Stuff to die for lam-1

by Don Bruns

  “It is. Did you see such mail?”

  It was time for someone to tell that first lie.

  I looked at James and he hesitated, clearing his throat. Those cigarettes. “We, uh, stored everything in Jackie’s-your wife’s-storage unit except that mail over there.” He pointed toward the narrow table. “And we have no idea what was in your mail.”

  “Other than my son’s finger.”

  “Hey. We explained that to you. The envelope was”-he paused-“leaking.”

  Silence.

  Finally, I spoke. “We have no information on your son. But because of you and your son we’re in this situation a little deeper than we want to be.”

  James kept shaking his head. I waited to see if he wanted to add anything. He didn’t.

  “I am truly sorry that you were threatened. I’m not certain that was my fault.”

  “Actually, it was my fault.” James spoke up. “This entire business venture was my idea. However, you’re apparently dealing with some dangerous people and a dangerous situation and because of that, Skip and I are in some deep shit.”

  Fuentes studied James. “Deep shit.”

  “Deep shit.”

  I kept going. “Mr. Fuentes, what exactly is your business?”

  Fuentes glanced at his wristwatch, a thin gold band and even thinner gold dial. He seemed to be thinking. Finally, he sighed.

  “There are some things I can tell you. The two men who threatened you, they are-were-business associates.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. But,” he hesitated, “not by my choosing. It’s a very complicated, difficult story. I’m sorry they threatened you. You see, and this is very difficult to say, they have threatened me as well.”

  James’s eyes lit up. I could see his interest as he leaned closer. “Why are you telling us this?”

  “You know Vic. You have a personal relationship with my son and you understand the situation he’s in. Am I right?” He looked directly at me, staring intently at my eyes.

  I found myself shaking my head up and down. Vic had been there when I needed him and now it was my turn.

  “Believe me, I don’t know who else to talk to. I would hate to involve you any further, but you need to know that the two men who threatened you tonight may have kidnapped my son.”

  “And cut off his finger.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does Cafe Cubana have to do with this?”

  “Everything.”

  His phone rang. I couldn’t believe it. We were about to get the story and he gets the perfect out. The little blond, Cynthia, stuck her head around the corner.

  “It’s the front gate, Rick.”

  He stood up and left the room.

  “Is he going to tell us what’s going on or not?” The frustration in James’s voice was obvious. “Jesus, this guy is either in a lot of trouble and doesn’t know how to get out of it, or he’s causing a lot of trouble and we’re fucked.”

  “No middle ground with you?”

  “No. But I hope to hell he’s in a lot of trouble, because I don’t want this guy to be on the other side.”

  “I hear you. We need someone on our side. James, we’re looking at accessory to murder.” I kept trying not to think about it, but the thought hung out there.

  “There’s that too.”

  Fuentes walked back into the living room, a puzzled look on his face.

  “The two men who threatened you? Did one of them have his arm in a sling?”

  “No.” We echoed each other.

  “Two men just asked the front gate guard for entrance to the building. They told him they wanted to meet with me. He said they were big men, had Spanish accents, and one of them had his arm in a sling, and did not look well. When he told them he was not to call my number after nine thirty, they left a message.”

  Neither of us said a word.

  “They drove a blue Buick and said they’d be back, and if I didn’t turn over my three accomplices, I could expect more body parts in the mail.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I’ VE always hoped that age brings wisdom. I hope that when I’m thirty-five or forty I’ll have a much better grasp on a situation than I do at twenty-four. And then I remember my father left home when he was thirty-seven. Was it wisdom that caused him to leave? Or was it the lack of wisdom?

  Did my father realize, at thirty-seven, that he had no more wisdom or maturity than he did at twenty-four when he got married? Do you reach a stage in your life when you find that your emotional maturity has peaked? Would I handle today’s situation in a more mature manner in my thirties or forties? If not, what’s the point in growing up? Age, just for the sake of age, seems pointless. Loss of hair, muscle, and skin tone, loss of endurance, sexual appetite. If that were all we had to look forward to, what was the point?

  “If I had been wise, I would have turned the project down.” Rick Fuentes put his glass to his lips as if toasting his wrong decision.

  We’d retired to the balcony, sitting on cushioned lounge chairs, sipping Amaretto on the rocks and looking out at the harbor. Amaretto. This for two guys who drank beer almost exclusively unless someone offered wine, usually from screw-top bottles. From fourteen stories up we watched blue and green lights bounce off the still water and cast wavy patterns on the murky surface. A large ship rested on the horizon, its bright lights shining like small pinholes in a black cloth. James had a dream of one day living like this, and at this moment, even with all of our problems, I could understand his passion. It beat the hell out of our cement slab and the dirt-brown ditch.

  Fuentes swirled his drink. “I tell you this due to the fact you have put yourself in danger because of my son.”

  Frank and Joe Hardy would have figured out a way to get the old man to talk. James and Skip had pretty much stumbled into the situation by accident.

