Raw Deal (27 page)
“This rum is more than a century old,” Torreno was saying. He stood at the railing of his lakeside pavilion, his back to the water, raising his glass. “You can taste the very essence of our land in it. The strength. The beauty.”
Deal saw a strange rippling movement break the reflection of the moon on the surface of the water nearby.
Something’s hungry
, he thought. He had a vision of driving his shoulder into Torreno’s chest, sending him into the water. The thought made him giddy, and he fought to return his attention to the matter at hand.
An impassive young man in a white coat stood behind the bar. He’d poured drinks for Driscoll and Deal, but they remained untouched.
“I’m sure you can,” Deal said. “Another time, maybe.”
Torreno raised an eyebrow. “In any case, I am honored to welcome a personal representative of our President to my home,” he said, then tossed his drink down.
After a moment, he pointed at the manuscript that Deal held. “Garbage,” he repeated. “An embarrassment to us all. It is unfortunate that a man in my position must suffer such unfounded outrage…”
Deal forced himself to cut Torreno off. He gave a curt gesture. “We really don’t care what you’ve done, Mr. Torreno.” He hesitated, suppressing the urge to snatch up his own drink. “You’ve read the fax. We’re only concerned with what might be proven.”
He gestured back at the house and uttered another unspoken prayer of thanks to Osvaldo. “This is a matter of utmost concern, a concern that extends to the highest levels.”
Torreno stared at him darkly. “
None
of it can be proven.”
Driscoll finally broke his silence then. “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Torreno.” He was staring down, his hands clasped in a thoughtful manner. When he glanced up at Torreno, his face seemed avuncular, reassuringly wise. “But, you see, we’re here to help you, and unless you’re willing to speak frankly with us, we’re not going to be able to accomplish what’s necessary.”
“And what is that?” Torreno asked. It was less a demand than a question.
Please, let this work
, Deal found himself praying. He waited, almost afraid to breathe, for Driscoll’s reply.
Driscoll waved his hands in a placating gesture. “Mr. Torreno, I deal in security.” He gave him a reassuring smile. “There are none of us, all the way to the top, who are exactly what you’d call naive. We understand what’s involved in achieving a position of power, and in maintaining that position.” He glanced over at Deal. “We also understand that people in a desperate situation may be forced into actions that those in more comfortable positions find it easy to criticize.”
Deal tried not to stare. He’d never heard Driscoll approach articulate status before. “But what’s most important to us,” he cut in, “is that there be a smooth transition in your country once Castro is gone. Given your position within the exile community, you can be of tremendous help to us. You’ll control the most important cash resource in the country. You’ll lend stability to the political process.”
Torreno watched them carefully, his eyes going back and forth from Deal to Driscoll, his expression beginning to soften as Deal larded it on.
Driscoll nodded in tune to Deal’s speech, stepped in adroitly on his pause. “But you know all this, Mr. Torreno. What we need to know is what you’ve actually done. So we can make sure nothing—I mean
nothing
—ever sees the light of day. You’re our man. We want you to be absolutely safe.”
His moon-shaped face was absolutely benign as he stared into Torreno’s eyes. Here was the protector everyone dreamed of, Deal thought, the wise and kindly uncle who only wanted the best for you, the man with the thick fingers to chuck under your chin…and the strength to kick the living shit out of the baddest bully on the block, reach into his chest and tear his heart out bare-handed, if it came to that.
Driscoll’s whole being seemed to radiate that promise:
Come on in close, let me put my great big arm around you, you won’t have to worry about a thing
. Deal marveled at the transformation. Every fiber in the big cop’s body had to be steeped in loathing for the man in front of them, and yet somehow he’d transformed that energy into a beam of radiant goodwill.
“We can discount much of what’s in here,” Deal said, indicating the manuscript. “But if there are records that support the charges of financial irregularities…”
Torreno broke in. “I destroyed them myself.”
Deal stared, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He forced himself not to look at Driscoll.
But then Torreno gathered himself. “They were forgeries, of course. The foundation had employed an accountant, a traitor. He came to me with documents he’d created, accused me of embezzling funds meant for
la revolución
.”
“What did you do?” Driscoll asked. Something splashed in the water behind them. Deal heard a sucking sound, like something being pulled down a clogging drain.
