City of War (22 page)

“If that catches on, what’ll we do with all the unemployed Rottweilers?”

Jackie laughed. “The guy had some regrets, though. Bruzzi caught him with his hand in the till. Tied a couple of dead chickens around his neck and put him out with his gift. Told him to see how fast he could run. The answer was, not very.”

“Hyenas can really fuck up an apartment, so where does Ghandi of the Med live?”

“Ghandi of the Med. You woulda fit right in at State. We liked to put shit like that in open cables to drive the political guys crazy. He’s got five thousand acres of vineyards up near Apollonica. North of Bonifacio. Rumor has it he’s added more hyenas too. Probably up to a pack now, though I think officially it’s called a cackle.”

“You’re kidding. The guy’s a vintner?”

“He’ll tell you he makes the best wines on the island. But that’s on the Bruzzi scale. There is some okay stuff around, but it’s on the west coast. Bruzzi’s…well, you can wash your feet in it. But that doesn’t keep restaurants from stocking it once they consider the alternative.”

“Hyenas,” I said. “The gift that keeps on giving.” I thought I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway. “Would it be unusual for him to be in the United States?”

“Never happen.”

“Why?”

“First off, even though Bruzzi loves a party, and let’s face it, Corsica isn’t on anybody’s hot list, he never leaves Europe. Doesn’t trust his lieutenants enough to be too far away. He also knows that if we got our hands on him, we’d take him someplace nice and quiet and waterboard him until his asshole bled. And after we’d drained him dry of intelligence, we’d forget where we put the key.”

“But if he
was
here?”

“Money. That’s the only reason. Colossal money.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I interrupted your class on Corsica.”

He chuckled. “So you did. The white headband, or
tortil
, is associated with the FLNC, an organization that officially began in the 1970s but whose roots go back to the thirteenth century. It’s one of dozens of quasi-political factions that merge, reorganize, splinter, sometimes even disappear for years—but always come back.

“A red
tortil
and a spider tattoo identify members of Les Executeurs, a group of criminals known as much for their violence as their politics. They imprint their made members with the head and body of a local black widow,
U Malmignattu
, nicknamed the Bonifacio Executioner. Then the guy gets to add a leg every time he kills.”

“Manhood,” I said. “Who wants to walk around sporting a legless Executioner.”

“You’re more right than you know. Les Executeurs’ motto is ‘Corsica for Corsicans,’ but since nobody really knows what a Corsican is, it gets confusing. Mostly, what they really mean is everybody on the mainland should die and everybody in Paris should die twice—which doesn’t exactly make them unique. Half of Washington feels the same way. If Napoleon hadn’t been born there, the French would have cut the place loose years ago. Basically, it’s Chechnya with better weather.”

“Putting Bruzzi aside, can you think of a reason any of these guys would be in Los Angeles?” I asked.

“I’ve been out of the loop. But whatever a Corsican’s political jones is, he’s still got to make a living and do some avenging whenever possible. And if he’s not into waiting tables, that means working for the Sicilians. So it could be drugs, could be a three-hundred-year-old vendetta, could be a disagreement over a pack of Chiclets. To those murderous, superstitious fucks, it’s all the same. If it moves, kill it. My guess is, though, that it’s a onetime thing. Do the job, go home. They’re not world travelers.”

“You said superstitious? About what?”

“Neither of us has enough years left to get through the list. Let’s just say they’re like gypsies on acid. You say Tino likes knives?”

“And he’s no rookie.”

“Hey, Nance, you know that box in my study, on the shelf next to the
Culinaria
books? Can you get it for me, please.”

“Sure, Jackie.” Nancy got out of the spa, and she was a vision. “I’m going to get a beer while I’m in there. Either of you want one?”

We didn’t, and she went in the house. A minute or so later, she was back with a bottle of Sierra Nevada and an eighteen-inch-long, polished wood box with a crest on it. She set it on the table and went back to the spa.

Jackie pointed to the crest, a gold shield bracketed by a pair of mother-of-pearl cherubs. And in the center was a left-facing, black enamel head wearing a white
tortil
. Sort of an edgy cameo. Jackie pointed. “
Testa di Moru
, the Moor’s Head. You see it everywhere on the island, even on the flag.”

