by Rafael Hines
“What?”
“As I said, an expression of gratitude.”
“Uh, thank you?”
“Was that a question?”
“No. I mean yes. Thank you, Mr. Meecham.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re friends again. And since we’re friends you can call me Mike.”
“Thanks Mike,” Fishman said while he contemplated the best way to kill himself.
“Look, we’ve got work to do and you understandably missed the big picture here. Mr. Donahue is another victim of Bishop’s homicidal behavior. Poor Brendan was so traumatized by witnessing his best friend’s murder that he fell deeper and deeper into depression and a pattern of self-destructive behavior that ultimately manifested itself in his drug addiction… I’m just free forming here, but that had a nice flow to it. You should be writing this stuff down.”
Fishman picked up a pen and started writing the word ASSHOLE over and over again on his desk pad.
“What about the other three witnesses? I understand they haven’t been as co-operative as Mr. Donahue here.”
“That’s not your concern. Don’t worry about them, they won’t be a problem. Just focus on Brendan’s statement and getting the indictment.”
“Okay. But, you agree that we can’t take his official statement today. Let me work with him overnight and hopefully his condition will improve by the morning.”
“Very well. I leave him in your hands, but you stay with him at all times. He doesn’t leave your sight. Understood?”
“Don’t worry. There are two beds in the main bedroom of the safe house. I’ll bunk with him and we’ll have a SWAT team in the living room.”
“Good. You keep him protected and guard him as if your life depends on it. Because in reality… it really does.”
Meecham gave Brendan a reassuring pat on the shoulder and told him he’d see him in the morning. He nodded at Fishman on his way out and the three men from his private security detail were on their feet and ready to move when he came through the door.
After Meecham’s departure Brendan sat there beaming with a big grin on his face.
“You have something to say?” Fishman asked.
“Yeah I do. Watching you get bitch slapped like that made me hungry. Order me up a ribeye, medium rare, with mashed potatas and a couple a Heinekens.”
“That it?”
“I like your attitude man. I was gonna kick your ass a few minutes ago, but now I see we’re on the same team here. Tell you the truth, this whole deal’s got me stressin’. Get me a chick with some big titties. A redhead if you’ve got one handy, but I’ll settle for dark hair. I need to plug a wet hole so I can get my mind right for tomorrow.”
“You want a date?”
“Yeah man. Companionship asshole. Set it up!” Brendan said snapping his fingers.
“My pleasure.” Fishman leaned back in his chair and said, “Come on in.” Looking back at Brendan he said, “Here comes your companionship dipshit.”
Clayton Unser, the CIA Deputy Director and Valdez family friend, came in through a side door. He was followed by two linebacker sized CIA leg breakers in dark suits with flat dead eyes.
“He’s all yours,” Fishman said.
“Let’s go turd,” one of the CIA muscle men said as he effortlessly dragged Brendan out of his seat, threw him up against the wall, and cuffed him.
“You fuck! You can’t do this to me! You heard what Meecham saaiiidd!” Brendan’s shouting was cut short by the liquid contents of a tiny needle injected into his neck that instantly slumped him down to his knees. The two goons picked up his limp body and carried him out.
Clayton waited for his men to leave and the door to close before he began speaking: “Great performance Mr. Fishman. Really well done.”
“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t fought him on this he would have known something was wrong.”
“You sold it.”
“Do you really think Meecham’s going to kill the other witnesses?”
“I think he’s going to try,” Clayton said.
“And then blame it on the Valdez mob…”
“Exactly. Contrary to what that sociopath thinks you do see the big picture quite clearly.”
“I guess. Just hard to think of the Valdez family as allies, even with the war on terror and all that.”
“The ironies and complexities of life are a wonder to behold,” Clayton said, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“We’re all set here. The package is secure…” Looking at Fishman as he spoke, he continued the conversation. “Yes, I’m here with him now. I will share your concerns, but I believe Mr. Fishman understands the gravity of the situation and the National Security issues involved here… Yes sir.” Carefully placing the phone back in the inside pocket of his suit jacket he asked, “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Fishman replied.
