The Downtown Deal (22 page)

I
didn't want to leave, so I ordered out for pizza around
eight-thirty. ESPN was showing
Baseball Tonight
, zeroing in on the
unfolding World Series drama.

According
to all the "experts", the announcers said, the Marlins weren't even
supposed to make the playoffs, much less be one win away from a World Series
championship. They hashed it out among themselves, as well as numerous guest
"experts", all of whom were slowly coming to the realization that
these nobodies from Miami might actually win the whole enchilada.

While
all of this hand-wringing was going on, the doorbell rang. I looked through the
peephole. It was the pizza.

I
opened the door and it crashed hard into my jaw, sending me reeling backward
onto the floor. Two of them charged in, both wearing topcoats, the one in front
tossing the pizza box aside, the other one showing a semiautomatic pistol.

From
my prone position, I pulled my weapon from its holster, firing off two rounds.
They both found their target, hitting the first one to charge in the door. One
round went through his neck, while the other hit him squarely in the face.
Pieces of his skull and brain sprayed all over his partner, as he fell backward
into him.

I
scrambled to my feet, but the partner managed to get a shot off — it was
a muffled pop, fired through a silencer — hitting me in my left shoulder,
knocking me back into the divider that separates my living room from the
kitchen. On the impact, my gun flew out of my hand, landing behind me, or under
me, or somewhere that I couldn't see. I dove to the floor for it, the pain
shooting through my entire body. As I got my left hand on it, he had finally
shoved his comrade's corpse to the floor, then moved across the room toward me
with the business end of his weapon looking right through me.

Because
my shoulder felt like it was on fire, my hand couldn't grip the gun properly.
Instead, I saw my dinette chairs on the other side of me. It was an outside
chance, but right then, that was the only kind I had. I grabbed a chair leg
with my right hand and flung it at him. It hit him around waist-high, making
him stumble momentarily, but it didn't stop him. I tried to transfer the .357
to my right hand, but I didn't know if I could do it in time.

Suddenly,
I heard two muffled spits. My assailant's gun fell to the floor, and his head
jerked upward. Two exit wounds in his chest spewed blood in all directions. He
groaned once, then collapsed to the carpet, the look of death painted
permanently on his olive face.

I
looked beyond him to the doorway. No-Sleeve Steve and Julius stood just inside,
smoke trailing out of the barrel of No-Sleeve Steve's large, silenced semiauto.
It looked like a nine millimeter. They shut the door behind them while they
took stock of the situation.

Both
about twenty-five, both with shaved heads, and both solidly built, they were
Blake's two-man security service. Julius checked out the two attackers to make
sure they were dead, while No-Sleeve Steve came over to me.

"You
all right?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice, which didn't match his
thick-necked, muscular image at all. It was the first time I ever heard him
speak. He holstered his large weapon inside his sport coat.

I
struggled to my feet. "I'm — I'm hit in the shoulder. It hurts like
a son of a bitch, but I think I'll be all right. What are you guys doing here,
anyway? Talk about being in the right place at the right time."

"Mr
Blake told us to watch out for you, starting yesterday. We followed you down to
Binion's last night, then followed you home. We stayed outside till just before
sunup. Then, we came back this afternoon, and parked outside here until we saw
you come home from someplace. We noticed you parked around behind the other
building, so we thought something might be going down." He led me to the
sofa and gently sat me on it. "We sat out there until just a few minutes
ago, when we saw the pizza delivery boy walk up to your door. These two jumped
him, pistol-whipping him till he went down. They took the pizza and rang your
doorbell. We were parked way across the lot or we'd've been here sooner."

Julius
spoke. "They're both dead, Steve. Hispanics, with Miami ID. Olivera's men
for sure."

"Okay,"
No-Sleeve Steve said. "Call Mr Blake."

Julius
took his cell phone from his pocket and punched up the number.

