Chapter Twenty-Two
I WAS NURSING a minor hangover in my office when my office manager, Lizzy put the call through. Good fortune had bestowed itself upon me, and I had fallen asleep on my patio after the second Scotch, so I sipped water and halfheartedly looked over paperwork while thinking through events from the previous evening. I seemed to have been put on the payroll of a major Vegas casino in some way, shape or form, although I certainly hadn’t accepted the nebulous position. When the phone beeped I hoped it was Danielle, having missed her call again while enjoying Cubans with Elroy Hoskin, but it wasn’t.
“He says his name is Roto,” said Lizzy. “I can’t decipher any more than that.”
“Thanks, Lizzy.” I hit the button on the phone. “Roto?”
“Señor Miami?”
“Yes, Roto,” I smiled. I couldn’t get over the whole thing with the single names, though I was disappointed not to have met a Ronaldo. Then I dropped the smile as I remembered these guys never called me with good news.
“Is everything all right?”
“It’s Julio.”
“What about him?” I said, standing.
“He just got fired.”
I was hungry by the time I reached the fronton, and I hoped it wouldn’t dictate my mood. Julio was sitting in his car, parked on the street across from the casino, having been escorted from the premises by security.
“What happened?” I said through the window.
Julio got out and waved his hands like a madman. “They fired me, señor. I arrived for practice, I get called to manager’s office, and lady manager fires me.”
“Why, Julio? Did they give you a reason?”
“Si, they said I was fixing jai alai, making bets.”
“And that’s not true?”
His face sank, like my lack of support cut him to the bone. “No, señor. It is not true. It is never true. I am set up.”
I wandered into the fronton. A performance was underway and two pelotari tossed the ball at the wall with the energy of someone finishing a swim across the English Channel. They had a job to do, and they didn’t want to get fired themselves, so the show went on, sans enthusiasm. Roto was on the bench of players rotated out, and he came to me.
“What happened, Roto?”
“Is a set-up, Señor Miami. Because Julio did not stop promoting the jai alai.”
“Let me ask you something, Roto, and forgive me. Could Julio do this?”
He shook his head so hard it moved inside his scratched-up helmet. “No, señor. Is not possible.”
“I know you are friends, Roto, but this is important.”
“No, señor. You misunderstand. I do not think Julio would do this thing, but what I say to you is, he could not do it.”
“Why couldn’t he?”
Roto glanced back to check the play. His turn would be a while coming, as the pair on court were throwing daisies for each other in a form of protest.
“People think because there is so much betting on jai alai, that it must be crooked. But this is not true. Look at the court.” He pointed toward the play. “Two men play. When one man wins, he gets a point. The other man leaves the court. The next player on the bench comes on court. They play once more, and the winner of this point stays, the loser goes, and this keeps rotating around until one player gets to a total of seven points. He is the winner.”
“Okay, so?”
“So to fix the game, you would need to have at least four men involved in the fix, maybe more. Less than this, the others could easily upset the fix.”
“All right, I can see that. But the casino is just going to say there were more of you involved.”
He shook his head. “But they did not, señor. You do not close your investigation and fire one player if there are others who may be crooked. Is not sensible.”
He made a good point. It looked like Julio had been targeted. By whom and why I couldn’t say.
What I could say was that I wasn’t going to be able to bluff my way up to the executive floor this time. The blank slate of a security guard I’d conned the first time I visited Jenny Almondson was gone, replaced by a thick-bodied, stern-looking Polynesian. Through a face devoid of emotion, he looked down on me, which put him at around six five, and I couldn’t get within three feet of him, which put him at about four hundred pounds. I could hear the breath coming through his nose.
“Ms. Almondson,” I said with a nod.
For a moment he was motionless, as if he hadn’t heard. Then his eyelids dropped as if to say, not today.
“It’s about Julio,” I said. Nothing. “Okay, tell her Miami Jones is here. I’ll be waiting in the bar.”
