The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  I noticed that even Calzado wore a wide grin. You couldn't blame them. They were part owners of the world champions of baseball.

  He turned his attention back to Blake. "So, Mr Blake. Are we ready to do business?" He continued smiling.

  "We are." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Calzado opened their briefcase, handing Olivera the necessary documents. They exchanged a few of them, looked them over, then talked back and forth about the broad outlines of the deal. Olivera had a couple of questions, which Blake answered to his satisfaction, then they examined the papers some more. After about ten minutes of this, during which time No-Sleeve Steve and Calzado sat motionless, they whipped out their pens and started signing. Once the signatures were in all the right places, Calzado handed Olivera a cashier's check, which he in turn gave to Blake. Blake looked it over and they shook hands.

  Olivera then said, "And the wine?"

  Blake looked at me. "Jack, would you please get the wine for Mr Olivera?"

  I went to the closet and put on my jacket. "I'll be back in about twenty-five minutes," I said. No one objected, so out I went.

  Julius still sat in the Escalade. He nodded at me as I got in my car, as though he knew everything that was going on. I hightailed it over to Ronnie's.

  The drive was mercifully quick, since my shoulder was starting to act up. Pain shot out through my upper chest and down my left arm as I tried to maneuver the steering wheel. When I got to Ronnie's, he was there, as he told me he would be. After he asked me what happened to my arm, and after I told him the very short version, he pointed to the wine in the corner of his apartment, still unopened. I asked him if he would carry it to my car for me. He obliged.

  About ten minutes later, I pulled up into my empty spot in front of my apartment. When I walked in the door, everyone was exactly where I'd left them. Blake and Olivera had been chatting, but that all stopped the instant I entered the room. Olivera leaped from his seat and said, "Where is it?"

  I pointed to my bum wing under my sweatshirt. "In my back seat. You'll have to get it."

  He and Calzado rushed outside to my car, gingerly pulling the old wooden case from the rear seat. As they brought it inside, Olivera said something to Calzado in Spanish. Olivera asked me to push my coffee table to one side, as they placed the box on the floor in front of the couch. Calzado reached inside the briefcase, his hand coming out with a long, thick, flathead screwdriver. Olivera took it, then started to pry open the first nail on the case.

  A few minutes later, he removed the final nail. As he lifted the lid, his grin disappeared from his face. Calzado moved to the edge of his seat on the couch. Apprehension was all over the both of them, as he reached into the case and pulled out a magnum-sized bottle of Gallo White Zinfandel. Looking deeper into the case, he saw five more bottles just like it.

  Olivera looked around the room like he had just become the butt of a practical joke. "What the fuck is going on, Blake. Where the hell is the Château Mouton?"

  Blake pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and punched in one number. "Okay, Julius. Bring it in."

  "You better have some answers for me," Olivera said. In a moment, I thought I might see steam coming out his ears, and maybe a gun coming from somewhere on Calzado's person.

  Blake responded. "Mr Olivera, some time ago, I decided in the interests of all concerned, that I would take the Mouton out of the case and keep it somewhere else. To make sure it was … safe. If you get my meaning."

  "Safe?"

  Blake remained calm. "Yes. It's very valuable wine, as you know, and I was fairly certain it would be included in our land deal, no matter which way that went. So I just wanted to protect it. To make sure no one would steal it. I've been keeping it in proper wine storage facilities at another location here in the city."

  I took all this in, smiling to myself at Blake's cunning. He knew all along what the wine was worth, and once he got wind of Olivera's itch to get it, he pried open the case himself — or more likely had it done by someone who knew how to pry it open and then nail it shut again without leaving any traces. Then he switched it out for the cheap shit, just in case anyone got any big ideas of stealing it. He probably went over to Sandra's house to do it at a time when he knew she wouldn't be home. Meanwhile, the whole world continued thinking this million-dollar case of wine is sitting in a tiny pantry off her kitchen.

