Blood of My Brother

by James Lepore

Maria could pronounce Angelo’s name as well as any native-born American, but occasionally she shortened it by a syllable, and said it the Spanish way, giving the g a rough h sound, usually in moments of passion, or tenderness, or, as on this occasion, to underscore a point. Her father, a journalist, had been executed by one of Castro’s firing squads after la revolución, for questioning the kind of government the so-called rebel hero intended to establish. Then her older brother had been tortured and killed in the bargain. Maria had escaped Cuba soon afterward, but she knew what it was to be hunted, and to hear death in every knock on your door. Isabel Sanchez, or Perez, or Kelly—whatever her name was—was deeply scarred, but she was no killer. She was the hunted, not the hunter.

  Maria went upstairs, and Angelo sipped his club soda and watched as Sam dried and racked glasses at the bar and the two busboys began stocking the waitress stations in the dining room. Tonight he was not soothed, as he usually was, by the routine predinner activities of the restaurant. If Maria did not return in fifteen minutes, he would go up and get her. Isabel had been a model waitress, quiet, hardworking, uncomplaining. And though good-looking and unattached, she had gracefully but firmly spurned all attempts by the male customers and staff to engage her in the presexual dance. But if, as he suspected, she was the mysterious Donna Kelly, the Latin beauty who had somehow managed to come into possession of five hundred thousand dollars via her relationship with a New Jersey real estate magnate, the siren who had lured Dan Del Colliano to his death, then there was another side to her altogether, and Maria might be in danger. I’ll help her, Angelo said to himself, looking at his watch. But the sooner she’s out of here, the better.

  When he looked up, Angelo saw Victor Ponce, the owner of a nightclub called El Caribe, located around the corner on Eighth Street, enter the bar and head toward his table.

  “Buenas noches, Victor,” said Angelo when Victor arrived at the table.

  “Buenas noches, Angelo,” said Victor. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course. What would you like to drink?”

  “Nothing, gracias, I have to get back.”

  “What can I do for you, Victor?”

  Victor, a hawk-faced, sharp-eyed Cuban in his late fifties, took the chair across from Angelo. He wore a tropical print shirt that hung loosely over a large belly, his fingers flashing with the silver rings he affected, his gray hair swept back into the pompadour he had been wearing ever since Angelo first met him and probably since he was a teenager in Havana.

  “There have been two men in the neighborhood,” Victor replied, “in the last few days, claiming to be looking for their sister, a beautiful young woman who is missing. Have they been in here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “These men were in my place last night. They showed their sister’s picture to Manuel and Miguel.”

  “And?”

  “It is Isabel, your new waitress.”

  Manuel and Miguel were Victor’s bouncer and bartender, respectively. Both of them had hit on Isabel when she first started working at El Pulpo.

  “Did they send them here?”

  “No.”

  “What did these men look like?”

  “I didn’t see them, but Manuel thinks they are Mexican, both young—in their twenties—black hair, black clothes. He thinks they’re twins.”

  “Manuel was suspicious.”

  “Yes. He sees many punks. These were the worst kind.”

  “Where else have they been?”

  “I stopped by Ascension’s on the way over here. They had lunch in her place today.”

  “Did she recognize Isabel?”

  “No, but someone will.”

  “Thank you, Victor. I’ll talk to Isabel.”

  “De nada.”

  “One more thing. If they stop by your place again, try to keep them there, and call me, immediatamente, sí? But be careful.”

  “Of course. Buenas noches, Angelo.”

  “Buenas noches, Victor.”

  35.

  5:30 PM, December 17, 2004, Miami

  “It’s her,” said Maria.

  Angelo shook his head, then said, “Will she talk to me?”

  “No. She doesn’t want to implicate you, or Sam or me.”

  “She already has.”

  “She’s aware of that. ‘Any further,’ I should have said.”

  “What did she say?”

  Maria paused to look around. The bar was empty. It was five thirty. The earliest dinner patrons usually arrived around six.

