V is for Vengeance Page 30

  She met him at the door. “He’s been waiting for you. He woke up at midnight and wanted company. We played gin rummy and watched television for most of the night. I don’t know where he gets the energy.”

  Dante followed her into the living room, where his Uncle Alfredo was seated by the fireplace, wrapped in a big puffy yellow comforter. April nights were still chilly and the mornings were not much warmer. Dante crossed to the fireplace, leaned down, and kissed the top of his uncle’s head. Alfredo grabbed his hand and clung to it laying it up against his cheek.

  “You’re a good boy, Dante. Let me say that while I have the opportunity.”

  When he finally let go, Dante pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “How goes the battle?”

  “About like you’d expect. This morning’s not so bad.”

  “Cara says you were up half the night.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll die in my sleep.”

  “Don’t want the Grim Reaper catching you unawares?”

  “I intend to put up a fight,” Alfredo said. “Your father came to see me yesterday. We had a long talk.”

  “Let me guess. He thinks I’m too hard on Cappi. He wants me to hand over the bale and let him run the circuit.”

  “That was the gist of it. Not that I’m siding with Lorenzo, but how’s the kid going to learn responsibility if he’s never given any? I’m not making a judgment here so don’t get on your high horse. I’m just asking.”

  “The ‘kid’ as you so aptly refer to him is forty-six years old. I think he’s already demonstrated his capacity for growth and maturity,” Dante said. “Cappi takes advantage. He wheedles and whines and next thing you know, Pop thinks he’s come up with the idea himself.”

  “No doubt about it. Cappi pays me a visit, I know he’s working an angle, maneuvering for support.”

  “He’s not getting it from me. I may make a show of teaching him the system but I’m not going to cut him in on the profits from an operation worth millions. You think that’s a good idea, you’re nuts.”

  Alfredo tilted his head, his tone mild. “Here’s another way of looking at it. How many years you been saying you want out of the business? This might be your opportunity.”

  “Doesn’t work that way. I’m fifty-four years old. What would I do, go to medical school? Get a law degree? It’s too late. Pop expected me to do this and I’m doing it. Now he expects me to turn the biggest chunk of it over to Cappi, who fucks up everything he does. I won’t do it.”

  “How are you going to get around it when he’s made up his mind?”

  “He can make up his mind about anything he wants. I’m the one in control. Anyway, ask me, he’s losing it. He’s talking about Amo and Donatello like they’re in the next room.”

  “He’s forgetful sometimes. Happens to all of us.”

  “Not you,” Dante said.

  “I’m a special case,” Alfredo said wryly. “Big problem you got is Lorenzo doesn’t always see what Cappi’s up to. You should put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.”

  “How?”

  His uncle’s face registered distress. “What’s the matter with you? You know better. That’s not a question you should ever have to ask.” Alfredo studied him briefly. “You know what your problem is?”

  “I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

  “You’ve gone all dainty on me. There was a time when you’d have taken care of this. No talk, no hesitation.”

  Dante smiled. “‘Dainty.’ That’s a first.”

  “You know what I mean. Man in your position can’t afford a conscience. It’s unbecoming. You don’t back away from what’s difficult. You do what needs to be done.”

  “You don’t believe we are what we do?”

  “Of course. We just have to accept that about ourselves. That we’re corrupt, that our sins are mortal. God knows mine lie heavy on my soul.”

  “And you wish the same torment on me?”

  “You know what’s right.”

  “Not what’s right. I know what’s expedient. I’m trying to rise above it for a change.”

  Uncle Alfredo shook his head. “Contrary to your nature.”

  “I’d like to think I’m a better man at this late stage in my life.”

  “Your brother doesn’t share your moral sensibilities, which gives him the upper hand.”

  “That’s how he looks at it, at any rate.”

  Dante took his own car, a 1988 Maserati, silver with a black leather interior. He arrived at the Hatch at 12:45 and parked his car around the corner. He’d given his chauffeur and his bodyguard the day off, opting instead for a loaded Colt Lightweight Commander that he kept in a special compartment in the driver’s-side door. He’d instituted the heavy security measures two years before, when a Colombian gang set up shop in Perdido, twenty-five miles south of Santa Teresa. A crew of ten came to town, six men and four women, using driver’s licenses that identified them as Puerto Ricans. They were, in fact, trampling on territory run by a friend of his who was a Puerto Rican by birth and took offense, not only at their encroachment, but at their maligning his country of origin. Since Dante’s friend was in prison at the time, he’d volunteered to have his own men step in. They cornered the Colombians in a motel room, where a faulty heater exploded, killing the occupants and blowing off half the roof. After that, the remaining Colombians kept their distance but let it be known they’d settle the score in their own good time. Dante’s friend had been felled by a sniper’s bullet his first day out of prison, and from that point on Dante insisted on armed household guards and armor-plated transportation.

