by Neil Russell
“Just down the road.”
“Then get a fuckin’ pen.”
I parked the silver Escalade I’d rented at the end of the cul-de-sac on Mercator Isle Drive. A sixtyish Jackie Benveniste sporting a salt-and-pepper ponytail opened the door of his gated, 1950s bungalow. He was dressed in yellow swim trunks and a purple Lakers jacket, sleeves pushed up. Jackie was linebacker-sized and going paunchy, but it looked like under the layer of good living, there was still some steel. Peeking out from behind him was a good-sized fawn boxer with four white paws.
“Meet Annie,” he smiled. “Seventy pounds of please-love-me.”
I bent down and the dog came to me, head down, wriggling everything at once. I scratched her behind the ears, and we were friends for life. Except for Benny Joe’s Dobermans, animals and kids always seem to like me. The rest of society…spotty.
Jackie said he was just hosing down the back patio, and I followed him and Annie through the house, which was crammed with stuff accumulated from a career spent over seas. Jackie, barefoot, walked with a slight side-to-side motion, which he explained over his shoulder as, “Para-trooper knees and maybe crawling out of one too many bars.” I liked the guy immediately.
The back of the house was solid glass, and when we stepped onto the patio, the view of the Pacific was so spectacular that it took me a second before I noticed the small, sunken spa off to the right, where a very buxom, very naked young lady lounged unself-consciously.
“Meet Nancy,” Jackie said, and Nancy smiled and waved. “This retirement shit should start when you’re seventeen,” he said and laughed.
Niguel Shores, a half-moon, terraced cove rising along the Pacific, was once the playground for aerospace engineers working at firms along the Orange Coast. They built their modest weekend retreats on this remote stretch of beach, partied hard and talked shop. In their backyards, over burgers and Pabst and sometimes a little wife-swapping, they planned space missions and invented breakthrough aircraft.
If you were a Soviet spy in those days, the very best duty on the planet was being asked to infiltrate this community of SoCal engineers. It was one of America’s finest hours, and one nobody took the time to record.
The few remaining pioneers, now heading into the sunset, have watched their five-thousand-dollar lots appreciate to $3 million or more, which means the biggest thing they have to worry about is wiping up the drool when their heirs come to visit. Some of the homes that have been torn down and replaced reach into eight figures.
Jackie’s was one of the unimproved ones. He said it was owned by a Lockheed Skunk Works widow who had recently gone into assisted living but wouldn’t let the place be sold until she was dead. “Said she needed to be able to dream about coming home, even if she wasn’t going to be able to. You’d fall over if you knew the rent I was paying. She thought I reminded her of her husband.”
I looked out at the 180° view of the ocean, broken only by three palm trees further down the hill, and asked if he’d gotten an option to buy.
“On State Department retirement pay? Shit, why break my own heart. I’m just hoping she has a long, happy stay in the home.”
He turned off the hose, and we sat in a couple of comfortable deck chairs on either side of a teak table facing the water. Two hundred yards in the distance and seventy-five feet down, breakers thundered against the wide, deserted beach. Annie curled up next to her master and went to sleep. There was an icy pitcher of lemonade on the table, and Jackie poured us each a glass. I took a sip. Good.
“Benny Joe said you need some info. Want me to send Nancy inside?”
I looked over at the young lady, oblivious to us, playing with a water jet. “I don’t think she’s much of a security risk.”
Jackie chuckled. “I sure as hell hope not. No telling what I’ve said.”
I went through everything that had happened, leaving out nothing. When I finished, he pointed to a long one-story house further down the cliff. “See that place?”
I nodded.
“They were on Egypt Air 990. Lifetime dream to see the Pyramids. Everybody says they were wonderful people. Yet here I sit, a guy with no right to be alive, enjoying the view they should be. No fuckin’ order in the universe.”
“Marcus Aurelius would say you’re here because you’re supposed to be.”
“Then let’s go with Mr. Aurelius.” He laughed. “Benny Joe tell you I was born on Corse, and I’m a hard case?”
“Pisses him off you don’t say Corsica.”
“I can go either way on that, but I like jerking his chain. Where do you want to start?”