“I paid him,” Torreno said. “A foolish mistake. He delivered what he said were the only copies of these documents, disappeared, and then, later”—he waved his hand dismissively at the manuscript under Deal’s arm—“
this
assemblage of lies came to my attention.”
He was either incapable of telling the truth or was determined to protect himself to the bitter end, Deal thought. Whichever it was, he was like some slithering creature it was impossible to catch. The moment you thought you had him, he twisted away.
“There’s another problem,” Driscoll said. “There’s an intelligence operative who’s mentioned in the book; he makes allegations that you actually cut a deal with Castro…”
“Outrageous lies.” Torreno’s eyes were flashing. “There is no such operative. He’s a figment of a madman’s imagination…”
“His name is Anthony Everett,” Driscoll said. “At least that’s the name he used when he worked with you.” Driscoll’s demeanor had shifted suddenly. He’d gone from good cop to bad cop in an instant.
“Don’t bullshit us, Mr. Torreno. We know who Anthony Everett is, for Chrissakes. We sent him to you. The question is, where is he now? If you know the slightest goddamned thing, you better speak up now.”
He gestured at Deal, who held his breath as he listened to Driscoll running their bluff. “This man here says the word back in Washington, you’re history. You understand me? Your whole frigging deal is history.”
The two men stared at one another for a moment. Deal heard an unearthly howl from somewhere deep in the forest that stretched out beyond the lake.
“He is dead,” Torreno said finally.
Deal flinched at the words. He was finding it hard to concentrate as Torreno continued.
“He died off the coast of Cuba, assisting the valiant efforts of a band of freedom fighters.”
“Excuse my French, Mr. Torreno, but you’re full of more shit than a Christmas turkey,” Driscoll said. “We have it on good authority that this Anthony Everett’s right here in South Florida, ready to blow the whistle on your whole operation.”
It stopped him, all right. Driscoll had played their last card, and it had stopped him. But the question was, would it carry? Torreno had turned to stare off over the water in the direction of the echoing howl.
“What did this man know about you, Mr. Torreno?” Deal persisted. “Tell us what he’s got, so we can make a proper evaluation. Otherwise”—Deal shook his head—“I’m afraid…”
Torreno turned upon him, his face composed. “What this man knew is of no consequence, Mr. Ferrington.” He glanced bitterly at Driscoll. “In fact, he was here, threatening me, threatening all of us. But now he is dead.”
“He’s in a hospital…” Deal heard himself say.
“No, Mr. Ferrington,” Torreno said flatly. “He is dead. Trust me.”
Deal swung his gaze to Driscoll. Driscoll ignored him, his own eyes on Torreno.
“How do you know this?” Driscoll said, his voice thick, resolute.
“It is done,” Torreno said. “You must trust me.”
Deal stared at Driscoll, waiting for some sign of confirmation. Was it enough? Had the man said enough?
Torreno picked up a phone mounted near the bar, punched a few buttons. “Coco,” he said into the receiver.
“Is he returned?” He paused, staring at Driscoll. “Good,” he said finally. “Send him to me.”
As Driscoll turned to him, Deal could see the old self mustering itself, ready to burst through the façade of their playacting. Deal’s mind was reeling. Tommy. They’d left him lying there in a hospital bed, helpless.…Deal felt himself swinging between rage and guilt, his hands knotting as he stared at Torreno.
He heard a door close softly somewhere behind them, then the sound of footsteps moving along a gravel path. He turned as the man stepped out of the shadows and came toward them. He was tall and gaunt, moving with the lope of a rangy animal, like a dog that had been beaten into a permanent cower.
And those are the dangerous ones
, Deal found himself thinking as the man moved into the circle of light that the flickering lanterns threw.
When he saw the ruined face, he knew his thought was true: it was a ruin, unsightly enough in its cadaverousness, made worse by the years of disdain the world must have reflected back at it. And the eyes. The eyes were the worst. They stared at Deal with the same impersonal calculation an animal might cast on its prey. Deal had seen bigger men. He had seen violent men. He had never seen a more frightening man.
“The man who would not die, Coco,” Torreno said. “Tell them what has happened to him.”
Coco had not taken his eyes off Deal.
“It is all right, Coco,” Torreno said. “We are among friends.”