“Understand the gravity of the situation.”
“I understand I’m between a rock and a hard place and when I get thrown under the bus, which I definitely will, it won’t be a soft landing. But I gave you Donahue didn’t I? And you’ve got Meecham on tape. I’m probably going to end up in prison, but I’ve done everything you asked me to, haven’t I?”
“You have and if it comes to that I see a presidential pardon in your future or worst case a short visit to a minimum security facility. More like a fat farm. Lift weights and jog for six months and sell your book for a million bucks when you get out.”
“It’s still prison pal.”
“There are worse things.”
“What could possibly be worse than a disgraced DA walking the yard?”
“Death my friend. Painful and violent death,” Clayton said with a pleasant smile.
The Hudson River
Meecham didn’t consider himself a short man, but because of his lack of height he liked it better standing up. It gave him more leverage. He made her stay on her hands and knees while she frantically stroked him with her hands, desperate to end it. She even tried to take him in her mouth to get him to come faster, but he didn’t want contact with any of her bodily fluids so he gave her a crisp slap that made her back off. Although his right arm was tiring from the effort, he hit her again and again and again with the hand crafted leather belt. Each satisfying crack of the belt drove him into a frenzy that engorged him further. His eyes wild, he finally he spasmed and groaned with pleasure, releasing onto her face and breasts.
Meecham put on a black silk robe monogrammed with his initials and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. The cocky, statuesque blonde bomb shell that had so confidently walked into his stateroom an hour before now lay curled up in the fetal position, shaking uncontrollably on the king sized bed. Indifferent to her sobbing, he stood there admiring his work. The Madame who sent the girl over had insisted on no scars this time so he’d only used a belt instead of his preferred whip. Part of him was disappointed that the bright red welts across her back, buttocks, and thighs would heal in a few weeks and she wouldn’t have a permanent mark to remember him by. Meecham made a mental note to have her again. Next time he would brand her for life and gladly pay the agency the extra fee for damages.
She was already gone and back on dry land when he came out of the bathroom after a long hot shower. His assistant came in and informed him that his dinner guest had arrived early, as Meecham knew he would. Dressing quickly, he put on a pair of jeans with a white dress shirt and loafers.
The sun was setting, sending golden rays across the Hudson when Meecham came topside. He stepped onto the lower deck of his luxury yacht and saw the massive figure of Connie Bellusci standing near the rail smoking one of his Cubans.
“Stealing my cigars again Connie,” Meecham said, looking down at the three foot high glass humidor. It had a four digit combination lock on the door that was now wide open.
“I’m glad you buy the best. Nothing worse than stealing a cheap cigar.”
“How did you crack the code so quickly?”
; “It’s one of my many talents.”
“You’ll have to teach me that one.”
“Maybe someday.” Connie didn’t mention that the humidor in Meecham’s home office had been left unlocked just like this one on the yacht. Nothing wrong with letting a rich client believe he had magical powers to crack a four digit combo in five seconds.
Yeah dumbass, opening an unlocked door is one of my many talents.
“Alright, let’s get down to business,” Meecham said, pouring himself a glass of wine and sitting down in a pillowed deck chair. “I paid you to kill Gonzalo Valdez, not wound him.”
“Well, he’s more than just wounded. I hit him in the head. Don’t know why that bandito is still alive, but he’s in a coma on life support.”
“I want him dead, but he wasn’t even number two on my list. I only added Gonzalo at your suggestion and paid you quite well for it, as I recall. Bishop and Felix are my priorities.”
“Understood. The Don is off the board for now which is a good thing. It leaves the family weak and vulnerable. If he doesn’t go on his own in the next few days I’ll personally finish the job.”
“And the cousins?”
