Where There's Smoke (14 page)

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Authors: Mel McKinney

BOOK: Where There's Smoke
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Raul searched Bonafaccio's eyes, the matador assessing the bull, as he sought the subtle blur of confusion that was key to the success of bolder moves. Satisfied the earlier flame had dimmed, he knew it was time to thrust the
estoque
—another moment of truth.
“What you and your butchers did here last night was murderous waste,” Raul began in a low voice, his eyes fixed on his clenched hands. He looked up, his voice rising.
“Yes, I have the Don Salazarios with the diamonds. Gessleman's foolish greed let them slip through his fingers, and he traded them to me for cigars in pretty wrappers. I discovered their treasure in a few I brought to Kingston and was returning to get the rest. Instead I found the carnage of your ignorance.”
Raul stood, now towering over Bonafaccio. “Paulo did not have to die!” he cried.
“I would have happily delivered the Don Salazarios to you in exchange for his life. He had so much to live
for
, a homeland to return to.
“Maybe, by your Code, your family was compelled to murder my father. But not Paulo! He took nothing from you. He was simply trapped for a moment between you and what you sought. Even your father would not have commanded his death for that.”
Bonafaccio looked at Romelli. Raul sensed his adversary's confusion as control of the moment deteriorated in Raul's favor.
Raul placed his hands on the desk and leaned down, his face inches from Bonafaccio's.
“So, Señor
Don
Bonafaccio”—Raul spit the appellation with undisguised contempt—“Paulo's death will not pass without value being exchanged. Some good will come of his sacrifice.” He straightened.
“Yes, you may have your diamond cigars, but you
will
pay for them. A fraction of their value: one million, five hundred thousand dollars.”
Raul paused to gauge Bonafaccio's reaction. There was none. Encouraged, he continued. “You have the connections to, what is your word? Ah, ‘fence,' like a gate.
You can ‘fence' the diamonds, something that would be difficult and risky for me. Your profit will be millions, true? Consider the million five simply as a memorial to Paulo, something your own ‘Code' requires for innocent victims.”
Raul watched to see if the
estoque
had struck true.
Then, the matador peaking to his toes at the end of the thrust, he added, “Of course, you no doubt intend to kill me as you did Paulo. Perfect insurance that the diamonds are lost to you forever. Ask yourself, why would I dare confront you like this unless I was protected. Better still, ask
him!”
Raul nodded toward Romelli.
Joseph swiveled away from the desk and stood, stretching his arms behind his head and again rolling his neck.
“Tell you what,” he said, finally, “you've given me a lot to think about, and I don't think so well on an empty stomach. While I've been waiting for you to show up, Mr. Romelli has shoveled down a meal or two. Not me. Let's go have that dinner. I could also use a drink and a good smoke. That shouldn't be any trouble, right?”
“Follow me,” said Raul, heading for the stairs. The bull was down.
RAUL'S EARLIER VISIT to the kitchen had inspired spectacular results. Tournedos of aged Venezuelan beef, braised asparagus with papaya and mango chutney, roasted yams stuffed with macadamia nuts and honeyed currants—all worked their magic on Joseph Bonafaccio's appreciative palate.
Careful to choose his moment while his guests remained captives of the meal, Raul selected a box from the credenza humidor spanning one wall of the room. “Have you ever had one of these?”
He opened the gold-edged box of Saint Luis Rey Double Coronas and offered its contents to Joseph and Dominick. They helped themselves and lit up.
Settling behind the glow of the large cigar, Joseph sighed with pleasure. Moments later, his expression clouded. “A damn shame to have to continue our business discussion,” he said, “but that's why we're here.” He took a long draw and filled the space above with fresh smoke.
“One million, five hundred thousand. That's a hell of a ‘memorial.' Mind telling me how you got there?”
Raul smiled, his first that night. “Of course,” he said, choosing his words. Joseph's present mood was that of a well-sated lion. Soon enough, the bull would surface and charge again. Raul could never reveal his true intentions to this man whose warped sense of honor, his “Code,” would call for Raul's life.
“When our dealings are concluded, I intend to sell this restaurant. The embargo has killed my business as I can no longer get the Cuban cigars my customers demand. There is another business I have come to know because of this restaurant and my father's before it—beef. I have had my eye on a cattle ranch in Argentina for some time. I can buy it for one million dollars. The other five hundred thousand is for ‘expenses.' As I said, look upon it as a memorial to Paulo; he was to be my partner.”
Bonafaccio regarded Raul thoughtfully for a moment, then spoke. “Tell you what. Leave Mr. Romelli and me alone for five minutes. Then come back and we'll talk.”
 
