The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  "Jack Barnett," I said, sticking out my hand. "With two t's."

  He didn't take it. Instead, Madden said, "Jack, this is Detective Bolino, my partner." He slightly emphasized the word "partner" to let me know this guy was for real, and therefore not to be messed with.

  "I know who you are," Bolino said in a snarling New York accent. "You're the wannabe private eye who keeps getting in our way."

  Another New Yorker full of himself. I thought I left those idiots behind me years ago when I went to California. You know the type. I'm from the streets of New York. Therefore, I am God and you are shit.

  "You may not believe this, Detective, but I know who you are, too."

  He looked at Madden, the lines between his eyebrows pointing straight up and the corners of his unevenly-shaped mouth turning straight down. "We got ourselves a wise guy here, don't we, Frank?"

  Madden replied, "He's all right, Nick. It's like I told you, he's uncovered a lot of information for us while working on this case."

  "Who hired you?" Bolino said. His attitude was way out in front of him, like a "coming attractions" ad.

  "None of your business."

  "I'll make it my business, asshole! This is a murder investigation. I can take you in right now for withholding evidence."

  I squared my shoulders and made sure he saw me do it. "I'm not withholding anything. I've told Frank everything I know about this case. Go on. Ask him!"

  "He's been cooperative, Nick," Madden said. "Let him alone."

  Bolino ranted on, threatening me with this and that in his annoying New York voice for a few more moments. Meanwhile, I took my first good look around the condo. It looked like the work of the same guy who did Sandra Blake's house. My first thought was, I wondered how he got past all the clipboard cops at the gate and the front desk.

  Everything was torn up and flipped over. A wet bar over in the corner was completely overturned, and what looked like Colby's wine storage area was virtually destroyed, wine bottles thrown around, some broken. Big red splotches stained his plush carpeting. The replacement cost on that alone was going to be serious.

  Bolino was wasting a lot of time asking Colby things like who, if anyone, knew he was going out for the evening, and that kind of crap. I said, "You know, everyone in this room knows who did this, or at least," — I looked right at Bolino — "they should know."

  All eyes and all heads turned slowly toward me. I gave them an are-you-kidding-me look before I said, "Are you kidding me? You really don't know who did this?"

  Madden said, "You pinning this on Olivera, Jack?"

  "Well, shit, Frank, it's not too obvious, is it? Look around." I made a sweeping motion with my arm, covering the whole place. "Nothing of any value was stolen. The TV, the computer … not taken. Your jewelry's probably still here, right, Colby?" He nodded. "They wanted the wine. Of course, Olivera didn't do it personally. My guess is his cousin, Marco Antonio Calzado, who looks like no stranger to the other side of the law, farmed it out to a couple of Miami second-story pros. Guys who could get past the security boobs that work downstairs." I let that sit there and ripen for them.

  Bolino said, "Why're we paying any attention to this jerkoff, Frank? Unless … unless" — he pointed at me — "he's got the wine. He's got the goddam wine!"

  "Save it, pal. You've been watching too many episodes of Law And Order", I said. I looked over at Madden. "Get this guy to snap out of it, Frank. I don't have the wine. I'll tell you the same thing I told Olivera. Come on over to my place and I'll show you around. There isn't much to see, and you'll eventually realize I don't have the damn stuff!" Then, I added, "Frankly, I'm expecting Olivera to take me up on my offer. He can't afford to overlook me. If I were you, I'd do the same thing."

  The two cops went into a huddle. While they did that, I lowered my voice and asked Colby, "Time to tell me what you know about the wine."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, tell me everything you know about it, starting with when it was made, and moving right on up to who else knew the story on it."

  He rubbed his pale hands together, while he looked down at the floor. He was nervous, but I wrote that off to his reaction to the burglary. Seeing your home wrecked like that can do things to a person.

  Finally, he said, "It's a very rare wine. Château Mouton, 1945. They call it the Liberation Vintage. Not much of it was made." From there, he went into the story of the Frenchman giving it to Blake, then Blake leaving it at Sandra's house after their divorce. He also echoed Olivera's sentiments about its awesomeness and rarity.