  At that moment, Julius walked in, carrying a wooden box a little smaller than the Mouton case. It looked well-constructed, but homemade.

  "The wine," Blake said, "is in that box. Three magnums of it."

  Olivera picked up the screwdriver again and anxiously pried it open, while Julius went over to stand behind No-Sleeve Steve. Inside were three objects, each wrapped in what looked like a black woolen sweater covered with heavy gauge bubble wrap. Olivera carefully removed one of the objects, sweater and all, placing it between him and Calzado on the couch. After some fast instructions in Spanish by Olivera, Calzado placed his hands a few inches on either side of the object to prevent it from rolling around, Olivera slowly unwrapped the bubble wrap and the sweater to reveal a magnum of Liberation Vintage Château Mouton.

  Groaning, he held it in both hands, his black Latin eyes widening as far as possible. His mouth was open, but no words came out. He barely breathed. He didn't dare lift it more than an inch or two off the couch.

  The dark magnum glistened in the light of my living room as all eyes became fastened to it, mine included. No one said a word. Olivera calmly turned it around in his hands, his every move measured. The Liberation label was intact, in mint condition as promised, and the precious liquid sloshed around a little inside the oversized bottle.

  He spoke softly in Spanish to no one in particular, but I didn't need a translator. The awe that coated his voice told me what he felt. It was such a human moment, I almost could've forgiven him for trying to kill me the night before last.

  He rewrapped the magnum, then examined the other two, one at a time. They were just like the first one, both in primo condition. Then he eyed Blake. "What about the other three?"

  "You get those at the closing. I'll give you the original case today."

  Olivera turned to Calzado, speaking more Spanish. This time, it sounded like an order. Calzado got up from the couch and headed away from the rest of us, into the kitchen, as he opened up his cell phone.

  Olivera said, not to Blake, but to all of us in general, "As you might imagine, I cannot trust the airlines with this treasure, so I am arranging for a limo to take us back to Miami." He gestured toward Calzado. "Marco Antonio is making the arrangements now. Two drivers. Nonstop. Even still, I will miss the Marlins victory parade tomorrow, so you can see how much this acquisition means to me."

  Momentarily, Calzado returned to the living room, speaking in Spanish, apparently telling Olivera the long-distance limo was lined up. They then began to transfer the Mouton into the old wooden case, carefully placing the magnums into the original semicircular slats designed by the winery to hold them. When they were done, and the case was resealed, Olivera stood up to shake hands with Blake once again.

  He turned to me for a handshake, saying, "Jack, I am so sorry for what happened to you. I will make it up to you in my own small way." Then, he and Calzado guardedly lifted the case of Mouton off the floor and carried it to the door. I held the door open for them, watched them put the wooden case into their waiting car, and then they were gone.

  33

  I let out an exhale as I closed the door and returned to the couch.

  "That was a pretty swift move with the wine," I said to Blake. "Using the original case as a decoy in case Olivera's people got too close to it."

  "You have to think ahead, Jack," he said. "I couldn't take the risk that he would get his hands on that wine before we made the deal."

  "Speaking of the deal, how did you happen to cave in so fast? I thought you were after his strip of land."

  He allowed a tiny smirk to la
nd on his face. It almost made it into a smile. "I was, until I learned that the Marlins aren't leaving Miami."

  "What do you mean, they're not leaving?" I just noticed the Dalmore I poured before Olivera got there. I'd set it down and forgotten about it during all the commotion with the wine. I went over and picked it up, drinking a little from it.

  "Do you remember my telling you I had a source in Miami? A source of information?"

  "I think so."

  "That source is none other than Elva Wiltenauer, majority shareholder in the Florida Marlins."

  "You know her?"

  "You could say that."

  "From where?"

  He shifted his weight on the couch. "She's from California originally. A widow. She was into Los Angeles real estate, big projects. I was out there doing some business with her on a hotel complex, when … well, let's just say we got to know each other."

  "Don't tell me," I said, recalling Martine's revelations about his divorce. "You and she became an item, Sandra found out about her, and that's why your marriage dissolved."

