Carter slipped on his jacket as Fiona gave her neck a light spray of Floret.
In the kitchen Mathilda was sitting in front of her little television watching the Catholic Channel.
“We’re off, Mattie,” said Fiona, checking the contents of her sequined black evening purse. “We should be back by midnight.”
“Shall I be leaving a little something for you in case you get hungry?” Mathilda was from Limerick.
“No, there’s no need. We’re having supper out.”
“Right you are. Have a lovely evening now.”
A limo was waiting in front of the building to take them the short ride across the park to Lincoln Center. The doorman opened and closed the door and respectfully touched his cap as they drove off.
17
The long flight down to South America had been endless with strong headwinds. On the connecting flight from Bogotá to Medellin, Max Bruschetti had been seated next to a fat woman smelling so strongly of fish and cheap talcum powder that he wanted to puke. As he walked from the plane into the terminal his neck and shoulders were stiff with tension. In the swaying taxi from the airport he had reminded himself that this was his last trip to this godforsaken place. It was too hot, too humid and too dangerous.
Once in his hotel room downtown he threw his case on the bed and went into the bathroom. Switching on the light, he washed his hands and face.
Minutes later in front of the hotel, Max approached two taxi drivers who stood smoking and waiting. He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket and said in Spanish, “I want to go to the Finca de los Caballos Blancos on the main road into Llano Grande. It’s close to the Hipico Club.”
Max noticed the younger driver give a flick of recognition at the name of the house. He asked him, “La conoce?”
The young man shrugged. “Sí, la conozco.”
Max nodded towards the two vehicles. “Que taxi?”
Both of them pointed at the first. Max opened the rear door and climbed in.
The young man flopped in behind the wheel. Using his horn to clear the roads ahead, he raced at breakneck speed through the streets as if challenging his passenger to ask him to slow down. Max ignored him and sat back in his seat. The road rose up through the valley and corrugated iron gave way to red brick and space began to appear between the buildings. Minutes later they crested the ridge and sped down towards Llano Grande. Max’s driver grunted and pointed to the right.
The Finca de los Caballos Blancos lay on a gently sloping hillside and at the end of a long sweeping driveway. Flanked by tall trees and fields of verdant grass, the walls were white, the doors and windows painted deep green. Around the main building stood stables, barns and a large circular exercise arena with a high pointed roof of Roman tile. The walls of the Finca were taking on a dusky orange hue as the sun lingered on the brow of the far hillside.
Some of the staff wore khaki pants and white open-necked shirts with brown leather cases for Ray-Ban sunglasses on every belt, the flaps trimmed off for easy access. A few wore ties and sports jackets. The menial tasks were being done by workers dressed in blue overalls and straw hats, some tending the gardens, others grooming or exercising the horses. One washed a white Jeep Cherokee parked in front of the main house.
To the casual observer this appeared to be a well-run horse farm. To Max it was an armed camp with no shortage of firepower. The Finca was said to possess a state-of-the-art torture chamber, but no one had ever come forth to confirm or deny the rumor. Several people had allegedly disappeared without a trace on the orders of the man he was about to meet. But all this was hearsay. The Hernandez family kept a low profile and avoided the flashy and fatal lifestyles of certain other families in Colombia.
The pastoral scene before him was a far cry from his last visit to the country. In the early days of their association, the Bruschettis only did small jobs for them along with a few black-bag operations. Nevertheless, Rodrigo Hernandez wanted Max to be aware of all aspects of the drug operation. It was at a time when the DEA was stepping up the pressure in the Miami sector. Max had been flown down to attend a meeting on the need for alternative routes.
The barred gateway swung open and they were waved through by a short man in a green jacket who spoke into a two-way radio. Max watched as the automatic gate swung behind them and sealed out the rest of the world. The taxi pulled up beside the Cherokee and Max leaned forward and paid his driver. As Max climbed out, the local insect population gave him an obstreperous welcome.
A green jacket stepped forward and signaled to the driver to leave. A second took Max’s bag and with a nod indicated that he should precede him up the front steps.
The high-ceilinged room into which Max was ushered was filled with magnificent upholstered furniture. Arrangements of flowers were everywhere. Wide-open arches ran the full length, giving a view of the garden. Two attractive women in their mid-thirties stood talking animatedly in Spanish. On the floor, four small children played with a toy garage, driving little cars noisily up and down the ramps, the eldest imperiously telling the others what to do.
On a terrace outside the last of the arches, a chef in a white hat was cooking at a built-in brick barbecue, sending clouds of white smoke into the surrounding ornamental bushes.
Although no one in the room was smoking, a suggestion of marijuana mingled with the rich odor of the roasting meat. A Persian cat licked itself high up on a sunny window ledge and two Saluki dogs lay draped on the rug in front of the vast fireplace.