No-Sleeve
Steve turned back to me. As he did, he stripped off his sport coat to relieve
the high heat I maintained in my apartment. Underneath it, large, log-like arms
exploded out of his sleeveless dress shirt. The sight of all those arm muscles
came back to me in spades, as I remembered the night back in February when he
and Julius worked me over right here in my apartment at Blake's direction.

He
said to me, "Now, we're gonna leave in a minute, and when we do, you call
911. When the cops get here, tell them exactly what happened, except to say
that you don't know who we were. All you know is that we were just Concerned
Citizens who happened to be in the vicinity."

"Concerned
Citizens. Right."

"We
saw someone in danger of being killed and we stepped in. Okay? We shot the one
guy who was trying to kill you, then disappeared into the dark, okay? You don't
know any more than that, right?"

"Right."

These
guys just saved my life. I wasn't about to rat them out. They nodded at each
other, threw me a casual wave, then stole out the door.

≈≈≈

As soon as they left, I
called Madden. I told him I was wounded in a home invasion, so he called for an
ambulance. While I waited, I examined my attackers. They were Hispanic,
somewhere in their twenties, and well-dressed. Each carried a silenced .22
semiauto, as well as a couple of thousand dollars in cash. I took most of the
money, leaving a little for Madden's boys and the ambulance crew. One of them
had a room key for the Riviera, a decidedly more downscale hotel than the
Venetian.

Less
than ten minutes later, Madden was at my door, with Bolino trailing behind him
like poisonous exhaust. I let them in. At the sight of the carnage, Madden put
his hands on his topcoated hips, saying, "Okay, Jack. Let's have it."

I
recited the No-Sleeve Steve version of events, claiming two mysterious
strangers with guns happened by during a violent home invasion and saved my
life. I'm sure he didn't buy it, but what was he going to do? That was my
story, and I was sticking to it. Deep down, I think he was glad it unfolded
that way.

I then
added some personal opinion, like a cherry on top: "Despite what happened
here, Frank, I really don't think they came here to kill me. Not at first,
anyway. I think they wanted me to tell them where the wine was, and they were
willing to lay some major hurt on me so I would give it up. I probably would've
told them, since I don't endure torture very well, after which they quite
possibly were going to put one in my head. Those .22s are designed for that, as
you know."

"So
you do know where the wine is, after all."

"Yeah,
I do. But the way they came barging in here, I didn't have time to think. My
only selection was to defend myself and start shooting, which is what I
did."

Bolino
spoke up. "So what you did, asshole, was to take the law into your own
hands."

I
narrowed my eyes into a sharp glare, aiming it right at him. "What I did
—
asshole
— was act in
defense of my own life against two armed intruders, who came busting in to my home
at night with bad intentions. They didn't exactly pause to give me their
agenda. If you don't like it, go
fuck
yourself."

"Calm
down, Jack," Madden said. "I mean it. You too, Nick."

His
hard gaze told me he wasn't kidding. I nodded at him. Bolino backed off as
well.

Madden
said, "Can we link these two to Olivera?"

"Maybe,
but I doubt it," I replied. "He's pretty well insulated. But if
you'll check their DNA against that hair you found in Ryan Farrow's bedroom,
you'll probably get a match from one of them. Also, I would imagine one of
their weapons will match up in a ballistics test against the bullet that killed
Farrow."

Madden
was writing things down in his notebook, and I continued. "In my opinion,
Olivera was definitely behind the Ryan Farrow hit. You'll probably never tie
him to it, though. He was upset over Farrow's failure to 'rescue' the wine from
Sandra Blake's house. But what I think really set him off, was learning that
Sandra had gone over to helping Blake in their deal for that downtown land.
Olivera really wants all that land, the whole sixty acres, but when he learned
that Sandra had switched to Blake's team, he likely figured Ryan would follow,
taking the forty-three million dollar loan with him. Killing him sent the
message to Colby, and Colby got it. He went ahead and nailed down the loan for
Olivera. He was the one who had developed the connection to the money people
anyway, not Ryan."