  Entering the Hatch, Dante nodded at Ollie and took a table in view of the door. He wanted a bourbon and water but decided to abstain. Ordering a drink seemed like a cheat, as though seeing Nora again was something he couldn’t manage without being fortified with booze. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she didn’t show. He was just as anxious at the idea that she would show. Then what? He’d told himself to have no expectations, but he did.

  There was an impressive gathering of patrons at the bar, faces he’d seen on previous occasions. He hadn’t been at the Hatch for months, but nothing had changed. He looked around, seeing the place as Nora would see it, shabby and unappealing. No charm, no character. He’d chosen the spot because, as he’d said to her, there was no danger she’d run into anyone she knew. Those in her social circle had probably never heard of the bar and wouldn’t be caught dead there if they had.

  His gaze strayed to the door, which stood open, admitting a column of daylight, smoky at the edges, as though a filter had been placed over a camera lens. The haze infused the room with a vintage air, a World War II movie set against a backdrop of loss and death and betrayal. That was a cheerful prospect. He didn’t know her at all, had no idea, for instance, whether she was punctual or habitually late. He checked his watch and saw that it was 1:00 straight up. Ten more minutes and he’d either order a drink or get up and leave. She was a happily married lady, or said she was, so why would she meet him here, or anywhere else for that matter? She was elegant. She had class. She was reserved and self-contained. There was something in her face that made him want to weep, that made him long to see her again, whatever the cost.

  It was three minutes after one when she appeared in the doorway, blocking the light briefly as she came in. He stood. She saw him and crossed the room. He held a chair for her and she sat down. She wore a white wool suit with a short skirt. The jacket was neatly fitted, and where the lapels met the collar there was a rim of red lace. He nearly reached out and slid a finger down between her breasts.

  He said, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Her smile was brief. “I doubted it myself.” Her gaze flicked from the lighted neon beer sign mounted on the wall to the bar and from there to the cartoon arrow that pointed to the ladies’ room.

  “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you’re not comfortable.”

  “Of course not. All this cigarette smoke? By
the time I get home, my clothes will stink and I’ll have to wash my hair.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Place I want to show you. You’ll like it.”

  “We’re going someplace else?”

  “Don’t be so nervous. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  She dropped her gaze. “I have time constraints.”

  “We’re not leaving town,” he said. “Let me correct myself. A short distance out of town. Fifteen minutes max.”

  “What about my car?”

  “I’ll bring you back. What time do you have to be home?”

  “Four.”

  “Not a problem.”

  When he got up, she put a restraining hand on his arm. “Drop me at my car and I’ll follow you,” she said.

  He leaned close to her ear, taking in the smell of her hair and the light scent of lilac coming off her skin. “You just want to be in control.”

  She seemed to shiver at the touch of his breath. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  He stood up and held her chair. “Where are you parked?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Me too. I’ll walk you out the side door. That way you won’t have to parade past these yahoos. They’ve been staring at you.”

  He took her arm lightly, shielding her from view.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m not telling you. This is an experiment in trust.”

  “Why would I trust you?”

  “You already do. Evil as I am, I’ve got an honest face.”

  “You’re not evil, are you?”

  “Not entirely. Then again, I’m not entirely honest.”

  He saw her to her car, a snappy teal blue Thunderbird in mint condition. Somehow it pleased him. He was parked three cars behind her. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled out. She waited until he’d passed before she pulled out behind him. He led her down surface streets, watching her in his rearview mirror. She kept pace with him. As he drove through each stoplight, he was careful she made it through the intersection as well.

  When he reached the 101, he took the southbound on-ramp and continued for a mile. He got off at Paloma Lane, which ran parallel to the freeway on a wide stretch of land that bordered the Pacific Ocean. The railroad had co-opted the right of way some years before, but aside from the thundering of the trains passing twice a day, this was prime real estate. Most houses couldn’t be seen from the road, which meant that privacy was guaranteed. The mix of evergreens and eucalyptus cut the sunlight into patches.