I ordered an OJ, but it didn’t get to me. Before the bartender could even take the carton from the fridge, I heard my name from the door. I turned to see the big islander standing there. He mopped his brow with a kerchief, as if the effort of crossing the gaming floor had taken its toll.
“She’ll see you,” he puffed.
I turned to look at the bartender, and he waved me on. I started to follow the big guy back to the elevator, but it was a tedious journey, so I broke ranks and marched ahead. I didn’t bother with the elevator, hitting the stairs, and came out onto the second floor where I found another Polynesian waiting for me. This one was a little older and about half the size of the guy downstairs. But he was no less intimidating. He wore a dark suit with no tie, shirt open at the neck, and his muscular frame filled every inch of it. He had tattoos up his neck and onto the side of his dark face and an explosion of hair out the back.
“Mr. Jones,” he said. “This way.”
He led me through the reception area back to Almondson’s office. Jenny had morphed again, from the glamorous look of the previous evening back to buttoned-up and all business. Sort of. She smiled from behind her desk, phone to her ear, and I had to let out a breath. She’d make a burlap sack look good. I waited on the wing of the big Polynesian until Jenny hung up the phone, then she waved me forward. She met me on my side of the desk and kissed my cheek and gave me a quick, semi-professional hug, although I really wasn’t sure how hugs fitted into an office situation.
“How are you, Miami?” she asked, and I wondered for a moment whether she could possibly have forgotten why I was there. It wasn’t a social call.
“I missed you last night,” she said, offering me a chair and leaning on the desk in front of me.
The Polynesian stood beside me. I might have been reading too much into it, but I felt boxed in.
“I looked for you,” Jenny continued.
“Had to see a man about a dog,” I said. I nodded at the big guy. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Mr. Finau. He’s our head of security.”
Finau nodded, but stayed silent.
“One of yours, downstairs?” I said.
Finau nodded again. He was a man of many words.
“I took your advice,” said Jenny. “Beefed up security, starting with the personnel. Mr. Finau has brought in some of his people, who I think will do the job. What do you think, Miami?”
“Your man downstairs certainly fits the part.”
“I’ve put extra security on the fronton, too, just so you know,” said Jenny.
“Speaking of which,” I said.
Jenny pursed her lips.
“Julio,” she said.
“What gives?”
“He was fixing games, Miami. I know you understand the pressure we are under to comply with gaming regulations. We can’t have even the scent of impropriety.”
Something smelled, all right, but it wasn’t impropriety.
“It looks pretty suspicious,” I said. “First he’s threatened, then days later he loses his job for allegedly fixing the game he was threatened for promoting.”
“But fix it he did. I’m not happy about this, Miami. I told you, I like the guys. But when I’m presented with proof, I am required to act, regardless of whether I like the guys or not.”
I lea
ned back in my chair.
“What proof?” I said.
Jenny leaned her head to one side and her golden hair fell away from her ear. Today she wore no earrings. “I’m afraid I can’t get into that with you,” she said.
I frowned, giving her the full wrinkled glory. “You can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t, so I won’t. This is not just answering a few questions. There are privacy issues.”
“You’re stonewalling me, Jenny. What gives?”
“I’m doing no such thing,” she said, calmly. “You are asking for information that I can only release to Julio or his appointed attorney. And you are neither.”
“So that’s how you’re going to play it?”
“Miami, that’s how I have to play it. Think about it. You could be anybody. I’ve never actually had any communication from any of the pelotari that you represent them in any way. Now I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying that legally, I can’t tell you any more than this. Our security team led by Mr. Finau here,” she said, nodding at the big silent unit, “conducted an investigation as required by gaming regulations. Mr. Finau found evidence that Diego Alvarez, or Julio as he is called, has been involved in the fixing of jai alai games. And before you say anything Miami, yes the evidence is compelling enough for me to dismiss him. I assure you I did not take that decision lightly.”
I looked up at her and then at Finau. Jenny looked genuinely upset by events, as if she had made the tough decision required of her position, but that didn’t mean she was happy about it. Finau on the other hand, gave me a look like he was totally focused on his breathing. It was a face that reminded me of the quiet summer afternoons I grew up with in New England. The ones that could turn ugly in an instant, depending on the direction of the wind. I decided there was nothing more for me there, so I shrugged and stood.