“Bishop is off hunting terrorists with his Special Ops pals, but they must be keeping him in the dark about his uncle, or he’d be at the hospital right now. They can’t keep it a secret much longer. Maybe you can nudge things along. This has been big news here in the northeast, but there’s not a lot of national or global coverage. Can you spread the word so our boy comes running home?”
“That I can.” Meecham got on the phone and gave quick instructions to his son Caleb. After he hung up he asked, “And Felix?”
“No sign of him yet.”
“Frankly Connie, I’m disappointed. Based on your stellar reputation I expected faster results here.”
“Mike, when it comes to taking lives for a living the most important of the many lessons I’ve learned is that it pays to be patient. Targets don’t usually stand still and say shoot me when you want them to. I understand we’re just getting started here so let me reassure you. I’ve completed every single assignment I’ve ever accepted, and believe me, these three clowns aren’t going to be around much longer. As you said, I have a stellar reputation to uphold.”
“Okay, just understand that I have my own reputation to maintain and everyday those two cousins are still breathing puts a big shit stain on me.”
“Understood.”
“Where are you with the witnesses?”
“The teams are about to go in. The contractors will all speak Spanish during the assault just as you instructed. I have to hand it to you on this one, Mike. Brilliant plan. Everyone’s going to blame this on the Valdez mob.”
“As long as there are no more slip ups. I want these witnesses gone and Gonzalo cuffed to his bed in the ICU.”
“These guys are pros. All ex-military and heavy hitters. You want to listen in?”
“Really?”
Connie nodded. Pulling a small radio out of his pants pocket, he switched on the speaker button so they could both listen. Meecham’s eyes were wild and wide. Connie killed for a living, but seeing Meecham lick his lips and eagerly rub his hands together in anticipation of a family being slaughtered made his stomach turn. He knew he would have to be very wary of this man in the future.
The Upper West Side
The Goldstein residence
Three hard looking men with light backpacks all wearing dark jeans and black shirts stepped out of a Land Rover double parked a few feet past the building’s entrance. The driver kept the engine running and ready to move. He stayed behind the wheel, peering through the windows, and scanning the mirrors for any sign of trouble.
“All clear,” a voice said in Spanish over the radio.
“We’re going in,” was the quick response. Meecham sat on the edge of his chair listening to the action unfold.
An elderly woman screamed, then collapsed on the sidewalk. She cried out for help and the uniformed doorman ran out to assist her. The three men moved fast. They entered the building without being seen, crossed the empty lobby, and headed up in the elevator. They exited on the Goldstein’s floor, and checked the hallway in both directions before removing their packs. Opening the folding stocks on three matching machine guns, each man slapped in a thirty round clip, cocked his weapon, put it on full auto and disengaged the safety. In front of the Goldstein’s door one of them stepped forward and blasted the locks with a short burst before he kicked it in.
They ran in firing at the four figures sitting on a couch in the living room. The shooters were stunned when the mannequins they had just killed exploded into white dust. The last thing they heard were the three shots that ended their lives.
Christmas walked over to the dead assassins while his team looked down the hallway for more targets. It wasn’t necessary to check any of them for a pulse. All three had big ugly gaping holes in their heads. He quickly went through each man’s pockets, placing everything he found in a large plastic bag. When he was done he reached down and removed the only earpiece that wasn’t covered in blood. He put it in his own ear and spoke into the mic.
“These guys were chumps Connie. Hope they weren’t you’re A Team.”
“Who is this?” Connie asked.
“We met a few years back.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“A dark alley in Barcelona.”
“Christmas?”
“That’s me.”
“I put a bullet in you the last time you interfered with my business. You should’ve learned your lesson pal. Now I’m gonna make a very nasty example of you.”
“Hey Connie, you and Meecham enjoy the cruise. I’ll be you seeing you both real soon,” Christmas said, then ended the transmission.
Connie looked at Meecham and shook his head.