“I’ve visited a couple of times, and it didn’t seem like a hotbed of Jewish culture.”
“That’s an understatement. A hundred families and one synagogue on the whole fuckin’ island, and not one gravestone that doesn’t have a swastika painted on it. There’ve been Jews there since the beginning of recorded history, and through most of it, somebody’s been trying to run us out. My, but we are a stubborn people.”
“Lot of ignorance in the world.”
“Fuckin-A. That’s State Department talk for, ‘If I didn’t get weekends off, I’d cash out.’”
A phone rang in the house, and Jackie held up his hand so he could listen to the message machine. It was somebody named Doris inviting him and Nancy for drinks and hors d’oeuvres at seven.
“Nance, you want to go over there and get groped by that dame’s husband again?”
“Sure, why not. Long as I come home with you. You love those little shrimp things they serve,” she called back cheerily.
Jackie looked back at me. “Is this fuckin’ great or what?”
I was happy for the guy.
“Okay,” he said, “let me give you in a few sentences what it takes diplomats and presidents years to figure out. On Corsica, whether it’s separatists, terrorists, nationalists, revolutionaries…whatever…sooner or later everything intersects with the Mafia. Not the fat guys at the big tables on Mott Street in Manhattan. They’re dangerous, but they’re one-at-a-time killers. Corsica’s run by the originals, the Sicilians. Guys who a lot of times can’t get on the same page long enough to steal because they’re too busy whacking cops, mayors, prosecutors and each other. As many as possible, as often as possible. Those of us who made our living keeping track of them used to say that ‘Go along, get along’ can’t even be translated into Sicilian.”
“Who runs the show?”
Jackie poured himself another glass of lemonade.
“Guy by the name of Gaetano Bruzzi. They call him Il Iena Bianco.”
“‘The White Hyena’?”
He nodded. “Huge fucking guy. Long mane of curly white hair. Not old man’s hair. Just white. And a mouthful of oversized teeth that push back his lips in a perpetual grin. Like those Chupacabra pictures that scare the shit out of Mexicans. If you hung Bruzzi’s mug shot at the border you’d probably end illegal immigration.”
I thought back to Marta Videz. A very tall, very anchuro man. Long white hair. Much teeth.
Jackie continued, “And just like Chupie, when he bites, it’s for keeps—in more ways than one. A few years ago, one of his crew smuggled in a pair of hyenas for his birthday—real ones. Bruzzi thought it was the best gift he’d ever gotten. Just the idea of it gave people the shits.”
“If that catches on, what’ll we do with all the unemployed Rottweilers?”
Jackie laughed. “The guy had some regrets, though. Bruzzi caught him with his hand in the till. Tied a couple of dead chickens around his neck and put him out with his gift. Told him to see how fast he could run. The answer was, not very.”
“Hyenas can really fuck up an apartment, so where does Ghandi of the Med live?”
“Ghandi of the Med. You woulda fit right in at State. We liked to put shit like that in open cables to drive the political guys crazy. He’s got five thousand acres of vineyards up near Apollonica. North of Bonifacio. Rumor has it he’s added more hyenas too. Probably up to a pack now, though I
think officially it’s called a cackle.”
“You’re kidding. The guy’s a vintner?”
“He’ll tell you he makes the best wines on the island. But that’s on the Bruzzi scale. There is some okay stuff around, but it’s on the west coast. Bruzzi’s…well, you can wash your feet in it. But that doesn’t keep restaurants from stocking it once they consider the alternative.”
“Hyenas,” I said. “The gift that keeps on giving.” I thought I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway. “Would it be unusual for him to be in the United States?”
“Never happen.”
“Why?”
“First off, even though Bruzzi loves a party, and let’s face it, Corsica isn’t on anybody’s hot list, he never leaves Europe. Doesn’t trust his lieutenants enough to be too far away. He also knows that if we got our hands on him, we’d take him someplace nice and quiet and waterboard him until his asshole bled. And after we’d drained him dry of intelligence, we’d forget where we put the key.”
“But if he was here?”
“Money. That’s the only reason. Colossal money.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I interrupted your class on Corsica.”