Jenny bumped off the desk and put her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Miami. Maybe you didn’t know Julio like you thought you did. Maybe none of us did.”
I nodded and moved away.
“Mr. Finau will show you out.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I know the way.”
I did know the way, but that didn’t stop Finau from shadowing me to the front door. I didn’t ask him any questions, because I knew I would be wasting my breath, and he didn’t offer so much as a grunt. I stepped out into the glorious sunshine, which didn’t suit my mood at all.
Jenny was right. Maybe I didn’t know Julio like I hoped I did. But I did know one thing. When only one side is willing to talk, they are usually the custodians of the truth. And the other side probably has something very interesting to tell. If you can get it out of them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I WAS TIRED, hungry and irritable by the time I left the casino, and I almost sideswiped a black pickup that cut across me into the parking lot, obviously in a hurry to drop some cash at the poker tables. I cursed the other driver, not even remotely interested in who might actually have been at fault, and I drove like a maniac back to Longboard’s. The place was quiet and no one was behind the bar. I took a stool and cursed the lack of service. Then Mick wandered out from the darkness of the inner bar, towel draped across his tank top-clad shoulders. I had half an idea to give him a piece of my mind, but fortunately the better half prevailed. Being a bartender, or even a bar owner like Mick, one must pick up a sixth sense for people, their moods, their wants. Without asking, Mick poured me an iced tea from a pitcher and dropped it down in front of me.
“We got fresh Mahi. Sandwich. Coleslaw,” he said, not so much delivering the daily specials as ordering for me. He nodded to himself and walked away toward the kitchen, and I sipped some iced tea, then dropped my forehead to the wooden bar. There was some kind of cleaning solution residue on it, and it burned my nose, but I stayed there, eyes closed, until the plate hit the bar beside me. Mick nodded and leaned back against the inside bar taps and watched me. I lifted my head to find a delicious-looking fish sandwich before me. It was simple, like Mick. Lightly toasted hoagie roll, wood-grilled Mahi, tartar sauce, tomato, Vidalia onion, a leaf of romaine. It was sensational, smoky from the wood fire, and I felt all the better for it.
“Thanks, Mick,” I said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Mick nodded. “Yep.”
Refreshed by a good meal and some sparkling conversation, I headed back to my office. I cruised by the monolithic county court building, casting its vast shadow over the parking lot into which I pulled. The lot sat between the court buildings and the new-construction office block that housed a multitude of small businesses, including one Lenny Cox Investigations. Lenny had left the business to me in his will, and since we already had the letterhead, I never changed the name.
The hybrid engine of the Escape kicked in, and the car fell silent as I backed into a space in the lot. I was slipping out of my seat belt when a big black truck skidded to a stop in front of my parking space. I couldn’t be burden-of-proof sure, but I was confident it was the same pickup that had cut me off in the Jai Alai and Casino parking lot. For a moment I was happy about that, ready to give them some verbal for their earlier indiscretion. But then my brain played catch-up, and I realized how suspicious it was that the same truck was in front of me now. I held off opening the door and left the key in the ignition, hand on the gear selector. The black truck had tinted windows, so I couldn’t see who was inside, but they weren’t in any hurry. The truck joggled some from the engine revs, clearly in need of a tune-up. Then the door opened, and I watched a large, pale, bald guy climb out gingerly. It was the guy from the fronton who had taken Desi’s money. He stepped one leg to the ground, then edged himself down, grimacing. He looked like a man with busted ribs. I saw his buddy, Redhead, come around the back of the truck, holding a handgun. It looked boxy and modern, squarish in shape, which made me think it was a Glock. That thought didn’t fill me with joy. I don’t like guns in the same way I don’t like cancer, or any other thing whose sole purpose is to kill me. But I particularly don’t like modern handguns with magazines. That’s pretty much triple the number of bullets of a six-shooter, which affected the odds against me dramatically. There was a car parked behind me, and the Boston boys’ truck was in front, so I wasn’t about to go anywhere in the Escape. Which made me curse the name of the SUV. You’d think if you drove such a car, it would at least do what it said on the rear liftgate and help me escape. No such luck. Baldy took position in front of the car, his maneuverability clearly affected by the kicking in the ribs. Redhead pointed the gun at me through the windshield. The courthouse threw a shadow across him, but even then I could see the two black eyes that Lucas had given him. His face was puffy, like a bad boxer.