I picked up the box. It was a little like looking at Tino, just darker.

Jackie went on. “There’s considerable debate about why it’s black. The usual answer is that it symbolizes rebellious slaves or medieval African soldiers, sometimes referred to as Moors. But since there’s no consensus on exactly what a Moor was, and versions of the head are found on coats of arms throughout Europe, it’s a mystery without a solution. The face is usually depicted with features atypical to Af
ricans, so I think it’s entirely possible an artist somewhere along the line intentionally made it dark to showcase the
tortil
…which is as good an answer as any.”

Jackie opened the box and turned it toward me. Inside, in green velvet, lay a foot-long knife with a gently curved blade very similar to the one Tino had flashed at me on the freeway. The handle on this one was ivory, and there was no question that the blade was razor sharp.

“Beautiful workmanship,” I said.

“Some people think they make the best knives in the world. And since the French won’t let a Corsican anywhere near a gun, the kids there grow up handling them as naturally as an American teenager with a Nintendo.”

As I picked up the knife, I remembered Walter Kempthorn. The balance was perfect. Even though Delta training includes knives, I wasn’t a fan. If you’re that close to an enemy, something has already gone wrong. And knives aren’t efficient. Unless you make a perfect cut in one of a very few places, it takes a long time and a lot of wounds to just slow someone down, let alone kill them.

Most professionals I know feel the same way, but there are a few who walk a different road. They almost always do so in life as well. Loners. There’s something about a guy who likes knives that subconsciously tells other people to keep their distance.

Jackie must have been reading my mind. “A Corsican doesn’t stick his enemy. He slices at muscles, tendons, ears, anything that will terrorize. Sometimes they purposely leave victims dying, but alive…let them bleed out thinking about it. The rule is, if you come across a Corsican with a knife, shoot him. If you can’t do that, get the hell away, fast.”

Suddenly, Annie bolted out of her sleep and ran over to the edge of the patio, putting her head over the short wall, snarling and barking. Jackie and I leaned forward and looked down. Thirty feet below us, on another cul-de-sac, a golden retriever was prancing along beside his owner, oblivious.

Nancy called out, “Bet it’s the retriever.”

Jackie yelled back, “Yep.” To me, he said, “For some reason, she can’t stand retrievers. But then, she’s German, so there doesn’t have to be logic involved.”

I stood up, and after saying good-bye to Nancy, Jackie walked me around the side of the house. Annie darted ahead of us. At the gate, I said, “Since you didn’t say anything when I mentioned it, I gather City of War doesn’t ring any bells.”

Jackie shook his head. “I was thinking about it while we talked. Never heard that one before.”

I told him I was going to invite him up to the yacht club for a sunset cruise one of these days.

“You’re on,” he said. “I’ll see if we can dig up some clothes for Nance. And come back if you need anything else. Just call first,” he winked. “At this age, I’m unpredictable.”

When I got back to the boat, Archer and Brittany were playing Buddy Holly at eardrum-piercing level, laughing, dancing and trying on clothes. Boxes and shopping bags were strewn everywhere, and I saw that Archer had gotten her hair done so that it swept over her right eye again. She still wore my Ray-Bans though.

She saw me eyeing the mess and shouted. “That’s the problem with working in the fashion industry, you’re never shopped out. By the way, three guys came by with a cart and loaded a bunch of food in both refrigerators. You having a party?”

I turned down the music and said, “I thought we might take a run down the coast. Get you out of circulation for a while.”

“How long?”

“Till we get bored.”

“Just the two of us?”

“That a problem?”

“No, but how am I going to show off my new clothes?”

“When the mood strikes, we’ll hit some restaurants.”

“Terrific. This morning, I called a neighbor and asked him
to check on the house. Everything’s fine. The doors were even locked. I’ll call back and ask him to keep an eye on the place. He’s home a lot because he’s got a bum knee.”

Gary, I thought. He’d already been around to see Archer. He’d be really happy to know I was involved again. “Just don’t tell him where you are,” I said.