  “Not a lot. She knows she’s in great danger and wants to run, but she has no car, no passport, and no money.”

  Angelo took this in, then said, “What about Del Colliano ?”

  “The same people that killed him are looking for her, to kill her.”

  “The law?”

  “They’ll crucify her. It seems she’s done a lot of bad things.”

  “Did she kill Del Colliano, Maria?”

  “No. She’s very hard, Angelo, cruel even, but I don’t think she’s killed.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No, Angel, I didn’t.”

  Angelo knew his wife, knew by the grim set of her usually lovely face that she was thinking of her own bad times, of how much she had had to harden her heart in order to survive, of how often she thought of revenge against Castro and his lackeys for the murder of her father and brother, the humiliation of her family.

  “If we help her,” he said, “we could be in deep trouble.”

  “If we give her to the government,” Maria replied, “they’ll use her, then throw her to the wolves, who will immediately devour her.”

  “Sam could lose the restaurant. They confiscate everything connected with drugs.”

  “That sounds much like Cuba.”

  Angelo did not reply. Two men had come in while he and Maria were talking, and taken seats at the bar. He had been concentrating on Maria when they first entered, but now took a moment to study them as they engaged Sam in conversation. Both were in their mid-twenties, both dark-haired, dark-eyed Latinos, very much fitting Victor Ponce’s description of the men looking for Isabel. He turned his attention back to his wife, her last remark re-forming itself in his mind. Maria knew that the American and Cuban political systems had nothing in common, but, though she fiercely loved her new country, she was no friend of government, not after living under Batista and Castro for half of her life.

  “She won’t get far, unless we help her,” he said. “And even then, it’s probably just a matter of time. She’s in a lot of trouble.”

  “She says she has leverage that can save her life.”

  “What kind of leverage?”

  “Documents and tapes that would put the Mexican attorney general in jail.”

  “Christ.”

  “I believe her.”

  “Where are they, these papers and tapes?”

  “In Mexico.”

  “Is that what she wants to do? Go to Mexico to get this stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell her about Cassio?”

  “Yes. She says he’s a fool to try to track down the killers. They will happily torture and kill him as they did his friend.”

  “Will she talk to him? Tell him what happened?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s very scared. She wants to leave now, this minute.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Yes. She needs our help. She knows that.”

  “And you want to help her?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “She has to talk to Cassio,” Angelo said. “It’s the only way I’ll help her. He’s entitled to know what happened to his friend. If she won’t talk to him, then we can’t help her.”

  Maria locked eyes with Angelo, and he thought for a second she was going to fight on. She had, he knew, loved two men before him, her father and her brother. Last night in bed she told him that Jay Cassio had the same look in his eyes as Tomas, Sr. and Tomas, Jr. did when Fidel�
��s police took them from their home. Desafio. Defiance. She would understand.

  “I will talk her into it,” she said.

  Angelo leaned back and sighed. The two Latinos had left, and Sam was looking at him like he wanted to talk. Leaning forward again, he said, “Go up and get her. We’ll take her to Libby Morales. Go down the back stairs. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I’ll drive you in the van. Get her a passport, birth certificate, driver’s license, whatever Libby can do in a few hours.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll come back here. Borrow Libby’s car, or take a cab, and take her home. Wait there. Don’t leave the house, or let anyone in. How much cash do you have at home?”

  “About a thousand.”

  “There’s fifteen hundred in my money clip in my blue jacket, in my closet. Get that, too.”

  “What about Cassio?”

  “He’s coming here later. I’ll bring him home with me. He can have his talk with Isabel.”

  “One more thing, Angel.”

  “What?”

  “Gary Shaw’s stopping by. He said it was important.”

  “What time?”

  “He said around six. He said not to call him on his cell phone.”

  Angelo looked at his watch. It was just past five thirty. “I’ll be back in time,” he said.

  “One more thing,” Maria said.

  “What?”

  “Te amo.”

  “Te amo, Maria.”

  36.