Joseph stood and began to pace the humidor wall, smoking the double corona with enthusiasm.
“Dominick,” he began, “I see opportunity here. Something the guy just said hit home.
He
can't bring in Cuban cigars, but
we
sure as hell can. This embargo will work just like prohibition. You tell people they can't have something, and they want it even more. And they'll pay through the nose to get it.
“We've got the contacts, the organization. With just a few modifications we could corner the cigar import business!
Cuban and
non
-Cuban cigars. We set up a dummy-front import business and use it to smuggle in the Cuban cigars. We shield ourselves so that the feds could never trace the operation to the Family. If they bust it, we just set up another one and keep going. Hell, that's why we have lawyers.”
His vision unfolding before him, Joseph picked up speed.
“You know what's going to happen? Just last week the
Wall Street Journal
talked about how Partagas, Macanudo, and some of the other big cigar houses are already expanding into the Dominican Republic and Honduras with Cuban tobacco seeds and Cuban rollers. Hell, in a couple of years they're going to be growing the same leaves and rolling the same cigars as the Cubans.
“Two things are going to come of all this: Smuggled Cuban cigars will bring premium prices. And, as the copycat premium cigars made outside Cuba hit the United States, the wider availability of good cigars will heighten the mystique of the real thing. We'll play each end off the other as we dominate both markets—the contraband Cuban cigars and the premium copycats.”
Joseph stopped pacing and faced his amused mentor.
“Dom; think of it! A nationwide network of warehouses and outlets, maybe even a mail-order business—J. B. Cigars.”
Romelli tilted back, his role as a respected sounding board for Joseph's sometimes crazy notions well defined.
“Joseph, some of this actually makes sense. Might just be the change you've been looking for. You're right about one thing. It can easily be set up to run on a low-risk basis.
Hell, that's why God gave us corporations. The Don loved 'em. But there's something I don't understand.”
“What's that?” Joseph snapped, ready with an answer to any objection.
“Salazar,” Romelli responded. “What the hell does he have to do with any of this? Hell, you can go into the cigar business any time you want. We're
supposed
to be dealing with Salazar and the diamonds.”
Joseph took a short puff off his cigar and broke into a broad grin. “Ahh, Dominick, that's the real beauty of this whole thing.” He resumed his pacing.
“This
place,
” he said, flinging his arms, “a cigar restaurant, like a club. A whole chain of 'em. Cuban music, Cuban food, stage shows, gorgeous women, and, at the heart of all of it, our cigars. The name's a natural: Noches Cubanas, Cuban Nights. Hell, we've still got a Nevada gaming license. We'll open a new casino, just like we had in Havana! They're legalizing gambling in Jersey. We'll open one there, too.”
Joseph collapsed in his chair, flushed with excitement. “Well?”
Dominick shook his head, smiling. There was a light knock on the door. “Yeah, come on in,” said Joseph, grinning across the table.
 