He chuckled. “So you did. The white headband, or tortil, is associated with the FLNC, an organization that officially began in the 1970s but whose roots go back to the thirteenth century. It’s one of dozens of quasi-political factions that merge, reorganize, splinter, sometimes even disappear for years—but always come back.
“A red tortil and a spider tattoo identify members of Les Executeurs, a group of criminals known as much for their violence as their politics. They imprint their made members with the head and body of a local black widow, U Malmignattu, nicknamed the Bonifacio Executioner. Then the guy gets to add a leg every time he kills.”
“Manhood,” I said. “Who wants to walk around sporting a legless Executioner.”
“You’re more right than you know. Les Executeurs’ motto is ‘Corsica for Corsicans,’ but since nobody really knows what a Corsican is, it gets confusing. Mostly, what they really mean is everybody on the mainland should die and everybody in Paris should die twice—which doesn’t exactly make them unique. Half of Washington feels the same way. If Napoleon hadn’t been born there, the French would have cut the place loose years ago. Basically, it’s Chechnya with better weather.”
“Putting Bruzzi aside, can you think of a reason any of these guys would be in Los Angeles?” I asked.
“I’ve been out of the loop. But whatever a Corsican’s political jones is, he’s still got to make a living and do some avenging whenever possible. And if he’s not into waiting tables, that means working for the Sicilians. So it could be drugs, could be a three-hundred-year-old vendetta, could be a disagreement over a pack of Chiclets. To those murderous, superstitious fucks, it’s all the same. If it moves, kill it. My guess is, though, that it’s a onetime thing. Do the job, go home. They’re not world travelers.”
“You said superstitious? About what?”
“Neither of us has enough years left to get through the list. Let’s just say they’re like gypsies on acid. You say Tino likes knives?”
“And he’s no rookie.”
“Hey, Nance, you know that box in my study, on the shelf next to the Culinaria books? Can you get it for me, please.”
“Sure, Jackie.” Nancy got out of the spa, and she was a vision. “I’m going to get a beer while I’m in there. Either of you want one?”
We didn’t, and she went in the house. A minute or so later, she was back with a bottle of Sierra Nevada and an eighteen-inch-long, polished wood box with a crest on it. She set it on the table and went back to the spa.
Jackie pointed to the crest, a gold shield bracketed by a pair of mother-of-pearl cherubs. And in the center was a left-facing, black enamel head wearing a white tortil. Sort of an edgy cameo. Jackie pointed. “Testa di Moru, the Moor’s Head. You see it everywhere on the island, even on the flag.”
I picked up the box. It was a little like looking at Tino, just darker.
Jackie went on. “There’s considerable debate about why it’s black. The usual answer is that it symbolizes rebellious slaves or medieval African soldiers, sometimes referred to as Moors. But since there’s no consensus on exactly what a Moor was, and versions of the head are found on coats of arms throughout Europe, it’s a mystery without a solution. The face is usually depicted with features atypical to Af ricans, so I think it’s entirely possible an artist somewhere along the line intentionally made it dark to showcase the tortil…which is as good an answer as any.”
Jackie opened the box and turned it toward me. Inside, in green velvet, lay a foot-long knife with a gently curved blade very similar to the one Tino had flashed at me on the freeway. The handle on this one was ivory, and there was no question that the blade was razor sharp.
“Beautiful workmanship,” I said.
“Some people think they make the best knives in the world. And since the French won’t let a Corsican anywhere near a gun, the kids there grow up handling them as naturally as an American teenager with a Nintendo.”
As I picked up the knife, I remembered Walter Kempthorn. The balance was perfect. Even though Delta training includes knives, I wasn’t a fan. If you’re that close to an enemy, something has already gone wrong. And knives aren’t efficient. Unless you make a perfect cut in one of a very few places, it takes a long time and a lot of wounds to just slow someone down, let alone kill them.
Most professionals I know feel the same way, but there are a few who walk a different road. They almost always do so in life as well. Loners. There’s something about a guy who likes knives that subconsciously tells other people to keep their distance.
