Where There's Smoke (7 page)

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Authors: Mel McKinney

BOOK: Where There's Smoke
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THE FREEZING ATLANTIC chill, partially rebuffed by his plaid mackinaw, found beachheads wherever Hiram Thorpe's exposed skin surfaced. Under the padded earflap of his Maine woodsman cap, Hiram's ears burned with the snap of early winter. Thinking of Luther snugged in front of the cast-iron stove back at the office didn't help, and neither did the short Muniemaker Breva that refused to stay lit in the persistent drizzle.
Hiram stamped the sludge off his rubber boots as well as he could and entered the motel office, pausing to look toward the darkening east. No doubt about it, a storm was on its way.
Nestor Pinwood looked up from his copy of
Yankee
magazine.
“Hiram, close the damn door! Costs enough to keep this place heated without you let'n it all out.”
Hiram complied, regretting he had to deal with the owner of the Gem o' the Sea at all. The motel, miles
away from the tourist hubs because it was miles away from the sea, had ceased being a gem of
anything
years ago, if it ever had been one to begin with. The six weather-bleached bungalows, once a thirties “auto court,” were now nothing more than a sorry enclave of low-cost housing for the transients and casual workers who filled the demand for service labor during the summer season. Pinwood kept the place open year-round simply because he lived there and had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.
“Hello, Nestor. Haven't seen you for a while. How've you been?”
The innkeeper eyed the constable with suspicion. “All right, I guess.”
This would not be easy. It never was with Nestor. Past sessions with the crotchety New Englander had confirmed Nestor was starved for company but would never admit it. There was no other explanation for the way the simplest request for information turned into a cat-and-mouse game that could span hours. Hiram usually sent Luther, who relished the game, or resigned himself to indulging the old coot.
Not today. Hiram's instincts told him the break-ins at the Hyannisport mansion were the tip of an iceberg that could catapult a local constable into a national fool. He was determined not to let that happen. Best to be prepared, and the way to do that was to gather information. Quickly.
“Been busy, Nestor?”
“Nope.”
“Any customers at all this month?”
A cocked eyebrow. “Mebbe.” Hiram took that as a yes.
“Couple of Spanish-looking guys? Mexican or possibly Cuban?”
Pay dirt. Too late, Nestor erased the flash of surprise.
“Don't know's I know what you mean. They all look alike to me.”
“Let me help you, Nestor. One was named Pedro, tall with a thin mustache. About six foot. Another, shorter, about five feet, six inches, stocky and muscular. Called himself ‘Hor-hay.' Left this area day before yesterday, probably in a hurry.”
Hiram read the disappointment in Pinwood's eyes. It should have taken at least an hour to reach this point. Then he burst the bubble of illusion that there would be any game at all.
“Let's just take a look at your register,” he said, reaching for the gray ledger he had pawed through several times before.
“So there were four of them,” Hiram said, after scanning the pages for October and November. “And they were here a few weeks. Found work, did they? The Kennedy estate?”
Nestor Pinwood nodded, deflated.
“This Boston address—probably no good. Looks like they took two cottages. Anyone been in 'em since?”
Nestor shook his head. “Ain't even changed the beds yet,” he mumbled.
“Good. Keep 'em just like that. Want to get the state boys to come over and check for prints. Should be within a day or so. I bet they paid cash, right?”
“Yep. Nice new twenty-dollar bills.”
“They had just this one car?” Hiram asked, copying the Florida license number.
“Yep. An old Chevy sedan, green.”
Poor Nestor,
thought Hiram.
Now that he's lost the game, he can't wait to give away more.
Hiram pulled out a pack of Muniemakers and ensured he had a good light before stepping out into a steady, chilling rain. The ones in the black Caddie aren't going to be this easy, he thought as he cupped the glowing cigar.
 
