Affliction (15 page)

As the
recording played, Alfonzo’s jaw clenched tight. The cool thing about a man like her husband is he didn’t cop pleas even when his ass was busted. But, she appreciated he didn’t deny the allegations; at least he was smart enough not to play her for stupid.

Selange rose when the recording en
ded. “Yep, I’m sure you’ll have business to attend to the wee hours of the morning. That time difference is a killer, word.” She shrugged. “I guess those dinner plans can wait along with that talk you wanted. Jesús is expecting a squirting pussy and I doubt if he’ll be happy if he’s stood up. Good-night papi!”

Alfonzo’s eyebrow ascended. He scowled as
Selange strut from the room. That pendejo was talking filthy shit to his wife. Selange played along, and he understood the purpose but damn did she have to go so hard?

He made an urgent call to the states. He wanted Jesús dead…dead…dead.
He gave instructions to the listener and the last part he said was, “Find out how he acquired the number and then ground that sonovabitch into chop meat. Call me when you’re done!”

***

Alfonzo slept in the den until he received the early morning call. The voice on the line confirmed the matter was solved, except, there came an unexpected surprise that boiled his blood.

Teresa
, yep, Domingo’s wife and the chica he considered solid had been banging Jesús. The bum copied Selange’s number from Teresa’s cell, no telling when he’d done that.

Coño, was there no end to the duplicity of his own familia?

He shook his head in dismay.

What were the alternatives?

Must he clamp his fist and squeeze life from those he loved?

He kicked the
air.

“Damn, damn, damn!” he cursed.

He could not alert Teresa to what he learned. But, he would inform the family he found Domingo’s killer. It is his mother he called in the wee hours of the morning to spread the news. Let Teresa hear the name Jesús. Let her believe her affair caused her husband’s demise. Let her wallow in guilt until the day she died for giving that piece of trash an entry in to his life.

Alfonzo climbed the stairs, went to the bedroom,
and stared at the figure under the cover. His babe came through again. She stayed cool to reel that sucker in like trout. The quick-witted woman, thought on her feet. Yeah, she sort of over-acted, but she did it to teach him a lesson. He caught her message. Trust me, I got you back is all she was saying. He should’ve told her about Domingo. There are subjects he was forbidden to disclose, but Domingo and that damn tape, well, that he could tell her about. Not now but when the time is right he would.

Too bad, there weren’t real soldiers like Selange anymore. Good, bad or indifferent, she went to bat to keep him out of jail. He’d do the same
for her, no doubt.

He walked to the bedside table where her colorful cell charged. He unhooked the device, went outside to the
brick barbeque pit with a hammer and beat out his frustrations until titanium and plastic splintered to pieces. Any electronic parts were then fried.

Later
Selange would have a brand new cell; so would he.

With a sigh, he walked through the backyard. “Put out that fire for me in a minute,” he instructed the guy stationed at the rear door.

“Sí,” the soldati nodded and then went to do the Boss’ bidding.

C
HAPTER TWELVE

The plane landed in La Habana, Cuba, five hours after Tony departed from the tiny airstrip in London, where a chartered plane under a fictitious company waited.

When he left home at four in the morning, Nico took him to a chopper at the coast of Sicily and once aboard, they parted ways. An hour in a bird and he was in the UK, switching modes of transport to
a faster jet.

Tony
text his woman good night and then gathered his gear. This was a solo job. Every detail he memorized. Don Vecchio was on the island meeting with a supplier. He had his Capo him and a low level soldier. They weren’t heavyweights, only old-timers with guns, Nico stated.

“Wear the contacts, keep
the disguise on and don’t remove anything until you’re back on the chopper coming home. Don’t wear shades at night, you’ll draw attention to yourself, but wear them in the day. And Tony, don’t fuck this up, no witnesses, this is where you earn a hefty bonus. Ciao,” are the last words Nico said.

Tony didn’t plan to screw around.
He had three hours allotted to do the hit, get back on that plane and be in the sky before morning. Don Vecchio and his men were the targets. Anybody else in the way, Nico cautioned is collateral damage. The time to grow a heart isn’t when you’re paid to kill.

Cold, but what other sentiment can an enforcer adapt
in such a cutthroat business?

Tony thought of it this way, he wanted in the family, now he had to prove he belonged. Besides, t
he bonus money he intended to use to cover the wedding expenses and fund Tiffany’s dance studios, among other things.

That’s right, the job paid exorbitantly well.

La Habana, Havana, to an American who never ventured there before or spoke of lick of español. On foot is how he had to travel once dumped on shore. He memorized the map. Through old streets and pass antiquated cars, he walked like a native and blended fit right in with his dark complexion.

A
dizzying array of castles, cathedrals, mansions and museums were in the historic neighborhood of Vieja Habana. Near the Presidential Palace and Cathedral Square is where he headed.

The rich culture was on display. The night life of
Havana was a continual Mardi Gras. Bright colors, festive people, music and dance spilled out of the clubs. There were cabarets and impromptu street-side salsas that made him smile a bit when he passed.

Lively and inspirational
was the evening atmosphere. No wonder luminaries such as Ernest Hemingway and Federico Garcia Lorca had put down roots on the island.