As Brittany left, she turned to me, winked and gave a thumbs-up.

18

Doritos and Buffalos

As I was preparing to move the
Sanrevelle
out of her slip, I asked Archer, “You know anything about boats?”

She pointed to the bow. “That’s the front.”

I rolled my eyes exaggeratedly. “Okay, your job is to watch the stern—that’s the other front—and sing out if you see anything coming.”

“Cool.”

“
Cool
is not a nautical term.”

“It is now.”

We left the harbor and rode out into a calm sea. Sunset was still an hour away, but the light was already playing tricks on the water, and a pair of pelicans was making runs at something just below the surface. It was a marvelous night to be alive.

Archer brought us a couple of beers, and we sat in the captain’s chairs and enjoyed the ride. No conversation necessary. Half an hour later, I made a long, gentle turn to the south. The sun was now dead ahead, and it was so large and red that it didn’t seem real.

“I can’t believe how beautiful this is,” said Archer. “I
haven’t felt this good in more years than I care to count. Thanks, Rail. I really mean it, thanks.”

“None necessary. It’s always a better experience shared.”

She reached over and put her hand in mine. “Do you mind? I just want to touch someone for a while.”

I didn’t, and we rode that way for a long time.

It had been dark for an hour when Archer went below. A few minutes later, she returned with two Serrano ham sandwiches on hard-crusted Spanish bread, dressed up with Mahon cheese, portobellos, arugula and fresh tomatoes. Archer had drizzled on the olive oil and balsamic vinegar that Emilio had packed separately. On the side was a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, which I’m a sucker for, and some of the best guacamole this side of Guadalajara. He’d also sent along a bottle of ’98 Capçanes Cabrida to wash everything down.

“Forget eating out. This is unbelievable,” she said with her mouth full and guac running down her chin.

“Emilio knows his hungry girls.”

“And his Doritos. I think in some places they’d throw you in the slammer for mixing cultures like this.”

Just after 10:30, I turned the
Sanrevelle
slightly westward and ran straight out to sea for a while. Then I eased her ever so gently north.

A few minutes later, I saw Archer looking at the compass. “I don’t know much about boats, but where I come from, ‘down the coast’ means south.”

“I thought it might be better if no one knew where we were. I’ve been watching for anyone following us, but with some pretty ordinary tech, they could be laying just over the horizon, and I wouldn’t know it.”

“Captain, whatever you do is okay with me. I never want to see land again.”

We were off the West End light when I turned southeast on the backside of Catalina. This late, I didn’t expect much
traffic, and, in fact, there was none. I ran along the island’s windward side for ten miles, counting only five campfires onshore and a dozen lights at anchor at Parson’s Landing. Everything else was dark.

I brought the
Sanrevelle
around again and ran at five knots northwest, scanning the horizon for another vessel making the same maneuver. Other than a line of cargo ships in the distance, I saw nothing.

The cove I was looking for was nearly empty, the water perfectly calm. I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome. The only other occupants were two small sailboats lying next to each other, both dark except for running lights.

I eased the
Sanrevelle
in, staying two hundred yards from the sails. When I read our depth at forty feet, I cut the engines and let her drift until I’d halved that, then went forward and winched the bower anchor down. It caught immediately, and we gently swung around ten degrees and held. I stood for a moment and watched for dragging, but there was none. We were in for the night.

It took me half an hour to tuck us completely in, and when I finished, Archer was lying on a sofa in the darkened salon watching television. I sat down next to her. She seemed completely at ease.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Last Tycoon Cove. On the windward side of the island.”

“Interesting name.”

“F. Scott is supposed to have written some of his final novel sitting out here on Louis B. Mayer’s yacht. But I don’t believe it.”

“Why’s that?”

“You can only get so much booze on a boat, and there isn’t a bar in sight.”

She started to laugh, but it turned into a yawn.

“Why don’t you turn in,” I said.

“Because I’m so damned comfortable.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first one to spend the night right where you are.”

“Was Kim…?”

“I thought I explained. Kim was never on the boat.”

“You did. I just keep trying to…you know…”