by Dani Amore
Scale of Justice
by
Dani Amore
Scale of Justice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright©2011 by Dani Amore
All rights reserved.
Praise for Dani Amore
“Dani Amore’s writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” --author Robert Gregory Browne
"Dani Amore writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. She brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre she chooses. This lady is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for her." --J.D. Rhoades, best-selling author of Gallows Pole
Scale of Justice
The two men knelt side by side, peering into the deep darkness before them. They could hear movement and an occasional splash. Like something big and dark was moving quietly in the liquid blackness.
They knelt on the remaining edge of a wooden floor. But the floor itself had been torn out, and only a small ledge was left. The vast space below them was the house’s basement, now filled with something that stank of rotting meat. Something that was alive.
Their hands were tied behind their backs and a man with a semi automatic stood behind them, the barrel of his gun suggesting the general direction of the back of their heads.
The men kneeling were much alike, and much different. They were both Hispanic, short and stocky. The commonality of their sharp noses, large foreheads, and elegant lips put a vague genetic connection on display.
But the man on the left had pimples on his face, wore baggy pants, skateboard shoes and an untucked, oversized black T-shirt.
The man on the right had dark hair, graying at the temples, a crisp white button down dress shirt, black dress pants, and black wing tips. There was also a black apron tied firmly in place.
Behind them, a figure emerged, flanked by lean men dressed in dark clothes, save for large diamond jewelry, the occasional white baseball cap and large amounts of cologne.
The younger of the two kneeling men started to turn his head, but the man standing behind him placed the muzzle of the semi automatic firmly against his cheek. He turned his head back toward the darkness ahead of them.
The large figure emerged from the dark, a good head taller than any of the other men in the room, and twice as wide. The planks of the floor creaked underneath his massive weight. He walked until he stood practically over the two men.
The older man lowered his head spoke in a soft voice. “Jesus and Mother Mary, please…”
The big man slapped the back of the old man’s head. “Shut up,” he said. He was slightly short of breath. The old man could smell him, his breath had the scent of old beans and rice.
“So who’s the motherfucking junkie and who’s the pussy ass thief?” the big man said, his voice high and soft.
He reached down and slapped the younger man. “Talk, bitch,” he said.
“I…I…” the younger man’s voice caught and he choked.
“I am the thief, sir,” the older man said. “I am the one you want, not him.”
“I already know you stole from me you old maricón,” the big man said. He seemed to consider the old man for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”
The older man hesitated.
“You are Diego Villanueva,” he finally said.
“Yes,” the big man said. “And do you know who Diego Villanueva is?”
“You are the leader of the Detroit Kings,” the old man said.
“Yes, old fuck, but why am I here?”
“Because you own the restaurant where I am employed,” the older man said, his voice soft and hesitant.
“That is fucking correct,” Diego Villanueva said. “So when you stole from the till, you were stealing directly from my pocket you wrinkled old piece of shit!” He reared back and booted the old man in the ribs. He fell to his chest on the ground and groaned.
“And you,” Villanueva said to the younger man. “You’re so fucked up on X and who knows what else, that you went begging to this old prune for money to buy your crap.” He kicked the younger man in the ribs. Harder than he had on the old man, and then he added a couple more shots to the ribs for good measure.
Villanueva turned to the men standing behind him in silence. “Feed these two pendejos to the alligators,” he said. “They work in the restaurant, right? They probably smell like food.”
He leaned down to the old man. “These gators love Mexican food, do you know what I’m saying? We fed them two informants last week, and they loved them. They haven’t had anything since. They’re really hungry.”
The old man got to his knees. “Please, sir. Please do not kill us. My son made a mistake, and I made a mistake trying to help him, but please do not kill us.”
“Fuck off, old man,” Villanueva said.
“Sir!” the young man finally spoke. “He did not steal from you, I did! He is lying to try to protect me. I stole from you. It was me. I deserve to die, not my father!”
“What is this, Telemundo?” Villanueva said. “I don’t care who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. If I kill you both, the problem is solved.”
He turned again to the men behind them. “Open up the alligator kitchen. Feed them the younger one first. As an appetizer.”
He stepped aside as the men tried to grab the younger man.
“Please, sir!” the old man said and struggled to his feet. “I beg you! I am only a chef, but I will give you everything I have for his life. Everything! Even my life! Kill me instead!”