Coco still did not answer. He lifted his hand, pointing a long finger at Deal. “I know this man,” he said.
And then Deal knew they were lost.
“Excuse me,” Torreno said, sudden concern on his face.
“It was his building,” Coco said. “The apartment building…”
Torreno turned, astonished. “Deal?” he said. “Your name is Deal…?”
He lunged toward the bar, and Driscoll’s hand went into his jacket. In the same instant, Coco spun toward Driscoll, a blade flashing in his hand.
Without thinking, Deal snatched up one of the flickering kerosene lanterns from the bar and heaved it at Coco. The glass shade shattered and flames exploded, flames that rolled down the length of Coco’s back.
Coco straightened, a man suddenly bathed in fire, his hands flaring straight upward, his fingertips spitting molten blue light. He stood there, wavering, a beacon, a pillar of fire. Flames leapt from his outstretched fingers into the dry palm leaves that formed the low thatched roof of the pavilion.
Driscoll had his pistol out now, was backpedaling from the flaming creature that staggered toward him. He turned back to the bar just as a shot rang out. The ex-cop clutched at his chest, firing a shot from his own pistol. He gave Deal an instant’s hopeless look and went over backward.
To Deal, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Coco tottered in an agonized circle, his hands waving out some semaphore message from Hell. Driscoll’s legs struggled, drew themselves up under him as if he might somehow rise, then fell slack. The servant who’d been behind the bar stared down at a widening circle of blood in the middle of his white vest, then slumped over.
Torreno stared from behind the bar, pistol upraised, as if he had turned to stone himself.
And that was the moment, Deal sensed. The moment where he might have acted. Might have vaulted over the bar in some hero’s leap, wrested the pistol from Torreno, ended things the way they should have been ended.
It wasn’t that he lacked the will. He would have done it, taken a bullet on the way, if that’s what it would have meant. But it was like being in a car skidding out of control, one part of yourself perched on your own shoulder, offering advice to a body that has gone as dumb as death itself.
As quickly as he had sensed it, the moment had passed him by. Torreno turned toward him then, bringing the pistol up, pointing it toward him, firing in the same motion…
Only the man’s urgency to kill, to shoot without aiming, had saved Deal’s life. Deal heard the explosion as he dove behind one of the tables. He slid across the cobbled floor of the pavilion, past Driscoll’s feet, another shot tearing a gouge in the pavement by his face. Fragments of tile tore into his cheek like buckshot. The flames were racing through the dry thatched roof now.
He saw Driscoll’s .38 on the rough stones a yard away and lunged out for it. Another shot rang out, and another, and he heard a groan above the roar of the flames. The shots, intended for Deal, took Coco squarely as he reeled blindly across the room. His back and head were still a mass of flames, the front of his shirt now soaked in blood. His feet stuttered aimlessly past Deal’s outstretched hand, kicked the .38 across the tiles toward the water.
Deal scrambled to his knees and dove for the pistol as it slid over the edge. He got his hand on it, fumbled at its stubby barrel. He felt its cold weight in his fingers, and for one brief second thought it was his. Then it slipped from his grasp and fell into the dark water.
Coco staggered past him, so tall he hit the wooden railing at thigh level. Out of balance now, he flipped on over in an acrobat’s move, disappearing in a whirl of fire. There was a hissing sound as his body hit the water. Then there was a frenzy as the lake’s surface came alive with thrashing fins and that terrible sucking sound.
Coco’s arm raised once, clawing toward the sky, then sank beneath the boiling water. Deal felt a searing pain in the back of his leg, felt his flesh erupt even before the sound of the shot echoed in his ears. For a moment he thought he would lose consciousness. He felt an iciness race through him, saw nothing but bright pinging lights and blackness.
Then he was on his side, his vision coming back, but bleary. Two Torrenos seemed to be coming at him: one tiny man who appeared very far away, along with another mirroring the tiny one’s movements. This second Torreno was huge, looming, and the pistol he was pointing at Deal seemed as big as a cannon.
Torreno was careful this time, planting his feet squarely, bracing his back against the railing, bringing his other hand to steady the pistol so there would be no mistake. Deal struggled to get his feet under him, but one leg stuck out at an odd angle, refusing to cooperate.