  Now it was his turn to be surprised. His eyebrows leaped up on his forehead. "Whoa, where'd you get that?"

  "I've got my bed made. Go on."

  He gathered himself for a moment, then he said, "Okay. So Elva forms a group and goes to Miami to buy the Marlins. The team was having all kinds of problems, running into stone walls with the city, the county, and what have you, over a new stadium. Now, along comes Olivera, who controls about five points of local ownership in the team. He's hot to get a new stadium built under his umbrella, for obvious reasons of profit. Elva goes along with him."

  "Goes along with him? As in stringing him along?"

  Blake nodded. "Even so far as letting him travel out here and nose around for possibilities. He takes the bait, comes out here, and sets up the Las Vegas deal from A to Z, getting the stadium financing, as well as the mayor's seal of approval, with Elva even telling him the team will move out here in a New York minute. You with me so far?"

  "So far." I took another sip of Scotch.

  "Elva encouraged all this. She wanted him to line up a pretty firm deal out here, so she could hold that over the heads of the politicos back in Florida, and bash them into submission with it. And believe me, despite all their rhetoric back in Miami, the last thing they want is for the Marlins to leave town. That kind of thing is public relations poison for a city. Say, would you have any bottled water, by any chance?"

  I shook my head, saying all I had was tap water. He sloughed it off, then continued. "So last week, around Wednesday or so, when it looked like the team was just about ready to announce it was packing up its bats and balls for real, the governor of Florida telephones Elva in the nick of time and asks her to call it off. He tells her he's going to twist a few arms in the state legislature and in the Miami city council to get the stadium deal done down there, no matter what. Elva called me immediately, so I contacted Olivera and told him he could have my land for the price we agreed upon, forty-three million. And I would throw in the wine, of course."

  "A price which nets you about two million in profit?"

  He shook his head once. "More like thirty million. I can tell you now, where I couldn't say anything before. It was too confidential. Remember, that property was basically wasteland and I bought it piecemeal. I'm maybe twelve million into it altogether."

  "You made over thirty million dollars on this deal?"

  Blake finally smiled. "I did." He said that as if congratulating himself. Shit, I couldn't bedgrudge him this moment. He deserved it.

  He continued: "So Olivera jumped at my offer, thinking Mayor Niekamp pressured me into it. Meanwhile, he's still positive he's going to build a stadium here and ultimately grab a bigger stake in the team. He thinks he's going to make hundreds of millions out of this. But all he's going to get besides the wine is a big headache when he finds out the Marlins are staying in Miami. The taxes on the downtown land will probably eat his lunch." He smiled, this time all the way. "He might even consider selling his interest in the team to cover the taxes. I'm sure Elva will give him a fair price for it, and she might even give me a little taste for my efforts."

  I slowly shook my head from side to side in amazement. "So you and she were in this together all the way."

  "The Marlins never had any intention of moving out here, Jack. Or anywhere else, for that matter. She called me this morning to tell me the mayor of Miami had spoken to her, after the governor had spoken to him. The mayor assured her a stadium deal will be worked out. That assurance alone keeps the team in Miami for at least three more years, even if they can't work something out."

  "Which slams the door on any hopes of bringing the team to Las Vegas."

  "Slammed shut," he said.

  "You sure you're not a closet poker player?" I asked, as I polished off the Dalmore.

  Now he laughed. "Definitely not."

  I leaned forward, toward him, putting my elbows on my knees. "Now I've got some news for you."

  The smile ran away from his face. "Go."

  "Sandra's killer is in custody."

  "Who?" I saw him hold his breath.

  "Martine."

  He let out a groan, while he looked away. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. But there's not a lot of actual evidence, so I don't know if the cops and the DA can make it stick. She might actually walk, but there's no doubt that she did it. She as much as admitted it to me earlier today right here in this apartment. The cops took her away in handcuffs not long before you got here."