  “My business is to raise money for business ventures. I’m certain you knew that. And Cafe Cubana is simply one of those projects. The gentlemen who came to me with the business plan were all successful men. Each, in his own way, had built a small, successful enterprise, and they had pooled their resources to form the new business.”

  “Why did they need you?” If this group was successful, why would they need more money?

  “They were $20 million short.”

  James drew in a raspy breath. “Twenty million? You could raise that?”

  He chuckled. “Of course. I’ve built an extensive list of investors over the last thirty years. These people have made rather large fortunes investing in my recommendations. The idea was sound. With the popularity of coffeehouses such as Star-bucks, and the apparent longevity of the interest in these ventures, I was well on my way to raising the capital.”

  James was leaning forward, obviously relishing the chance to learn from a master. His father’s blood ran through his veins. “And this was to be a chain of coffee and sandwich shops all up and down the East Coast?”

  “Yes. And a chance for each investor to double and triple his money in a very short period of time. Very seldom have I seen such a well-developed concept and potentially successful business. My investors were salivating to participate.”

  James sat back. “See, it takes money to make money. That’s our problem.”

  “In this case you would have been wise to refuse the offer.” Fuentes drained his glass. He stood up and walked to the bar on the balcony, pouring liberally from the bottle. “They had no intention of building the cafes.”

  It made no sense.

  Fuentes drew a deep breath. He studied the two of us for a good sixty seconds, not saying a word. Finally, “Do you know about Los Historicos?”

  James nodded. “The newscaster mentioned them when she was talking about the fire at the Cuban Social Club.”

  Fuentes nodded. “These men all came from families that lost property when Castro took control of Cuba. Their families left Cuba vowing to go back one day and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.”


  “And they attempted to do that during the Bay of Pigs,” James said.

  “Yes. It was a disaster. Many of my countrymen were killed, and although it has been discussed over and over again, no one has ever mounted a credible attempt since then.”

  It was way before our time. I’d read about it in eighth grade history class, but my entire image of Cuba was of a rundown country that people tried to escape from-not return to. “People are trying to get out of there. Why would someone want to go back?”

  He stared out at the water and I sensed a sadness in his eyes. “Wet foot, dry foot. If you are stopped at sea, you must go back to be killed or locked up in Castro’s jail. If you make it to United States soil, you are allowed to stay. It’s very sad. However, these are not people who have anything to go back to. These new refugees, they own nothing. Los Historicos have history. History and property.”

  Cynthia stepped out on the balcony in a loose fitting summer dress and no shoes. Her flowing blond hair hung around her shoulders and I had to admit she was beautiful. She walked over to Fuentes and stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. As a warm, gentle Florida breeze rustled her dress and hair, I could smell the hint of jasmine in the air. A subtle perfume. I wondered what Em was doing right now.

  “ Los Historicos families owned manufacturing facilities, plantations, large homes, and businesses-hotels, casinos, farms, cigar factories, and so much more. They still believe that if they are able to take over the country once more they will restore Cuba to the way it was.”

  I also remembered studying the history of Cuba, and how wide open it was in the fifties before Castro took control. Living in South Florida it’s hard not to learn something of the history and culture of Cuba. “Cuba was a hotbed of prostitution, gambling, and smuggling before Castro, wasn’t it? It seems to me that Meyer Lansky was thrown out of Las Vegas, and ended up running Batista’s gambling casinos. A pretty nasty group of people.”

  “Like the Wild West in the United States in the 1800s? I suppose it was. But these people lost everything. Everything. And they want it back.”

  “What does a chain of cafes have to do with all of this?” James the entrepreneur, still hanging on to this idea of a multi-million-dollar deal.

  Fuentes sighed. “These men were using the money, the money I was raising, to form an army. They were going back into Cuba to take over the country by force.”

  We were speechless.

  “When I learned of the plan, I threatened to stop raising the money. That’s when they kidnapped my son.”

  “What?” James asked the question; I silently asked at the same time.

  “I never should have shared this with you.”

  “Oh, my God. Vic is being held because of a potential invasion of Cuba?”

  Fuentes gave me a stern look. “If you take that story beyond this building, not only will you find the conspirators ready to kill you, but I will also be standing in line. I’ve said far too much.”

  I found myself drumming my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Why?”

  “Why would you be killed?”

  “That should be my first question, but I still want to know why you have told us and no one else?”

  Fuentes stared into my eyes, maybe trying to find the soul of my being. Maybe trying to scare the hell out of me. I think he accomplished both.

  “Because, Mr. Moore. You owe my son. I believe he saved your life many years ago and perhaps I’m telling you the situation to convince you of its severity. I need to convince you to walk away from this and help spare his life. Is that too much to ask?”

  My mouth hung open. James was staring at me, frowning. He knew everything about me, yet had no idea what Rick Fuentes was talking about.

  “Mr. Moore, I need you and your friends to leave this alone, because if I don’t continue to raise the $20 million, they will kill Victor. He will become the first casualty in the new war against Fidel.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  VIC hadn’t kept it all to himself. His father knew, so all bets were off. The secret was out. And I suppose, even in my mid-twenties, I wish the story had remained a secret. It’s funny how embarrassments suffered at any age stay with you. Weaknesses at twelve remain etched in your memory at twenty or twenty-two and maybe they shape you. Maybe they shape your personality, dictate your personal growth. I don’t know for sure, but I still feel the shame.