Cornelius Gessleman had used the chauffeured drive from his Palm Beach estate to solve his problem. He stepped out of the car into the brisk Kentucky evening, his head cleared of the night before. Refreshed and confident, he stretched his legs and strolled over to the white fence edging the pasture nearest the manor house. The solution was so simple, as he had known it would be.
He now owned the Kennedy cigars, or at least most of them, and was pleased with himself for having bested his host. Securing three boxes of coveted Sancho Panzas in exchange for those obscure Don something or others confirmed the old panther still had a bite.
What a rube
, thought Gessleman as he reached across the fence and scratched the muzzle of Glo-bug, his candidate in the coming year's Triple Crown. Recalling Raul Salazar's smiling hospitality, he told the blowing horse, “Fella thinks that front he put up fooled me. ‘Good will.' ‘Trust.' Ha! Conniving hustler plans to be in my pocket the rest of my life. Not so, my fine one, not so.”
Cornelius cradled the horse's nose and savored the brush of silky hair against his cheek. Energy from the animal throbbed across the fence, affirming his decision.
It has always been this way,
he thought.
The courage to act has been my strength. It has separated me from the others. It's what took a small family business and turned it into a fortune. I can't let this Cuban extortionist and that incompetent dolt my daughter married destroy all I've built.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes.” He laughed aloud, as the horse tousled and blew some more.
Gessleman sighted down the unbroken line of sparkling fence.
When the boards are rotten or weak, we rip them out. That's what I'm doing, removing something rotten and something weak, that's all. Get this whole sorry business behind me. Too bad about Margie. But she's still young and pretty enough. Maybe next time—who knows?
As for the Cuban, he thought, this will be poetic justice. The blackmailing assassin will get what he deserves. Just as soon as he's delivered the cigars
. He peeled the foil from another Sancho Panza and walked, humming, toward the house.
Later, in his study, pleased with the even burn of the magnificent cigar, Cornelius Gessleman opened a locked desk drawer and removed a black leather notebook. It had no markings. He riffed its pages with purpose, knowing exactly where to stop.
“Ah, yes.” He spread the book open to read the number and the coded greeting that would identify him. “Marinara,”
he chuckled. Then he remembered. With all the Don had been into, he loved his food. He dialed and sat back, listening, wondering if he would still recognize the voice.
JOSEPH BONAFACCIO JR. stepped from the elevator, bowed, and swept his arm toward the hallway's brocaded expanse. “This way, Laurie-May,” he cooed to the lithe blonde.
Her eyes widened in happy reaction to the rich decor of the twenty-fourth-story entry to Joseph Bonafaccio's legendary playpen apartment.
A slender Rafael Gonzalez Lonsdale clamped in his teeth, Joseph extended both arms to the leggy Rockette and proceeded to waltz her across the carpet, grazing rococo statues of cupids and plump nudes with his topcoat. Laurie-May's promising laughter reached a delighted crescendo as they reached the ornately decorated penthouse door, breathless and clinging together.
“Hey! You really
can
dance!” Joseph laughed. He opened the door, his back to the apartment, and prepared to sweep her inside. Her startled look stopped him. He spun around, smack into a frowning Dominick Romelli.
“Caesar Romero!” Laurie-May squealed, staring down at Romelli.
“Dom. What's up? Thought you'd be asleep hours ago.” Joseph cocked his head in the direction of Romelli's adjoining apartment down the hall, hoping he'd take the hint.
“Uh, Joseph, I hate to interrupt your evening but something's come up. We need to talk.”
When his father's surrogate needed to talk, Joseph listened.
“Sure, Dominick.” He turned to Laurie-May, who was fishing in her purse. “Sweetheart, I need to spend a few minutes here with Dominick. I'll get you a glass of bubbly and you can sit and enjoy the view. I won't be long, okay?”
He turned back to see Romelli shaking his head. “Joseph, I think that you might want to postpone things with the young lady. We might be going away on business.”
Joseph studied Romelli for a few seconds. Then he turned and faced Laurie-May. She was fluttering a small loose-leaf notebook. “Before I go,” she asked coyly, “could I get Mr. Romero's autograph?”
 