Villanueva turned back to the old man. An odd look crossed his face, and the old man noticed.
“You are a chef?” Villanueva said.
The old man said, “Yes.”
Villanueva’s men had the younger man at the brink of the ripped out floor where everyone could hear the sound of large animals thrashing in the water below.
Villanueva turned to his men. “Is he any good? Is the food at the restaurant any good?”
“It is delicious, Diego,” one of the men said.
“Is it heavy? All fat and deep-fried?” Villanueva said.
“No, sir,” the old man said. “I make many things alfresco. Very lean, grilled meats, fresh vegetables. Very light, very delicious.”
Villanueva seemed to think this over.
He pointed to the younger man with his chin. “Beat that one within an inch of his life, and then keep him somewhere under you control.”
He turned to the old man.
“Bring this one with me.”
Two hours earlier
The man from Colombia was known as The Machete. His real name was Símon Rios. He was the son of one of Colombia’s most notorious drug runners and had taken over his father’s business by the time he was only twenty-five years old. He had earned his nickname by using it as his chosen method for advancing up the criminal corporate ladder.
The fact that his father had been blow to bits by an American unmanned spy drone at the very end of his twenty-fourth year, had also helped speed his fast and furious rise.
Now, he sat in the penthouse of The Hotel Deco in the heart of Detroit. He was here for various meetings with his many lieutenants. Men who oversaw the American retail outlets for his highly coveted product.
The day had been filled with appointments, mostly successful discussions that resulted in problems being solved and strategies developed for stubborn obstacles. The only sour note for The Machete was the amount of pleading and excuse-making that some of
his lieutenants displayed. The American raised ones were the worst. Men in Colombia would rather die than beg like a pussy.
He sat back as his assistants brought in the last petitioner of the day. After this, The Machete planned to go to the casinos and spend lots of money, and find a big blonde American bombshell with huge tits that he could play with all night long.
Speaking of big tits, he thought, as the fat man was brought before him.
“Diego Villanueva,” The Machete said. “How are you?”
“I am good, jefe, very good,” the big man said, out of breath. His voice was high and rushed. “In fact, I am doing so well, that is why I wanted to talk to you while you were here.”
The Machete looked at the fat man, noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Was it from nervousness? Or was it just the exertion of walking the twenty feet down the hall to him? Either way, it was pathetic.
He watched as Diego Villanueva lowered himself into the chair across from him.
The Machete nodded for Villanueva to begin.
“I’m very happy to report on the success of our mutual programs,” Villanueva said. “In fact, we’ve done so well that I am able to provide a significant bonus to my usual contributions for your administration.”
The Machete smiled inside. Whatever the fat man was going to ask for, it was going to be a big one. No one ever offered more than the usual tariff.
“With your blessing, I would like to hand over my organization to my very capable staff, and move into more of a consultancy role.” The big man took a quick breath before adding, “In Florida.”
The Machete steepled his fingers together. Acted like he was thinking about it. The fat man didn’t move, nor did The Machete’s men. Several long minutes passed in silence. At last, The Machete spoke.
“You claim your enterprise is running so well that you can give me a bonus, yet you also ask me to let you change the whole thing,” The Machete said. “That is a bad business principle. To change something that is working so well. If I do as you ask, maybe next year it won’t be doing well and I will lose money.”
“I would not let that happen,” Villanueva said. “I have a very good organization in place. It is like a machine, it runs very smoothly. As you can see from my bonus.” The fat man took out a thick brown envelope and handed it to The Machete who tossed it onto the table next to him.
The Machete contemplated Villanueva for another long minute before speaking. “I see, I see,” he said. “So you are not important to the organization? That you can just leave and it will run fine by itself? What do you do, just sit back and eat donuts?” he said. His men laughed softly behind Villanueva’s back. The fat man’s breath caught, and The Machete could see the anger held in check.
While the fat man struggled to answer his question, The Machete thought that maybe he should toss this fat pig out on his sow’s ear, maybe even have him beaten a little bit. Have someone rape his wife to remind him how ugly the world can be.
But it had been a long day and he was in a surprisingly good mood.
“How much do you weigh, big man?” The Machete said.
Villanueva’s face became a stone.
“Too much, jefe,” he said.
“No fucking kidding,” The Machete said. “Your sense of humor is as large as your belly. How much?”
Vilanueza’s big body seemed to cave in on itself. He glanced over his shoulder at the silent men behind him, then turned back.