  In junior high, Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe would have been voted most likely to do a life sentence. For any number of reasons. Many of us thought they should go right from seventh grade to jail and stay there at least until we all graduated from high school. Didn’t happen. Should have.

  The two psychos were rumored to have raped a couple of cheerleaders, beaten a teacher for a bad grade, broken into a dozen homes in our school district, and spent a weekend doing $20 thousand worth of damage to our school. If you’re saying to yourself, “These were seventh-grade kids?” the answer is yes. But seventh-grade kids who had flunked at least once and were physically bigger than most high school juniors.

  Size and audacity may have been two of the reasons that Vic Maitlin was drawn to Cramer and Stowe. Since he was at the top of the pile, I always suspected he was looking beyond. Two guys with the size and reputation of these two may have intrigued him. Whatever the reason, he hung with them but never was tainted with their reputation.

  “Well, the good thing is that Angel didn’t kill the guy.” James kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was obviously on our situation. “I couldn’t think of anything else for a while. We need to find Angel and tell him.”

  “The bad thing is, Angel didn’t kill the guy. At least it would have been one less bad guy to deal with.” I rolled down the window and let the warm, humid night air blow through the cab.

  “Skip, you don’t mean that.”

  “No.”

  “First he wants us to find Vic, now he wants us to go away.”

  “Yeah. Well, things change.”

  “You gonna tell me about Vic Maitlin saving your life?”

  I stared out the window, watching the expensive real estate roll by. Strip malls, concrete, palm trees, and more orange tile roofs. “No.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s not as serious as Fuentes made it sound.”

  “Hey, pard. Tell me.”

  I said nothing. A buried secret doesn’t just come shooting to the surface. I knew James well enough to know the subject wasn’t going away.

  “What about the rest of it. Do you believe Fuentes?”

  “It’s a damned good story if he made it up.” I tended to take people at face value and Fuentes was believable. He also had a lot to lose.

  Three minutes of silence passed. We were both engrossed in our own thoughts.

  “And what about Vic? Was he one of the bodies in the fire?”

  “God, I hope not.” My cell phone went off. “Hello.”

  “Skip. You could have called. I’m a little frantic right now.”

  I’d like to think it was the shock of the story and the two Cuban guys showing up at the front gate that caused me to forget to call Em, but some of it is that I’m a self-absorbed asshole. I know my faults. Most of them.

  “Em, I am sorry. Really. Listen, Angel didn’t kill the Cuban. Big Mouth showed up tonight with his arm in a sling. At least we think it was him.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you all right?”

  “It’s a long story. It has to do with-” It was going to be a long explanation. Forty some years of Cuban history, a short course in business and being an entrepreneur, a crash course in Caribbean real estate, and a lesson in modern warfare. I didn’t want to do it on the phone. Besides, the minutes cost money. “I’ll give you a full accounting tomorrow. Everything is all right for now.”

  “Skip, we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

  “I’ve got calls in the morning, but how about we meet for lunch?”

  She paused.

  “Are you okay?”


  “I’m not feeling that good right now.”

  “Em, what’s wrong?” She was strong, never weak. I don’t know that I’d ever seen her really sick.

  “A little sick to my stomach.”

  “Are you taking anything?”

  “No. Nerves I guess. I’ll be all right. Dutch treat tomorrow?”

  “No. Fuentes paid us the rest of the money. Actually $3,000. My treat.”

  She smiled over the phone. I could tell. “Don’t forget, partner, a third of that is mine.” She hung up.

  “I’m going to turn off up ahead and get some oil,” James said. “That light is flickering. All we need to do is throw a rod.”

  “Do you know what that means, throw a rod?”

  He looked at me with a sneer. “No.”

  He pulled off at a gas station and got out of the cab. Hundreds of black bugs swarmed around the yellow glow from the light fixtures above the gas pumps. Catching a glimpse of a car in my peripheral vision, I spun around. No rear window. It must have pulled in behind us. I thought it was blue and big and the brief look I got made me think it might be the Buick.

  James sauntered out of the garishly lighted gas station/carryout with a can of oil in his hand, popped the hood, and proceeded to drain the contents into the engine. I got out and looked behind us. No Buick.

  We got back in and James pulled back out onto I-95.

  “I think that man has problems we can’t imagine. He doesn’t know where his son is, only that he’s been injured. He can’t be honest with his investors because if he tells them the truth the people behind Cafe Cubana will send his son home in a body bag.”

  I looked out the side mirror and saw lights coming up behind us. Traffic was light, but this guy was hell-bent for leather, pulling alongside of us on the outside line. James glanced over and hit the brakes hard.

  My mother harped on wearing a seat belt. Every time I left the house-“Don’t forget to wear your seat belt!” I didn’t pay a lot of attention to my mother. I bounced from the seat and cracked my chin on the dashboard as James skidded to a stop on the berm.