A short man in casual white clothes sat at a table in the far corner with his concentration firmly fixed on what was passing from his plate to his stomach. Next to a plate of crepas was a long dish filled with a mixture of chopped meat, tomatoes and peppers. On a wide wooden board were piled freshly barbecued chorizo sausages, colorful salads and a variety of hot and cold vegetables. As this was not the man he had expected to meet, Max took a quick look around to see if he could spot anyone else, either in the room or out on the terrace. The man looked up, wiped his mouth with a huge white napkin and gave Max a wave.
“Señor Bruschetti! It is good to see you.” His voice was reedy and nasal. “Please take a seat. You must be hungry after your long flight. Please, come join me in a little sustenance.” He waved again, this time to a chair across the table.
“Thank you,” said Max, sitting down. Immediately a waiter in a white coat placed a rush mat in front of him. On it were neatly arranged cutlery, a napkin and two long-stemmed glasses. As one waiter left, another arrived with a tray on which were a small glass of aquardiente, a glass of water and a small plate of coconut. Max drank down the strong liquor in one gulp, ignored the water, but slipped a piece of the white nut into his mouth to reduce the heat.
His host smiled. The gold fillings in his front teeth glinted as he spoke.
“No doubt you are surprised to see me. I am sure you were expecting Rodrigo. Regrettably, since the extradition and incarceration of certain prominent members of our little fraternity and the demise of several others, it has been necessary to change the way we operate. But I hasten to assure you we are in business as usual; it is only some of our methods that have changed. Did you know we are now in the gold business? Yes, of course you did. A commodity that is proving surprisingly easy to control. I never thought that one day I would be concerned with the safety of miners!”
He laughed a little too loudly.
Max speared a couple of sausages, helped himself to some fresh sliced pimientos and took a bite. The flavor of the meat was delicious. Chorizos in Spanish Harlem never tasted like these.
“Good, eh?” his host asked proudly.
“Excellent,” answered Max, mopping the fat that trickled down his chin.
An arm waved towards the terrace. “Roberto is an artist at the grill. He’s from Venezuela. They make the world’s finest butchers and cooks.” Giving a chuckle, he whispered, “I had to strangle his last employer to get him!”
Max smiled. After exchanging a few
pleasantries about the weather in New York the little man quickly came to the point.
“Your message spoke of changes. As you are no doubt aware we do not take kindly to change. It leads to trouble and we prefer to avoid trouble whenever possible.”
“I’ve come to talk about ending our relationship,” said Max laying down his knife and fork. “I’m also aware that we’re only a part of your East Coast operation. You have many others who can take over. The time has come for the Bruschettis to hand over to someone else. I’m here to work out the best way to do it.”
His host raised his eyebrows and then after a moment asked, “And what made you come to this decision?”
“We are concerned about our moneyman,” said Max.
“Señor Carter Allinson?”
“Yes. I have a feeling he’s planning to quit. To retire. I think he’s had enough.”
The little man gave Max an amused smile. “As I remember, Señor Allinson was never too happy about the manner of his recruitment.”
“You know about that?”
“I try to know as much as I can about everything, Señor Bruschetti,” he answered. “Are you telling me he’s now a danger?”
Max continued. “No. Not at all. I don’t think so. It’s only that the time has come when we might have to replace him. That would mean setting up a whole new financial arrangement. I’m not absolutely sure we could do that securely.”
“I see.”
“The whole problem, and what it would take to solve it, makes us nervous. If you agree to what we are asking, I can guarantee a smooth changeover. Your security will not be breached at any level.”
A maid in a pale blue uniform appeared and shepherded the children off to bed. High-pitched protestations echoed along the corridor. A door was closed and order was restored.
His host folded his napkin and put it on the table. “What about the people that work for you? Can you trust them?”
“Anyone who works for us knows his job and only his job. They have no idea what anyone else does either above or below them,” replied Max. “There are one or two exceptions, and we’re making arrangements to terminate all of those.”
“Excellent,” said the little man, and he rose from the table.
“I appreciate your taking the time to make this trip, Señor Bruschetti. It is a long way to come for such a brief meeting. But better this way than all those ‘bits and bytes’ out there for all the world to download and analyze. So, my friend, Señor Rodrigo will be in touch one way or another. Do I make myself clear?”
“Completely,” replied Max,
A proprietary arm was draped over Max’s shoulder as they strolled across the room. “Now is there anything else we can do for you while you’re here? Any indulgence you might care to amuse yourself with before you leave? You have only to ask.”
Torture was not the only myth attached to the Finca. Sex was another. It was whispered that the big white house had seen some imaginative orgies. Max would have gladly indulged his fancy with either of the two women by the fireplace. Or both. But the reality of the offer would more likely be a whore in a seedy room back in town.
“You are very generous, señor,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I have to get back.”
“As you wish,” said his host with an understanding shrug.
They walked down the front steps to where a driver waited in the Cherokee. The two men shook hands and his host perfunctorily wished him a pleasant journey.
The center of the town was thick with traffic and they crawled along to the hotel. Until it was time to leave for the airport, Max lay on the bed fully clothed. Only on the plane back to New York did he finally catch up with his sleep.