Raul entered and stood inside the door, wary of Joseph's buoyancy. Dominick frisked him and nodded toward the table. Raul took his seat and waited. It was the bull's move.
“Okay,” said Bonafaccio, suddenly serious. “Here's what I'll do. One million. You get your ranch in Argentina,
and I get my three boxes of diamond cigars. That and the fact that you walk away from this is plenty of ‘memorial.' You can name your ranch after the stubborn old fart.”
Raul willed that his stone face did not betray his racing heart. Afraid his voice would, he kept silent.
“There's something else,” Bonafaccio said, his tone low and laden with purpose.
Why am I not surprised?
Raul asked himself. He prepared for whatever was coming.
“I want this place, Noches Cubanas, lock, stock, and barrel. The name, the restaurant, everything. And I want you to stay on as a consultant for, say, two years, while I open others like it around the country. Then go grow your cows.”
Madre de Dios
, thought Raul. The dead bull begs for another sword!
“You are serious, Señor? You want this restaurant?”
Joseph straightened. “Salazar, when it comes to business, I don't make jokes. Yeah, I want the restaurant. His eyes shifted to the vintage posters of Manolete and Ordonez that decorated the room.
Raul's mind reeled. A
recibiendo!
The one time out of hundreds when the matador plants himself, holds firm, and lets the bull impale itself with the force of its own angry momentum. Raul again called upon the discipline of the gaming table, keeping his face stoic and voice flat.
“All right, Señor Bonafaccio, we have an agreement. One million dollars—you get the cigars and Noches Cubanas.” He paused. “I must have the money immediately to close the deal on the ranch. It will also serve as my
insurance policy.” Then he added, “This is much as before when your father took the business from my father, no?”
“No,” said Bonafaccio quietly. “Not at all like before. Your father cheated us and lost. I think you're much smarter than that. I'll give you the money now, but then you're moving to New York. We'll premiere the jewel of our chain in Manhattan.”
Bonafacio stood. “I'll get the money together when the banks open in the morning; you get the cigars. I'll call you by ten A.M. with instructions where we'll meet and make the exchange.”
Raul smiled and lowered his eyes. “No, Señor. I think not. Maybe I
am
smarter than my father, or perhaps wiser after what your family did to him.” Raul drew on his cigar, then let the hovering smoke soften his words.
“There is only one place I will deliver the cigars to you. Here, at Noches Cubanas. You may have seen the amigos gathered in the bar. They will be here when you give me the money and I give you the cigars. Only you and Señor Romelli will come. No bodyguards or other associates. I have seen the work of
your
amigos; now you must learn the ways of mine.”
Raul rolled the long cigar between his thumb and fingers. “You see, Señor, these are the men who were in Dallas. They are professionals, just as your men. I guarantee no harm will come to you, just as they will guarantee none will come to me.”
Joseph flashed a questioning glance toward Romelli. “It's okay, Boss. In his place, we'd do the same.”
Romelli turned to Raul, who detected the glint of a new respect in the bodyguard's eyes.
“I don't think Señor Salazar wants a war with us. He just wants the money. No one wins with a war. If Señor Salazar's men harmed you, they'd all join him pushing up swamp grass. He knows that, right?”
Raul shrugged. “As you have said, in my place, you would do the same.”
“That's settled then,” said Bonafaccio. Then he paused, frowning. “You have the cigars here?” he asked.
“Sí,”
Raul replied. “They are here, waiting for you and the money.”
“Let's have a look at 'em,” said Bonafaccio. “Maybe peel apart a few random samples. I'm not buying a pig in a poke.”
Raul had never heard the expression but did not doubt its meaning. The bull was back on its feet. It was time for the
descabello
, the cross-barred killing sword used to take down a dying animal once and for all.
“That is regrettable,” Raul said. “But as you apparently judge others by your own standards, I can see it will be necessary. For this, we must go downstairs. We will take some company. You understand, I am sure.”
Leaving the dining room, Raul motioned to Jorgé in the bar. The celebration evaporated into the thick smoke overhead. Four dark men fell in wordlessly behind Raul, Bonafaccio, and Romelli. The entourage descended to the basement.
Raul unlocked the door to the humidified room and switched on the light. Before them stood rows of nearly bare shelves housing Raul's shrunken inventory of Cuban cigars. On the pine table, scrubbed clean of the previous night's grisly residue, sat three boxes of Don Salazario
Presidentes. Two were sealed. The third was open, revealing a gap of four cigars. In their space lay a square of velvet cloth bearing four shimmering stones.
“As you see, Señor, one box has been opened. I took four cigars to Kingston. Otherwise, everything is as it was.”
Jorgé and his amigos craned their necks to get a better look. Their hushed exclamations broke the silence.
“These weren't here last night,” Romelli said.
Raul nodded. “Ah, they would not be here tonight if they had been, would they? I wish, for Paulo's sake, that I
had
kept them here.”
Bonafaccio stepped forward and dug into the open box, selecting two cigars from the bottom layer. He held them up against the overhead light, inspecting the distinctive silk bands.
“Hmmph.” His attempt at concealing his admiration failed. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and laid the cigars on the table, the open knife suspended above them. Like a surgeon planning the first incision, he paused and looked up at Raul, who shrugged his shoulders.
“All I ask is that you do not cut the bands,” said Raul. “Perhaps
something
of my grandfather's art can be salvaged from this unnecessary destruction.”
Bonafaccio slipped the bands from each cigar and passed them to Raul. “Here. On me,” he said. With that he neatly sliced each cigar from end to end.
The divided halves fell apart, still bound by thin hinges of leaf along the bottom surface. Near the end of each eviscerated cigar nestled a glittering gem. Bonafaccio freed
the stones with the blade tip and gently laid them next to the others on the velvet patch.
He looked up at Raul. “So far, so good,” he said, and picked up one of the sealed boxes. Raul suddenly reached forward and grabbed Bonafaccio's arm.
“Stop! This is too much. You tortured and murdered my father. You tortured and murdered Paulo. Now, in front of me, you wish to destroy these last survivors of my family's craft. I cannot watch you do this. After the money is paid, they will be yours to ruin. Until then, they are mine, and I will not see them torn to shreds simply because you do not trust me. You should at least do as
I
was planning to do before I discovered Paulo's body and realized that you would come for them.”
“Oh? And what was that, friend?” asked Bonafaccio.
“I … I was going to smoke them,” whispered Raul. “Quickly, at first, to get the money for the ranch; then, as I grew older, I was going to gradually smoke the remaining diamonds free.”

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