It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill me. It wasn’t even the first time it had happened in this very parking lot, and I briefly wondered what the value was in being between the massive courthouse, the offices of the state attorney, and the local police station, if it was such a great spot to beat on someone. The thought didn’t linger though, because Redhead spoke.
“We lost our jobs because of you, you maggot!” He stood at the front corner of the car, driver’s side, gun at my head. I didn’t like where he was. The thing about guns is this: you have a chance if they are too far away to be accurate, or too close that you can disarm the shooter. But this guy was at just the right distance, where I couldn’t touch him, but he wasn’t going to miss, at least hitting the windshield. I put my foot on the brake and edged the selector into drive, and left my other hand on the door release. I couldn’t outrun a bullet, but I wasn’t going to sit there and take one, either. I edged my finger onto the window button and the electric motor pulled it down.
“Stop mumbling,” I said. “I can’t understand a word you say.”
“You’re a dead man!” screamed Redhead.
“What? You got sinus problems? Is your nose full of blood? I can’t understand your stupid Red Sox accent.”
I saw the guy grimace and that
it hurt. His head shuddered, like he was on a rollercoaster, and the gun wavered. He was mad, that much I could say. Generally I have a life rule that is the equivalent of don’t poke the bear. I broke that rule a lot. Here I was antagonizing a man who had a gun and very much wanted me dead. But to paraphrase Sherlock Holmes, if you eliminate all the sensible options, the last choice left, however ridiculous, is the one you have to run with.
Baldy said something I didn’t hear but looked, from my average lip-reading to be get him, and Redhead began snaking toward me. He moved along the front fender until he reached where the tire was. At that point he had a choice to make: keep aiming at me through the windshield, or move past the windshield pillar and aim through the open window. I leaned back in my seat as much as possible, pressing my head against the headrest, to help him make his choice. Then he chose. And he chose poorly.
As the gun and his eyes moved by the steel frame of the windshield, I knew his vision would momentarily refocus on the car, away from me. So I moved. At the same time, I lifted my foot from the brake and punched the accelerator, wrenching the door open with as much force as I could muster. The hybrid electric engine might have been quiet, but it lacked power, so things took an uncomfortable second to kick in. Then the vehicle lurched forward, crushing Baldy between it and the truck. He bellowed a scream as his femur and knees were smashed, and he was pinned, flopping forward onto the hood of the Escape. The door shot into Redhead, which would not have been a huge impact except for the movement of the car, which drove the steel panel into his midriff and knees. Despite what crash-test dummies would have us believe, cars don’t have a lot of give in them. Getting hit by a door at even five miles per hour is like a decent punch. Redhead buckled over and his upper body lurched through the open window. He tried to aim at the driver’s seat, but he was too slow, and I wasn’t there anymore. As the SUV hit the truck, I dove out the door. I now had a big metal barrier between the gun and me, so I scrambled on hands and knees along the side of the Escape, then behind the car parked beside it. I got to my feet and ran across the next row, dropping behind a sporty-looking Ferrari—no doubt the ride for someone making an appearance in the court across the road. I figured the Ferrari would give me the most time. Redhead was going to recover, and he would either set out after me or move my SUV to release his buddy. I wasn’t sure which, since I didn’t know the nature of their relationship. But either way, I figured when he came looking, he would go for the trucks first. They provided the biggest hiding spots, and drew the eye. No one in their right mind would hide behind a little sports car in a lot full of pickups. At least, that’s what I hoped he would think.
High Lie Page 11