Joseph and Romelli watched from the doorway as Laurie-May stepped into the elevator and gave a jaunty wave before she disappeared. Joseph sighed and closed the door.
“You don't know, Dom, how much I was looking forward to peeling off those mesh stockings. It's taken two weeks to get her up here. Jesus!”
Joseph led the way into the paneled library alcove and draped himself across one of two wing-backed leather
chairs positioned opposite each other at a marble table. Romelli sat in the other.
Discarding the Rafael Gonzalez, now a symbol of the failed evening, Joseph opened the burled humidor on the table. After lighting an H. Uppman Connoisseur No. 1 Robusto, his favorite cigar for moments of stress or intense concentration, he asked, “Okay, what's up?”
Romelli leaned forward, his voice low.
“I got a call earlier tonight. A ‘Marinara' call.”
Joseph stiffened. The “Marinara” code had fallen out of use before the Don died. Employed to identify people designated by the Don as entitled to benefit by the unique solutions he could provide for their problems, the system had simply faded away as the family and its business changed. Joseph had known, but never asked, about the ledger Romelli used to keep, listing those who held “Marinara” privileges. He had assumed it had been destroyed.
“You, ah, checked it out?” Joseph asked.
Romelli nodded. “Yeah, he's entitled,” he said. “I remember the guy. The Don used to do business with him: textiles, cotton, tobacco, and stuff.
“There was this time your father had to move some goods in a hurry and this guy helped him by taking them off his hands at a good price and mixing them in with his own. The Don was very appreciative. He introduced me to the guy and gave him ‘Marinara' status as well as this phone number. The Don made me promise to help the guy out if he ever called, no matter what he wanted, know what I mean?”
Joseph nodded. Old business. The kind of stuff that drew on Dominick Romelli's craftsmanship as a skilled hit
man. Not just sloppy jobs with a stubby, mean pistol or the random mess of a tommy gun, but long-range stuff requiring the intricate tools and concentration of the sniper. In the early days, as Joseph Senior built and consolidated his empire, it was occasionally necessary for his father to use terminal persuasion. Anonymous terror became a Bonafaccio trademark.
Joseph felt a surge of adrenaline as he considered Romelli's story. He imagined how his father must have felt when he dispensed death sentences as favors. The power, the …
“Joseph?”
“What? Oh, hell, Dom, just thinking. Tell me, how does this justify blowing up my night with Laurie-May? I don't really know how these things were handled between you and the Don, so correct me if I'm wrong. When you used to get a contract, wasn't that between you and whoever hired you? I mean, if it was family business, it was part of your job, I know that. Like the Victor Salazar thing. But for something like this, didn't you used to just make your own deal?”
Romelli hunched farther forward, frowning. He had never really trusted the elaborate security safeguards installed at the penthouse. He had preached to Joseph the necessity of assuming all offices and phones were bugged.
“Joseph, we can discuss my arrangements with ‘clients' later. There's a good reason I pulled the curtain on your evening with ‘Glory-day,' or whatever her name was.”
Joseph drew on his cigar, waiting.
“Well,” Romelli continued, “this guy has a job that needs doing, two jobs actually. Real wet work. I told him I was pretty much out of play these days, but that I would think it over. He's offering one hundred thousand dollars per. I told him I would need to know who the subjects were, you know, make sure there would be no conflicts of interest. That's when things got interesting.”
Joseph puffed on the Uppman, his head back and eyes closed. Inside, the adrenaline still churned. So much like his father to have made a commitment like that. God, what days those must have been! Not surrounded by a bunch of accountants and lawyers. Just good men like Dominick Romelli, who knew the
real
ins and outs of the business.
“Joseph, one of the guys he wants taken out is our old friend Raul Salazar. We were just talking about him last night, remember?”
Joseph Bonafaccio shot forward. Coincidence in this part of his business, the part involving the old days, was rare, so rare as to be no coincidence. He stood up, his mind racing.
“You were right to interrupt, Dom. Victor Salazar makes three million dollars of our money disappear, and eight years later diamonds start falling out of his family's cigars. Now someone wants to take out Victor's son.”
Joseph crossed to the picture window and looked out over the park and the city lights. Always, when he had to think something through, he stood there, feeling the power of one mind above the anonymous thousands. He knew what he had to do.
“Dominick, the softest thing the Don ever did was let Raul Salazar out of Cuba. There's
got
to be a connection. Get a couple of guys, you know, specialists. Let's go visit Señor Salazar and smoke some of his cigars.”
Romelli frowned. “Specialists? You mean … ?”
Joseph pressed the glowing point of the Uppman into the ash tray, smashing the life out of it. Raul Salazar could well be the key to the three-million-dollar puzzle the Don had never solved. Now it was his turn.
“Yeah, specialists. Guys that can make someone talk. There's some business that the lawyers and accountants just can't handle.”

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