  "Did Sandra know what it was worth then? When they divorced, I mean?"

  "I don't think so. Neither she nor Blake really paid much attention to it. I think he left it there because she was a wine drinker and he wasn't. Or at least, that's how it looked to me."

  "Go on." By now, the cops had finished their little private talk, and had moved on to inspecting the rest of the damage.

  "Anyway, that was about a year ago when they divorced. In fact, exactly a year ago. October of '02. Not long after that, Sandra and Ryan began dating. But it wasn't until around Christmas that Olivera entered the picture, and the whole thing with the wine heated up."

  "What happened?"

  "He bought that Silverstone condo from Sandra right around then. Somewhere in there, she mentioned the wine, you know, that she had it. When she told him it was Mouton '45, he went crazy. That's when he told her it was very valuable." Colby's nervous edge subsided a little. His shoulders relaxed and he said, "He offered to buy it from her right then and there — a lowball offer, I'm sure — but she refused. I think she began to feel that if it was that valuable, then Blake should be the one to profit from it. It was given to him originally, and like I said, she felt it belonged to him. That's the kind of woman she was."

  I nodded at that and said, "That's some kind of woman, all right."

  Colby agreed. "Then she let it slip that Blake was trying to assemble some land downtown. He'd been quietly putting that together since about a year before they divorced, so she knew what it was all about. She knew he was going to sell it to Silquist, who wanted to build a baseball stadium."

  I decided not to let on that Silquist was fronting for Blake. If Colby didn't already know that, there was no need for me to tell him. Plus Blake had sworn me to secrecy on it.

  Instead, I said, "So that's when Olivera rushed out and bought that little strip of land in the middle of all Blake's parcels, right before Blake could get his hands on it."

  "Right. At the very beginning, Olivera wanted that little piece just so he could sell it to Blake cheap, provided Blake threw in the wine. But then he got to thinking, he could turn the whole thing around and make it his project."

  "You mean, get a hold of Blake's land, build the stadium, and move the Marlins to Las Vegas."

  Colby gave me a slow nod. "Olivera's a very sharp businessman, you know. It didn't take him long to put two and two together. Pay Blake a fortune for his land and the wine, much more than the land alone would've been worth — sort of like a deal Blake couldn't refuse. It was a big, big scheme, but for him, you know, it all really hinged on the wine."

  I said, "The deal was worth close to half a billion dollars for him. That had to be his focus, right?"

  "Well, sure. But he never took his eye off the wine. He really wants it."

  I figured there was no need in mentioning that Sandra and Olivera were having a torrid affair right under Ryan's nose.

  "Thanks, Colby. You've been a big help." I brought my voice down a couple of notches, leaning in toward his ear. "Now try not to let this Bolino get under your skin, all right?"

  His nerves returned at the mention of Bolino's name and he let go with a nervous nod. Under people's skins was a place where dickheads like Bolino spent a lot of their time.

  The cops came back from their search. Bolino spoke. "What do you know about this that you're not letting on, Barnett?"

  I sighed. "I told you everything,
including the fact that Olivera is behind this break-in, as well as the break-ins at the homes of Sandra Blake and John Brendan Blake. Maybe even the two murders. Like I said earlier, I suspect I'm next. For a break-in, that is."

  He said, "Get your ass out of here and don't ever let me see you again."

  I looked at Madden. "Frank, I'm telling you, you better get this guy out of my face."

  Bolino lunged for me, fists high. "Why you piece of shit, I'll —" I quickly squared off into fighting stance, but Madden grabbed him at the last split-second, holding him at bay. Bolino struggled to break free from Madden's grasp, but Madden was by far the bigger man, with his arms firmly around Bolino's chest.

  "Keep this fucker away from me, Frank!" I shouted, still ready to mix it up. Of course, I hoped Madden would do exactly the opposite and turn him loose so I could rip that fucking sneer right off his New York face.