  8:00 PM, December 17, 2004, Miami

  Libby Morales—the master forger to the Cuban community in Little Havana—was not home when Angelo and Maria arrived at her house. She was, according to her fourteen-year-old daughter, at Conchita’s, a beauty parlor on Eighth Street. Maria managed to persuade the girl to go to the shop and bring her mother home. Libby arrived forty-five minutes later with a head full of pink curlers, and got right to work, needing little except Angelo and Maria’s word for the dire urgency of the situation. When Angelo got back to El Pulpo, it was close to eight and Gary Shaw was sitting at the bar chatting with Sam. They shook hands and retired to Angelo’s office, where they eyed each other for a moment, both well trained at reading the life map that is on all of our faces.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Angelo said. “I got tied up.”

  “I was late, too,” Shaw said. “Traffic everywhere.”

  “What’s up?”

  “William Taylor went down.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Right. Now maybe he’ll get offed in prison.”

  “That would be nice.”

  They both knew that whether Taylor was executed by the public or the private sector, it would not diminish the suffering of the parents of the nine-year-old victim. Sam came over with two Amstel Lights and two tall glasses, placed them on the table, and returned to the bar. They each poured their beer and sipped.

  “Where’s Maria?” Shaw asked.

  “She’s not working tonight. Committee meeting.”

  “Who’s watching the door, you?”

  Angelo smiled and said, “Sam can do it, and Carla. It looks like we won’t be too busy.”

  “Are your friends in town?”

  “They’re here. Can you tell me anything?”

  “The FBI is investigating Del Colliano’s murder, as well as the Jersey killings,” Shaw said. “They’re obviously connected. They’ve taken over Jersey completely.”

  “What about Florida? Is there a task force?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stop me whenever you want.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who’s on the task force?”

  “I am.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Today.”

  “And the FBI guy, Markey, he’s in charge?”

  “Right.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “No, I can’t. Except for one thing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You didn’t tell me Cassio met the killers.”

  “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

  “Well, Markey knows. He’s setting Cassio up for them, hoping to move in.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Right, Markey’s obsessed. He’s putting an article in the paper essentially marking Cassio, and if that doesn’t work he’ll try something else.”

  “The kid is just as obsessed. He may actually want to go along with it.”

  “You can’t let him do that, Ange. The killers are predators. They’ve been killing since they were kids. It’s all they know. Cassio wouldn’t survive. They behead people. It’s their trademark.”

  Angelo had spoken to Sam before taking Maria and Isabel to Libby’s, and confirmed that the two men he saw earlier at the bar were the ones looking for Isabel. Sam had recognized the woman in the photograph they showed him as his new waitress, but told them he had never laid eyes on her. Angelo had quickly filled Sam in, and then left for the ride to the master forger’s small house on 14th Avenue. He had Isabel lie down in the back of the El Pulpo van, but saw no sign of the Mexicans as he made his way through the back streets of Little Havana. He saw no reason to tell Shaw that the killers were in the neighborhood. Shaw would have to call in a ton of cops, and all hell would break loose, possibly thwarting Isabel’s escape and Cassio’s chance to talk to her. And likely also to result in the arrest of everyone involved in harboring Isabel, including Sam and Maria, with questions asked later.

  “He’s due any minute,” said Angelo, looking at his watch. “You can stay and talk to him yourself if you want.”

  “Is this him?” Shaw asked, nodding toward the bar, where Jay and Dunn were shaking hands with Sam. “If it is, it looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “It’s him,” Angelo replied, getting to his feet to greet Jay and Dunn, and introduce them to Shaw. They all sat, and Sam appeared with beers for Jay and Dunn.

  “There’s been a development,” said Angelo, looking at Shaw.

  “Angelo can give you the details,” said Shaw, “but we’ve identified the killers: two brothers, Mexicans, in their mid-twenties. You don’t need to know their names. The thing is, Jay, they know you’re in Miami, and they want you dead. I suppose you know why. You need to hide, or better yet leave the state—without being followed.”

  “Miami’s a big place,” said Jay. “How would they know where to find me?”