“Four hundred.”
“Ayeeyah!” The Machete shook his head in amazement. “You’re a cow! If I squeeze your titties, will butter come out?”
More laughter behind Villanueva’s back.
“I tell you what, Fat Ass,” The Machete said. “I will grant you your wish on one condition.”
“Just name it, jefe, and I will make it happen,” Villanueva said, his face grim.
“Artemio!” The Machete called out. “Bring me the scale from the bathroom!”
Villanueva stood, trying to keep his shoulders straight, but his head sunk lower.
The man called Artemio put the scale next to Villanueva’s feet.
“Stand on it,” The Machete said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t break.”
Villanueva stood on the scale.
Artemio bent down and looked at it.
“Four hundred and twenty-seven!” he said.
“Dios mío!” The Machete said. “Do your men drive you around in a livestock trailer?”
Villanueva stepped off the scale. He kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the laughter continuing behind him.
“I tell you what, Fatso. Come back in one month, and if you weigh…” The Machete stared at the ceiling for several moments. “…four hundred pounds or less, I will let you retire to Miami.”
The Machete could see the uncertainty in Villanueva’s eyes.
“Do you think you can keep the bacon out of your big mouth for that long?” The Machete said. “It’s only twenty-seven pounds. That should be easy for a man like you, with your iron self-control. Maybe instead of eating ten cheeseburgers, you’ll just eat nine.”
The Machete’s men laughed.
Villanueva said without any enthusiasm, “Thank you, jefe. I will do my best.”
“Good luck,” The Machete said, with a hearty dose of sarcasm. He knew with the kind of certainty one felt in the very foundation of one’s soul, that Villanueva would never be able to do it.
•••
Tomás Sariagmo gasped at the sight of Diego Villanueva’s Grosse Pointe mansion. He had never seen a house this big, except maybe on the cover of a magazine somewhere. But the beautiful slate roof was a work of art, and the long sloping grass ending at Lake St. Clair was like something from a movie. He half expected to see men and women dressed in ballroom clothes dancing across the lawn.
The driver slowed the long black Lincoln Town Car as he pulled into the circle driveway. They stopped in front of the house’s gigantic carved wooden doors.
“Get out,” Villanueva said.
Tomás followed the big man into the house, through the grand lobby with fancy tile floors and big thick woodwork throughout the rooms. Finally, they ended up in the kitchen.
It was the most beautiful kitchen Tomás had ever seen. The wood floor was a beautiful deep oak, the cabinets painted a dark green and everywhere was Carrara marble. The appliances were enormous Viking sculptures in stainless steel. A Sub-Zero refrigerator practically took up one whole wall. And freezers disguised as drawers were below the island.
Tomás took in the kitchen, but he could not stop thinking about his son, wondering where he was, and if he was okay. Tomás felt an anger inside at the wealth this house displayed. This bastard, head of Detroit’s most feared street gang, the Detroit Kings, lived in this giant house, and Tomás’s son was beaten for a few hundred dollars. It disgusted him. He had to find a way to get his son free.
As if reading his mind, Villanueva spoke.
“Here is my offer,” he said. “You will cook all of my meals for me, using only healthy ingredients so that I lose weight. If I don’t lose 27 pounds or more during the next month, I will kill your son in front of you and then I will kill you. Do you understand?”
Tomás felt weak at the knees. He wasn’t sure what to say or think. He could not go to the police, before the cops even understood what he was talking about, his son would be dead.
“Do you fucking understand me?” Villanueva bellowed.
“Yes, sir,” Tomás answered.
“You will live in the small room upstairs that you can get to through those stairs,” Villanueva said, pointing to a small doorway at the back of the kitchen.
“”Diego, who is this?” a woman’s voice called out. Tomás turned to see a stunningly beautiful woman enter the kitchen. She had on a brilliant orange dress that set off her brown eyes.
“Ah, Elissa, this is our new chef,” Villanueva said. He turned to Tomás. “What is your name?”
“My name is Tomá
s Sariagmo,” he said.
The woman barely glanced at him. “What’s the matter, Diego, you don’t like my cooking anymore?”
They both laughed and Tomás looked again at the spotless kitchen. He had a feeling it hadn’t seen much use.
“So what time is dinner?” she asked Diego. Villanueva turned and looked at Tomás.
Tomás heard himself answer.