  "Don't do it, Nick," he warned him, grappling to restrain Bolino's lunging figure. "Take it easy." Madden continued his firm grip until Bolino settled down. Then he turned to me and said, "Better clear out, Jack."

  I told Colby I'd be in touch and left. Out in the parking lot, I noticed the Ferrari I'd parked next to was gone.

  To an all-night car wash, I was sure.

  27

  I went back to Martine's to spend the night. The trip to the dam, our afternoon delight, topped off by my stressful visit to Colby Farrow's condo … shit, I was completely worn down. Sleep called, and I answered.

  When I awoke, Martine was still asleep, so I quietly got dressed and tiptoed out the door. I wanted to get back home, because I was sure Olivera's men were probably still in town, and had likely paid me a visit during my twenty-four hour absence.

  The day was warm, like the day before, with no wind. I peeled my jacket off before getting in my car, then pulled in a big dose of fresh autumn air. Once I fired my engine up, I rolled down the window, and made the drive home. I turned on the radio, searching for something that suited my mood, but I got nowhere. Mindless pop, mindless rap, more mindless rap, more mindless pop. While I cursed commercial radio, I landed on a station that was just finishing up its news.

  "— cording to the mayor, the stadium could be ready for the 2006 season. Turning to national news, in Washington today, federal sources report —" Click.

  I turned on the speed. Before I knew it, I swung into the parking lot of my apartment complex and into my assigned spot. Leaping out of the car, I saw my newspaper sitting outside my door. At least, no one had stolen it. I hurried inside, noticing right away that everything was still in place. There had been no burglary, not even a hint of the smash-and-slash wreckage I saw at Sandra Blake's and Colby Farrow's.

  Moving straight to the kitchen to make coffee and toast, I unfurled the paper. There it was on page one, above the fold, spanning the page:

  TENTATIVE STADIUM DEAL ANNOUNCED

  Major League Baseball in LV's future?

  I read the article quickly for the general thrust of the story, then, as the coffee was percolating, reread it much more slowly to get the between-the-lines shit that most people miss. The mayor, unable to contain herself over the mere possibility of a big league team moving to town, held a news conference yesterday afternoon in which she said that "plans were being developed" for a stadium "in the vicinity of downtown". She didn't mention Blake or Olivera by name, but said she'd had "talks with ownership" of an unnamed team. Those talks were aimed at "moving the team to Las Vegas", she said.

  She also claimed to have had "frank discussions" with Major League Baseball's upper management, who would ultimately have to greenlight the entire affair.

  In addition, she chirped loudly that the city was "prepared to put up a small portion of the stadium funding" in order to "fully share in its revenue". This would only happen, she said, once the "land issues" were settled, which she predicted would be any day now. She also hinted darkly at the possibility of "necessary city intervention" to settle these issues, should the parties involved be unable to "come to an agreement".

  This of course, meant eminent domain. In case of a deadlock, the city was just going to take the land from one of the parties — paying for it, naturally — then sell it to the other so the stadium could be built. The bottom line was that there were no real promises made. It just amounted to a lot of vaporous teasing, hard to grab onto.

  One thing was for sure, though. These headlines did not make Mr Black happy.

  My coffee was ready. I poured it and drank some immediately. It got my brain started.

  I couldn't blame the mayor, really, for blabbing this to the media. Mayors are supposed to be world-class cheerleaders for their respective cities. I needed a different perspective, however, so I phoned Blake at his office. They put me through.

  "Jack, you'll have to make it quick. I'm very busy." His silky voice glided through the phone lines like a pool ball across a smooth green felt table on its way to a leather pocket.

  "I assume you've seen the paper today?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "What do you think?"

  Without missing a beat, he said, "Mayor Niekamp's just showing off. Trying to build public sentiment, and mostly, trying to shovel some positive news out there to make herself look good. Hoping, of course, to make people forget all the negative stuff that she's been responsible for."

  "She implied she would use eminent domain to settle the issue. Presumably against you."

  "She only said that to keep Olivera happy. He thinks this whole thing is in the bag now."

