others. Trespassers will be shot, hung, gutted, and field dressed. Fresh pork for sale."
Alarmed at the sound of a vehicle coming from deeper in the swamp, Jansen scrambled to his feet. A beat-up Jeep clattered to a stop 50 yards away, and O'Toole climbed from the passenger seat, a one-quart thermos in his hand. As he approached Jansen, the Jeep executed a three-point turn and growled its way back into the undergrowth.
"Mornin', Art," O'Toole said, as he set the thermos on the picnic table. He dropped a muddy backpack on the ground and swung a leg over the bench, sitting down on the opposite side of the table from where Jansen stood.
Jansen made a conscious effort not to wrinkle his nose at the sour odor wafting from the senator. He took in his boss's unshaven cheeks and bloodshot eyes as he wondered what the man had been up to. "Good morning, Senator," he said, sitting down on the filthy, splintered bench. "You said you'd been fishing?"
"Yeah, boy. Me and ol' Gator Jaw. He's got him a place back up yonder on one of those sloughs. Had it since we were in college."
"Gator Jaw?" Jansen frowned. "He's a lawyer of some kind, right?"
O'Toole laughed as he rummaged in the backpack, coming out with two coffee mugs that looked none too clean. He set them on the table and opened the thermos, pouring coffee. "Yeah. Some kind. You got a gift for understatement, boy. You do that on purpose?"
Jansen shook his head. "No, sir. Sorry. Why?"
"Saying Gator Jaw is some kind of lawyer. That's like sayin' Osama Bin Laden was some kind of Arab terrorist." O'Toole laughed and shoved one of the dirty mugs toward Jansen. "Gator Jaw's one of a kind. When he walks into a courtroom, the judge knows right off that the defendant's guilty. But you know what's the best part?"
"No, Senator." Jansen lifted the mug, eyeing the scummy stains around the rim. He pretended to take a sip of coffee. "No, sir, I don't."
"The judge knows the defendant's guilty, but he knows for damn sure he's gonna go free. Gator Jaw never loses. Not once. Ever."
"I see," Jansen said, putting the mug down, waiting for O'Toole to get to his point.
"You know who he just started representing?"
"No, Senator."
"Ralph Giannetti," O'Toole said, grinning and taking a swallow of coffee.
"But he's already been found guilty and sent away for life," Jansen said.
"Just a temporary setback, according to old Gator Jaw. He says he'll have him out pretty soon, and then he's gonna start filing civil suits against the people that railroaded Giannetti."
"Oh," Jansen said. "Can he ask Giannetti a few questions for us?"
"That's why I went fishing with him last night, but it turns out he doesn't need to."
"He doesn't need to?"
"Nope. Giannetti's told him all about this new bunch that's cuttin' in on our dance. Mexicans. Some new cartel. They're big on the west coast, and they're coming after the business in the southeast."
"What made Giannetti decide to talk? I thought he was keeping his mouth shut."
"Yeah, he was, until he got to talk to Gator Jaw. This new bunch had a different approach. Instead of muscling in and starting a war, they frame the people who're running the territory they want to take over. Feed 'em to the cops. That's what happened to Giannetti."
"How'd they frame him?"
"He's not even sure what happened, exactly. His boy Mark Murano was having some trouble, and it turned out there was a woman behind it all."
Jansen shook his head. "Couldn't keep it in his pants, huh?"
"Not that kind of trouble. The woman's apparently done this before. Giannetti thinks she's pretty high up in the new cartel. Maybe even runs it."
"A woman? Runs it?" Jansen asked, eyebrows rising.
"She's no ordinary woman. What he got from Murano before things went to shit, she's drop-dead gorgeous and smart as hell. Giannetti named two other guys she'd put away same as she did him. Heavy hitters, too."
"Yeah? Who?"
"Sam Alfano's one, and a guy named Jonas Pratt."
"I've heard of them. Alfano's ancien
t history, but this Pratt just went away in the last year or so. Who's the woman?"
"Her name's Connie Barrera. She's got a cover, running a charter yacht in the Caribbean with her husband."
"That's convenient," Jansen said. "Puts her in the right place, all right. But how come Giannetti or one of the others didn't just blow her away?"
"It's complicated. Turns out they tried, but there's a couple of problems that get in the way. One is she's protected; she's got people all over the place looking out for her."
"Everybody's paying off somebody," Jansen said. "Couldn't they bribe one of them?"
"They're not that kind of protection. We're talking serious mercenaries, from what Giannetti told Gator Jaw. These people have heavy weapons and connections to governments; it's like taking on the Army, or maybe the CIA's more like it."
"I've heard some of the cartels have people like that, recruited from the Mexican military. But they'd stick out, wouldn't they? In the Caribbean, I mean?"
"I don't know. You'd think so, but apparently not."
"You said there was another problem that kept her alive."
"Yeah. Her husband's a cop."
"Bent, no doubt," Jansen said.
"Not from what anybody can tell. He's retired from the Miami P.D., but he's got strong connections to the Feds."
"Which Feds? DEA?"
"Among others. From what Gator Jaw said, you name a three letter agency, and he's probably worked with them. Word is that she plays him like a fiddle. Got him convinced that she's some kinda double agent, helpin' the good guys. But she's really running distribution into the southeast for this west coast bunch."
"Interesting," Jansen said. "How could she swing that?"
"Yeah. Isn't it interesting? Guess it's like they said. Good lookin' and smart, both -- that's a dangerous woman. You got her name; see what you can find out about her. Maybe get a line on who she's fronting for. But be damn careful. She's connected to the Feds, remember. You still got somebody in the FBI office in Miami?"
"Uh-huh."
"Get to work, then, boy. We're waiting on you, now."
****
"What the hell're we gonna tell Pinkie, Sam?" Kilgore was driving; they'd just finished breakfast and were on the road back to Miami.
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 8