“What the fuck just happened here?”
“It was a set up.”
“So the Goldstein’s are still alive?”
“Yep, either in protective custody or more likely in a Valdez safe house. I’m sure the two other teams that went after the witnesses in Connecticut and Boston are dead too.”
“That’s unacceptable. Goldstein along with the other witnesses all have to die so they can’t contradict Brendan’s testimony. How are you going to fix this Connie?”
“Don’t you see what’s happened here? Christmas is Gonzalo’s top soldier and he’s one of the best there is. The game just changed in a big way. They knew we were coming. My troops are dead and there’s a team of Valdez hitters coming for me… and you.”
“Me?”
“You heard what the man said. When a man like Christmas says he’ll be seeing you it ain’t for a social visit. I’d advise you to get off this boat and hire an army to protect you. Your rent-a-cops won’t cut it in this fight. ” Connie got up and headed to the rail.
“Where are you going?” asked Meecham, his brow wet with fear.
“It’s a war now. I’ve got to kill them all before they kill me. Good luck Mike. If you live I’ll come back for the rest of money when this is over.”
Connie climbed over and launched himself off and away from the fast moving yacht. He went feet first into the dark waters of the wide Hudson River. Meecham ran to the spot where he’d jumped. His eyes straining to see, he got a brief glimpse of Connie swimming hard towards the Jersey side of the river more than five hundred yards away before the night swallowed him up.
Meecham shivered. He told the Captain to stop and within minutes he was motoring towards the 79th Street Boat Basin in a dingy with a four man security team. They tied up to the main dock and bolted up the stairs, two guards in front and two following, with Meecham in the middle. Guns drawn and ready, they ran over to a stretch limo that was decorated with pink and white flowers waiting to pick up passengers from a wedding party. The short Latin driver with a pock marked face put up only token resistance against the force of armed men. He even tipped his chauffer’s hat and held th
e door for them after Meecham pressed a thick wad of cash into his hands. He was whistling beautifully when he got behind the wheel.
“Driver. What song is that?” Meecham asked.
“It’s called ‘Pedro Navaja,’ a ballad by Rueben Blades. From his early days.”
“It’s lovely. Now stop the fucking whistling and raise the divider so I can speak to my men in private.”
“As you wish sir,” the driver said pleasantly. He pressed the button on the dash board to raise the partition.
Sitting back comfortably in the plush rear seat, Meecham let out a sigh of relief when the car pulled out and sped away. The men on his security detail relaxed as well. None of them noticed the solid click from the door locks being set or the thin wisps of smoke that rose up from the hidden vents until it was too late. They all hammered away at the tinted, shatter proof windows until one by one they passed out in a heap on the floor.
Benji Medina resumed his whistling while he drove the limo through Central Park. He continued east until he reached the southbound entrance of the FDR Drive, then headed downtown to LES with his five passengers sleeping peacefully in the back.
Chapter 36
Dinner
Gonzalo Valdez’s normal routine was a series of daily rituals designed to keep his mind sharp and his body strong. Each morning he was up at 5AM for a two hour workout followed by a steam, shower, and shave before breakfast. But the war had kept him busy. He hadn’t exercised or steamed in days, and this morning, for the first time in more than twenty years, he forgot to shave.
It was time to get back to basics, though tonight he was changing the order of the routine. At nearly 10PM he was shaving first before he entered the gym. Gonzalo shaved the way he tried to live his life. Slowly and precisely. He carefully drew the straight razor across his skin, scraping off the stubble and avoiding the numerous scars that marked his face. When he was done he removed a hand towel from a bowl full of ice water, closing his pores with the cool cloth. Continuing the daily the ritual, he dipped the towel in again and applied it to his face once more.
Still taking his time, he put on black shorts and laced up his black boxing shoes. Flexing his feet to test the shoes as he walked, he made his way over to a massage table where he sat down and held out his hands.