  I had to admit, it looked to me like it was, too. "You're not worried?"

  "Did you see that part about her 'frank discussions' with Major League Baseball?"

  "Yeah, I saw it." I took another sip of my coffee.

  "What does that tell you?"

  "That she talked with them and let them know this deal was cooking."

  "Wrong. It means she told them of the deal and they dumped cold water on it. 'Frank discussions' is code for 'major disagreements'."

  "What are baseball's objections?"

  "Ha! You really don't know?"

  Well, once he said that, of course, I realized I did know. But Blake continued. "The presence of gambling, especially legalized sports betting, is the main reason we don't have any big league sports teams in this town. I'm not saying it can't be done, and baseball is the one sport most likely to come here, but it's going to take a lot more than Olivera's pretty promises. It'll require some tough jawboning with the baseball establishment. And Niekamp knows it. I'm not sure if she's up to it. And frankly, neither is she."

  "No? Well, won't that shatter your entire deal? I mean, if she can't convince the lords of baseball to come here, then there's no need to build a stadium, right?"

  "Don't forget, baseball's got to look tough, especially in this stage of the deal. They can't look like they're too anxious to jump in bed with Niekamp and Las Vegas when the land isn't even put together for the stadium yet. Having said that, though, they're still not going to lay down for her even when the time comes."

  I said, "So what can you do about it?"

  "When the land and the financing are in place, and when Niekamp makes her pledge in writing to commit the city to their share of the funding — and remember, she hasn't done that yet — then the Marlins ownership will pick up the ball. They'll say they want to come here and that nothing will stop them, especially once they get a load of the plastic model of the shiny new stadium. Not even the baseball commissioner would be able to stop them if every last detail is in place. He'll get concessions out of Niekamp, of course, but he won't stand in the way of the deal."

  "By the way, Colby Farrow's condo was broken into last night. It was pretty well demolished."

  He thought for a moment. "My house, then Sandra's, now Farrow's. You better take care of yourself, Jack. They'll probably get around to you pretty soon."

  "I know." And I really did know.

  "The wine is still safe, is it not?"
<
br />   "I told you before, don't worry about it. It's where Olivera can never find it."

  "Yes, but maybe he could use … persuasive means to induce you to tell him where it is."

  I didn't like where that was leading, so I closed it off. "He's not getting the wine."

  "Glad to hear it. Just be careful. I'll call you soon."

  As I poured another cup of coffee, I didn't feel at all comfortable with what Blake had said. I went into my bedroom, to my dresser, and opened the top drawer. There, silently awaiting me, lay my .357 SIG in its gleaming black leather shoulder holster. I pulled it out, leaving the holster in the drawer, then checked the magazine. Full to the brim. I put two extra loaded magazines in my pocket, and I moved back to the living room, where I placed the weapon on the coffee table.

  Then I settled into the couch to watch TV.

  28

  Darkness drew down over the city as I watched the fourth game of the World Series. The Marlins had jumped out to a quick 3-0 lead, but the Yankees scored a run later on, making it 3-1 going into the top of the ninth. I was by now sitting up straight, eyes glued to the TV screen. As the commercials were airing, my cell phone rang. I answered it right away, without even looking at the caller ID. I wanted this call to be over immediately.

  "Jack! Jack!" Martine's anguish came through loud and clear.

  "Mar — what is it? What?"

  "Jack! My apartment! It's been burglarized! They — they just tore it up. They — oh, God! It's awful!" I could hear the tears. She teetered on the brink of hysteria.

  "First tell me, are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm fine. But my apartment! Oh, it's —" The tears flowed harder.

  "I'll be right over. Did you call the cops?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "Well, call this number." I gave her Madden's cell number. "It's Detective Madden. He'll answer the call. Tell him I said for you to call him."

  I hung up. For a moment, I considered strapping on my .357, but decided against it. The cops would be there, so I didn't need to complicate things by showing up carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. Instead, I returned the weapon to its place inside my dresser drawer, then raced out to my car.