After forty minutes, he reached his destination
, checked the time, adjusted his backpack and entered a cluttered alley adjacent to a bookstore.

Reading, yeah right.

Picture a drug lord chilling with a book for hours.

Not a soul on watch. Nico called
it; exactly what didn’t that guy know?

The music covered his sounds as he jimmied open a side door. He
stopped to retrieve his weapon. If he timed the executions accordingly, the traditional canon shot would muffle any commotion, in case the job went sour. Tony sighed in resignation, rechecked the time, and when the dial hit the 59
th
second, he slipped through the door.

***

A figure stood near an open door laughing. The lights in the place weren’t as bright as Tony was accustomed to or maybe the darn contacts Nico insisted he wear were responsible for the altered vision. He quickly removed them and slipped them in his pocket.

Better.

He counted. Three people, hell no, there were five. Don Vecchio was the figure laughing, Tony saw why. A busty woman twerked on his Capo, big-booty jiggles make hand clap sounds and that was the nature of the humor.

The
mafia men were preoccupied with the entertainment and hadn’t seen the change in lighting as Tony crept to a side wall. A loud boom from a centuries old tradition covered the succession of gun shots. The Parque Histórica Militar Morro-Cabaña marks the end of the day and closing of the old city gates the old-fashioned way: with a single canon shot. The Cañonazo Ceremony is a nightly ritual. The veteran cannon shoot a salvo every night, at nine o’clock sharp, from the fortress of San Carlos de la Cabaña. Tonight the ceremonial tradition did not disappoint.

Don Vecchio fell first, right on the tattered seat considered a couch. His Capo flew in to the wall, gripping his neck as blood spurt
through his hands. The soldier caught a bullet in the mouth during the metal spray from Tony’s weapon. The dark Cuban shrieked like a female when bullets toppled him over.

The pause as he met the eyes of the dancer was fleeting. She was not Tiffany, however, a conscience found a killer’s weakness. He thought of Nico’s words and fired.

No witnesses.

He rushed to check Don Vecchio’s pulse.

Dead.

The Capo
and soldier, too.

Then his head rose when a light from the front entry brought
an illumination to the outer room.

“Shit,” he grumbled when he heard a sound and
spotted the blood trail out.

The
wounded Cuban was gone.

Before
Tony boarded the chopper, he called Nico and confessed the error. What he hadn’t expected was the nonchalant response. “I messed up on my first solo job. Come on home, let the smoke clear and then we go in together to clean properly.”

“We?”

“Yeah, a vet will demonstrate how to effectively mop. Besides, you’ve already proven yourself, you didn’t lie. That’s the biggest part of this exercise, Ciao.”

Tony smirked.
“Yeah, ciao.”

Nico was always full of surprises.

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

Alfonzo rolled on his side for the warmth and softness of his wife’s body. Instead, he touched her pillow which he angrily thrust aside as he sat forward. Selange’s grudge had stretched on too damn long. He’d apologized, thanked her for covering his tatted ass and made sure she had the latest cell with more bells and whistles. The secured device came with decryption features that sent an alert to his cell if anybody contacted her that wasn’t in their immediate family.

“Sheesh esposa, this is cruel!” he mumbled, then turned to read the hour and climbed out of bed.
One o’clock on a Saturday morning and look how it starts, he thought while trudging to the bathroom to take a piss before beginning his Selange hunt. Oh, she wasn’t hard to find, all he had to do was follow the music and aroma to the kitchen. Anita wasn’t here and if she was she wouldn’t listen to old rap songs chanting, “
I need a ride or die chick
.”

No, Anita loved the songstress
Celia Cruz.

Selange didn’t hear him approach. The music was too loud. She bobbed her head while singing the chorus and paused to take a bite of a flaky pastry that would have disappeared if he were eating.

Alfonzo stopped. Man, Shanda’s death really punched his wife hard. There wasn’t anything he could do except continue the emotional support, that’s why he refused to add to her grief by discussing Domingo. Besides, he didn’t want to recant the story, he got angry and the emotional drain sapped his energy.

Shanda, well, there wasn’t any animosity there. On that subject he could speak without censuring the truth. He cleared his throat…loudly…she turned but didn’t speak.

The silent treatment was bullshit. She knew how to get under his skin. He took one of the pastries from the tray as he passed on his way to the fridge. The bread was hot. It disappeared with one bite, surprisingly, it tasted rather good.

“Can’t sleep?”
he asked and then reached in the fridge for a cold drink. Not a word. That’s how it was unless they discussed the kids.

Selange shocked the hell out of him when she spoke. “Today is Shanda’s birthday.”

Hope of a truce emerged. He placed the bottled water on the counter-top and took her in his arms. “I know you miss her…yo sé.”

“She named these after us. She called it Sela’s Honey.”

“She did?”

“Yes, they’re good right?”

“Sí, es bueno.”

She rubbed her face in his chest. “I don’t want to cry anymore. Help me get through this
pain.”

“Of course I will, what do you think I’ve been
trying to do?”

“I know you’ve tried but sometimes I think
it’s my fault. Shanda’s parent’s tactics were misguided, but sometimes I wonder if they were right.”