Madden
turned to Bolino. "Call headquarters, Nick. Get the Crime Scene Analysts
over here on the double." Bolino pulled out his cell phone to make the
call. Through my curtain, I could make out the synchronized flashing of red
lights approaching outside. Madden then said to me: "Here comes the
ambulance now. Let's get you to a hospital and get you patched up."

As
Bolino rang headquarters on his cell phone, Madden leaned into me and
whispered, "Good work, Jack."

T
hey pulled the slug out of my shoulder in the emergency room
of Sunrise Hospital, and I was released from the hospital the next day with my
arm in a sling and painkillers in my system. I didn't have any insurance, so I
had them call Blake. He drove down and guaranteed payment for their services.
He gave them a credit card, or filled out paperwork or something, I didn't
really see. That seemed to satisfy them, though, so he and I left at around
five in the afternoon. He gave me a lift home.

On the
way, he said, "Were either of those two thugs the one who killed
Sandra?"

"I
don't think so. I could be wrong, but I don't believe so."

"Well,
who did?"

"I
can't say right now, but I'll know more tomorrow."

"That's
good. Because Olivera's coming back to town tomorrow or the next day. If the
World Series ends tonight, he's getting on a plane for Las Vegas tomorrow
morning. I want to meet him at your apartment."

"My
apartment? What the hell for?"

"We're
going to resolve this whole question of the land, as well as the wine. I've
faxed him some papers, he signed them, and faxed them back. And I want you
there, in case you have to produce the wine, which I'm pretty sure you will
have to do. I don't want this meeting to take place in my office."

"Isn't
this kind of … unorthodox?"

He
looked at me. "Jack, there hasn't been anything about this whole affair
that you could call 'orthodox'. This will just be the final chapter of this
long, drawn-out nightmare. So how about it? Your apartment, tomorrow, say
around four o'clock?"

I
thought for a moment. I put it all together in my mind, then said, "Four
o'clock sharp. I'll be there."

Pretty
soon, he dropped me off. I rushed into my bloodstained apartment and turned on
the TV to game six of the World Series. While the game was on, I picked up the
overturned furniture and cleaned the place up as best I could with one hand. I
didn't get far. It was obvious I was going to need more reliable help for this
job.

I
eventually gave up on it, poured myself a Dalmore, which I could easily do with
one hand, and settled in to watch the game.

I sat
there, staring in complete disbelief, as the Marlins handled the Yankees with
ease, 2-0, winning the World Series, four games to two, becoming the champions
of all baseball.

≈≈≈

The next day, Sunday, I
slept late. It took me a long time to take a shower and get dressed. Just try
doing all that with one arm out of commission and while pain is shooting
through your entire body.

Hours
later, when I was finally together, I called Martine. I gave her a brief
version of the events, emphasizing the fact that I was basically all right, but
that my arm was in a sling. She came rushing over immediately. It was about two
o'clock when she arrived.

She
stepped into my apartment. As soon as she saw me, she gasped, then gave me an
extra-gentle hug. Looking around in horror, noticing the general disorder,
along with the remaining bloodstains on the carpet and on the furniture, she
wanted to know everything that happened. I gave myself permission to pour a
double Dalmore, then I returned to the living room. We took a seat on the
couch. I gave her the same detailed story I gave Madden, including the fact
that I didn't know who my saviors were.

"So
these guys just happened along?" she said. "They just happened along
and happened to be carrying guns?"

"That's
right."

"Were
they connected with the Cubans in any way?"

"Not
that I know of. They weren't Cuban, I know that much." I finally took a
good look at her.
 
She wore a loose,
white Mirage sweatshirt and tight jeans. The white of the sweatshirt combined
with her pale complexion to set off a extra-dramatic contrast with her dark
hair and eyes. The look was perfect for her.