  "Oh, God," he whispered, still looking away. "You know, she and I …"

  "I know all about it. She was 'Netty'. You were thick with her. Or as thick as someone like you could ever get with someone like her." He slowly nodded his head up and down. Then I said, "She found out Sandra was working with Olivera against you. She figured Sandra was selling you out, and she couldn't stand it. That, plus the fact that Sandra didn't really see their 'friendship' the way Martine saw it. That was her motive. Ironically, if she had learned that Sandra had come back over to your side of the street, she might've forgiven her. But, being out of the loop, she never found that out. She always thought Sandra was on Olivera's team."

  Blake put his fingertips to his forehead and sighed. "In the deepest, darkest backwaters of my mind, I thought she might've done it, or that she was at least capable of doing it. But I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. She was so … so …"

  "So feminine."

  "Yes, feminine. Delicate. Not at all the type to shoot an unarmed woman in the head at point blank range."

  "No one's the type. Until you give them a reason."

  He said, "And you think she might walk?"

  "It's possible," I said. "There's not much hard evidence. If they don't get her to confess, well …"

  He gave that one a lot of thought. Then, in a voice that had turned from satin to steel, he said, "Sandra will get justice. One way … or another."

  I gave him a few moments of silence. Soon his voice returned to smooth level. "Okay, Jack. Here's what I owe you." He pulled an envelope out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then handed it to me. "Twelve thousand, five hundred. For a job well done." He got up to leave, signaling No-Sleeve Steve and Julius, and he appeared to be through speaking, but then he added, "I didn't like the result at all, but it was still a job well done."

  I considered that a high compliment. But coming from Blake, I would've expected nothing less.

  34

  About a week later, as I arrived home late one night from Binion's, I heard, "Mr Barnett!"

  The raised voice came from the darkness behind me, just as I was about to unlock my door. I wheeled around, ready for trouble.

  "Mr Barnett." This time his voice was at normal level. He stepped out of the passenger seat of a big, black Bentley and walked the short distance to my door. A driver remained in the car.

  They had apparently been parked there, waiting for me. The door to th
e car remained open. The man walking toward me looked to be about thirty, with well-styled dark hair and a firm, stony face. His charcoal gray topcoat probably set him back at least a grand. I steeled myelf. Without changing his expression, he said, "This is for you," and he handed me an envelope, Christmas card-sized, with what felt like a card inside it.

  "What is it?"

  "It's for you." He quickly returned to the Bentley, jumping back inside. The driver sparked the engine and the big sedan sped out of the parking lot, vanishing around the corner into the night.

  I entered my apartment. I continued staring at the envelope as I headed for the kitchen to pour myself a Dalmore. There was no writing on it, no return address, nothing. I tore it open.

  I pulled out a fancy card on very thick, pricey stock, written in well-styled calligraphy, with gold around the edges. It looked like a wedding invitation. But instead it said:

  Present this certificate at any hotel / casino in Clark County, Nevada, and receive a complimentary suite for four days and three nights for you and a companion, inclusive of all room, food, and beverage charges. It also includes two VIP tickets to the show of your choice anywhere in Las Vegas and a five thousand dollar shopping spree in any of the stores on the premises of the hotel / casino you have chosen. This certificate has no expiration date.

  Also in the envelope was a handwritten note on plain white note paper. It read:

  Thank you for your cooperation.

  It was signed, "Mr Black".

  I laughed out loud and slammed back my Scotch.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After thirty years as a professional musician (piano), Mike Dennis left Key West and moved to Las Vegas to become a professional poker player. He turned to writing when his first novel, The Take, was picked up by a publisher in 2009.

  His next book, Setup On Front Street, was the first of a set of noir novels called Key West Nocturnes. These books will lift the veil on Key West and reveal it as a true noir city, on a par with Los Angeles, New Orleans, or Miami. The Ghosts Of Havana is the second book in that set. The third, Man-Slaughter, is now available. The fourth, The Guns Of Miami, will be coming in late 2013.