Jackie must have been reading my mind. “A Corsican doesn’t stick his enemy. He slices at muscles, tendons, ears, anything that will terrorize. Sometimes they purposely leave victims dying, but alive…let them bleed out thinking about it. The rule is, if you come across a Corsican with a knife, shoot him. If you can’t do that, get the hell away, fast.”
Suddenly, Annie bolted out of her sleep and ran over to the edge of the patio, putting her head over the short wall, snarling and barking. Jackie and I leaned forward and looked down. Thirty feet below us, on another cul-de-sac, a golden retriever was prancing along beside his owner, oblivious.
Nancy called out, “Bet it’s the retriever.”
Jackie yelled back, “Yep.” To me, he said, “For some reason, she can’t stand retrievers. But then, she’s German, so there doesn’t have to be logic involved.”
I stood up, and after saying good-bye to Nancy, Jackie walked me around the side of the house. Annie darted ahead of us. At the gate, I said, “Since you didn’t say anything when I mentioned it, I gather City of War doesn’t ring any bells.”
Jackie shook his head. “I was thinking about it while we talked. Never heard that one before.”
I told him I was going to invite him up to the yacht club for a sunset cruise one of these days.
“You’re on,” he said. “I’ll see if we can dig up some clothes for Nance. And come back if you need anything else. Just call first,” he winked. “At this age, I’m unpredictable.”
When I got back to the boat, Archer and Brittany were playing Buddy Holly at eardrum-piercing level, laughing, dancing and trying on clothes. Boxes and shopping bags were strewn everywhere, and I saw that Archer had gotten her hair done so that it swept over her right eye again. She still wore my Ray-Bans though.
She saw me eyeing the mess and shouted. “That’s the problem with working in the fashion industry, you’re never shopped out. By the way, three guys came by with a cart and loaded a bunch of food in both refrigerators. You having a party?”
I turned down the music and said, “I thought we might take a run down the coast. Get you out of circulation for a while.”
“How long?”
“Till we get bored.”
“Just the two of us?”
“That a problem?”
“No, but how am I going to show off my new clothes?”
“When the mood strikes, we’ll hit some restaurants.”
“Terrific. This morning, I called a neighbor and asked him to check on the house. Everything’s fine. The doors were even locked. I’ll call back and ask him to keep an eye on the place. He’s home a lot because he’s got a bum knee.”
Gary, I thought. He’d already been around to see Archer. He’d be really happy to know I was involved again. “Just don’t tell him where you are,” I said.
As Brittany left, she turned to me, winked and gave a thumbs-up.
18
Doritos and Buffalos
As I was preparing to move the Sanrevelle out of her slip, I asked Archer, “You know anything about boats?”
She pointed to the bow. “That’s the front.”
I rolled my eyes exaggeratedly. “Okay, your job is to watch the stern—that’s the other front—and sing out if you see anything coming.”
“Cool.”
“Cool is not a nautical term.”
“It is now.”
We left the harbor and rode out into a calm sea. Sunset was still an hour away, but the light was already playing tricks on the water, and a pair of pelicans was making runs at something just below the surface. It was a marvelous night to be alive.
Archer brought us a couple of beers, and we sat in the captain’s chairs and enjoyed the ride. No conversation necessary. Half an hour later, I made a long, gentle turn to the south. The sun was now dead ahead, and it was so large and red that it didn’t seem real.
“I can’t believe how beautiful this is,” said Archer. “I haven’t felt this good in more years than I care to count. Thanks, Rail. I really mean it, thanks.”
“None necessary. It’s always a better experience shared.”
She reached over and put her hand in mine. “Do you mind? I just want to touch someone for a while.”
I didn’t, and we rode that way for a long time.
It had been dark for an hour when Archer went below. A few minutes later, she returned with two Serrano ham sandwiches on hard-crusted Spanish bread, dressed up with Mahon cheese, portobellos, arugula and fresh tomatoes. Archer had drizzled on the olive oil and balsamic vinegar that Emilio had packed separately. On the side was a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, which I’m a sucker for, and some of the best guacamole this side of Guadalajara. He’d also sent along a bottle of ’98 Capçanes Cabrida to wash everything down.