  “You have to trust me on this, and you have to leave immediately.”

  Jay leaned back, and looked at Angelo and Dunn.

  “It sounds like somebody’s setting him up,” said Dunn, looking at Shaw. “Is that your take?”

  “I can’t say any more,” Shaw answered. “In fact, I have to get going. Talk to Angelo.”

  “We’re leaving, too,” said Angelo, rising along with Shaw. “We might as well get Jay out of his hotel right now. I’ll fill him in, Gary. We know the position you’re in.”

  Angelo assumed that the two Latino strangers were continuing to ask questions in the neighborhood, and that it was only a matter of time before someone innocently directed them to El Pulpo. The sooner all of them were out of the restaurant, the better. Jay and Dunn had come to have dinner, and talk about the Isabel Perez-Alvaro Diaz-Little Havana connection, but they quickly stood, not about to object to anything after hearing what Gary Shaw had to say. Shaw went to the bar to attempt to pay for the drinks, but Sam, shaking his head, looked at the Miami detective and said, “Are you kidding?”

  Angelo ushered Jay and Dunn out of the restaurant, and Shaw followed. As they emerged onto the sidewalk, the four men were lit briefly by the light that spilled through the front door from inside the bar. They were heading toward the small parking lot on their right when two men stepped out of a car across the street and approached them with guns drawn and pointing in the direction of Jay and Dunn. Shaw shoved Angelo, who was walking directly in front of him, while shouting, “Get down!” and drawing his gun. The two men began firing at Jay, who was in the
process of being dragged to the ground by Angelo. Shaw moved quickly toward the cover of a nearby parked car, as the gunmen, whose first shots had missed, took aim again at Jay, who was now on the ground. While Dunn was diving on top of Jay, and Angelo was reaching for the gun in his ankle holster, Shaw raised up and emptied his service revolver at the gunmen, both of whom swung and returned fire before scrambling back into their car. Angelo got off two shots at the car as they sped away, and then turned and saw Shaw on his back on the sidewalk, bleeding from the chest. Angelo reached Shaw quickly, and knelt over his friend to examine his wound, which was high up toward the right shoulder.

  “I’m okay, Ange, I’m okay,” Shaw said.

  “It’s only the arm,” Angelo replied. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “No, Sam can take care of me. You get out of here.”

  Sam had come out, taken things in, gone back into the restaurant, and emerged again with ice packed in a clean bar towel, which he was pressing against Shaw’s bleeding shoulder. Dunn and Jay, who were unhurt, were leaning over Shaw as well.

  “What happened?” Sam asked.

  “I stopped by to meet Angelo,” Shaw answered. “He wasn’t around. I had a drink and left and ran into these bad guys on the way out. That’s it, Ange, now go. It’s the best way to handle it all around. Sam will back me up. Go.”

  Angelo looked at Sam, who nodded to him, then got to his feet, and said to Jay and Dunn, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Angelo’s LeBaron and Sam’s Buick Riviera, which Jay and Frank were still using, were parked side by side in El Pulpo’s parking lot. When they reached the cars, Angelo turned and said to Jay, “There’s a lot to talk about, but first go to your hotel and check out, then come to my house: 10315 20th Street, Southwest. I found Isabel Perez. She’s there waiting to talk to you. Go.”

  37.

  Midnight, December 18, 2004, Miami

  The Friday night traffic on the MacArthur Causeway was bumper to bumper. By the time Jay and Dunn reached the Silver Sands, packed, checked out, and made it back to Angelo and Maria’s duplex in Little Havana, it was close to eleven p.m. They were let in by Maria, who, grim-faced, led them through a small living room and dining area, then through French doors onto a screened-in porch, where they found Angelo seated at a redwood picnic table, a scotch and a pack of Marlboro Reds in front of him. Jay and Dunn sat. Insects were banging against the screen behind Angelo. The sharp chirping of cicadas was drifting in from the shrubs bordering the backyard. Angelo pushed his cigarettes toward Jay, who took one and lit it.