At Newark Airport Enzo stood by the barrier outside the customs area. Benny was waiting for them in the parking lot. Both men climbed in.
“What did he say?” asked Enzo.
“Who?” said Max.
“Rodrigo,” said Enzo.
“I didn’t meet with Rodrigo,” Max answered. “It was another guy. Looked a bit like him. Probably a cousin. Tight little bastard. Never even told his name. I’ll tell you what happened, but first, you tell me about Rocco.”
“Good news,” said Enzo. “Santiago will be found in a male prostitute’s room. Sure to be a verdict of accidental death. Weird sex game gone wrong.”
“Jesus! He’s a clever bastard,” said Max, shaking his head. “What about Villiers?”
“For our friend the Colonel, Rocco is gonna make his death look like a political hit. He got a hold of a man called Eddie Ryan to carry it out.”
“A political hit? What the fuck is that all about?” asked Max.
Benny paid the parking and swung the big car out into traffic.
“Before he got married,” continued Enzo, “Colonel Villiers did active duty in Northern Ireland and apparently made himself pretty unpopular. It’s a good cover. Rocco asked me to ask if you thought he should wait a couple of days. He’s worried about the two killings so close together.”
“I don’t pay him to worry! Jesus! Why can’t anyone do what I ask?! When does Villiers get back?”
“I think he’s due back Thursday morning. First thing.”
“Then he gets whacked Thursday morning! First fucking thing!” said Max angrily.
“Max! We should…”
“For once will you just shut up and give me a goddam fucking phone!”
18
The Star Wars march rang out in the living room. Harry walked over and picked up his cellphone. Call-waiting showed him it was his agent, who came straight to the point.
“Sorry there, sport, but Lenny the casting person called to say that you didn’t get the part of Tex. Zergensky loved your interpretation and is looking forward to working with you on another project in the near future.”
Harry thanked Richie, hung up and sat motionless for almost a minute absorbing the rejection and accompanying bullshit.
Then he gave a deep sigh of frustration.
Did he really want to spend the rest of his life putting himself on the line at auditions only to be summarily rejected? Was that to be his future?
Not for the first time he wondered if it was time to quit. Move out of New York. Go somewhere a little more cost friendly. Possibly change his life completely. There must be something else besides acting that he could do in this world. But what?
To relieve a growing physical tension he went for a jog in Central Park. As he ran, he tried to concentrate on reasons to continue his career as an actor. Then he noticed his hand had begun to bleed. This reminded him of the jarring impact of the taxicab and the possibility that if he hadn’t had the presence of mind to leap upwards he could have been killed. This made him think that perhaps he had been too hasty in his decision to do nothing to prevent this Villiers being killed. But what could he do?
Taking the escalator down into the Whole Foods market on Columbus Circle, he chose a packet of large Band-Aids and covered up the open wound. He then took the opportunity to pick up a six-pack of Stella Artois and a few groceries.
Once back at his building, he extracted a wad of letters and magazines from his mailbox and climbed up. Dumping them onto the living room table, he went into the kitchen and put away the groceries and beer. His freezer compartment was almost full, so it was necessary to chip away some of the excess ice before he could squeeze in three packets of frozen macaroni.
Retrieving his cellphone, he located the list of things he had overheard and sent it to the printer on his desk. Picking up the single sheet, he flopped down on the sofa:
Carter
Julian
Amanda
Papa Aldo
Rivas
Rodrigo
Colombians
A colonel
A million and a half (dollars?)
Santiago
Bogotá
Max
Mews
Europe
Villiers
Dead meat
; Rocky
No delay
Channel Islands
Internet
Kensington
As he stared at the words it suddenly occurred to him that he could put in a call to Villiers. How stupid! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Glancing at his watch, he made a quick calculation. It would be late afternoon in London.
Harry had worked on location in the UK many times and knew that Kensington was in West London. As he didn’t have international calls activated on his cellphone, he walked back into the bedroom, sat down, picked up the landline and dialed 411. It took only a few seconds to be connected to overseas directory assistance.
“What number do you require?”
“Villiers,” said Harry. “In Kensington, London.”
“One moment please.” A pause. “There is more than one Villiers listed, sir. Do you have any other information?”
Harry thought fast. “Yes, I do. It’s in a Mews.”
“Thank you, sir. We show one in Kensington Mews.”
As Harry wrote down the number and address the operator asked, “Can I assist you with another number, sir?”
“No thank you,” said Harry. He pressed down the cradle, released it and without hesitating dialed the fifteen numbers. A phone on the other end began to ring. Harry was wondering what to say when a female said, “Villiers residence. May I help you?”
She sounded very proper. Very upper-crust.
Harry took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m calling from New York. For Mr. Villiers.”
“Colonel Villiers,” she corrected with emphasis. “I’m afraid he’s out of the country. Won’t be back until Thursday morning at eight thirty. Would you care to leave a message?”
“No. Thank you. No, I don’t think so. It can wait,” said Harry and he quickly replaced the receiver.
19
Once a Crooked Man Page 6