  He slowed and activated an automated gate of weathered wood. The houses on either side of the property were hidden behind eugenia hedges some thirty feet high. He turned into the driveway and followed it around to the left until it widened to a motor court sufficient for six cars. He parked and got out. He waited until she’d pulled in behind him and parked and then he opened her car door. He offered her a hand and helped her out.

  “This is your house?” she asked.

  “A weekend place. No one knows it’s mine.”

  As they walked toward the front door, he took out a set of keys. The exterior of the house was board-and-batten, painted yellow, the windows shuttered in white. The roof was standing-seam metal with a low pitch that suggested the architecture of the tropics—Key West or Jamaica. Palms were grouped in the small yard, which was half sand, half grass. The front door swung back and she stepped into the small foyer, pausing to take in the space.

  The front wall of the living room was floor-to-ceiling windows. Just outside there was a wide wooden deck enclosed by a board-and-batten barrier wall, waist high, topped with darkly tinted glass panels, which kept the ocean visible while anyone standing on the deck was screened from view. She walked as far as the glass and looked out. The air was fully saturated with the scent of ocean, and Dante watched her close her eyes and inhale.

  “You like it?”

  She smiled at him. “It’s perfect. I love the ocean. I’m a water baby. Pisces.”

  “Me too. Only I’m Scorpio.”

  “How long have you had the place?”

  “Three days.”

  “You bought it this week?”

  “Lease-purchase agreement. You’re my first guest.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You want to look around? I can give you the tour.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The two moved from room to room. His commentary was minimal because the house was small and the spatial designations were self-evident. Kitchen, big master bedroom, one guest room, two baths, living room with a dining area at one end. The place was furnished right down to the bed linens.

  She said, “I like buying on impulse. It’s fun. I confess I can’t imagine doing it on such a scale.”

  “It was a good deal all around. The guy owns the house owes me money so he’s paying off a debt. I called and told him I wanted it and he was happy to oblige. The fifteen thousand a month includes the vig. We close in thirty-six months. A bargain from his perspective.”

  Nora seemed taken aback. “How much did he owe you?”

  “A lot. I offered him a discount to sweeten the deal.”

  “Why would someone have to borrow that much?”

  “Cost of living’s up. The market’s down. The guy’s well known in town and he has a front to maintain. His wife has no idea how far in the hole he is.”

  “Don’t they use the house?”

  “Not anymore. He told her he sold it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure.”

  “And her name wasn’t on the deed?”

  “Her name’s not on anything. He’s like Channing in that respect.”

  She hesitated, perhaps reluctant to pursue the point, but curiosity got the better of her. “Meaning what?”

  “I’m guessing the Malibu house is in his name.”

  “He owned it before we met.”

  “So when you married him he declared it his sole and separate property.”

  “Of course. I have separate property as well. We’ve both been married before so it’s only right.”

  “What about the house up here? Your name on the title?”

  “Well, no, but he said it was for tax reasons. I can’t remember now how he explained it.”

  “How many times was he divorced before you married him?” Nora held up two fingers.

  “Bet he got taken both times, yes?”

  “According to him.”

  “That’s why your name’s not on the title. Because he’s screwing you in advance.”

  “Stop that. This is a community-property state. If we divorce, I get half of everything regardless.”

  “Nora, he’s an attorney. All his friends are attorneys and if not, they know other attorneys whose sole purpose in life is to keep assets out of the hands of women like you. The tax reasons he referred to? Guys call that the stupid tax—paying through the nose because they haven’t played it smart.”

  “I don’t think we should be discussing this. It’s inappropriate.”

  “‘Inappropriate.’ Well, that’s one way to look at it. You want my take? You’re a beautiful woman. You’re in trouble and you know it. I can see it in your face. The way I read you, there’s a reckless streak in you a mile wide. You used to be a wild child and you did as you pleased.”

  “I thought that’s what being young was about.”

  “My point exactly. This is how we get old. Thinking too much about things we used to do without any thought at all.”

  “Please don’t go on with this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I shouldn’t have come here. I made a mistake.”

  “We’re having a conversation. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “You know better.”

  “Yes, I do. I wasn’t sure you did. That’s the problem with choices. Eventually you have to decide. Maybe not right this minute, but soon,” he said.

  “What about you? What do you want? Y
ou fault me for indecision, but you haven’t declared yourself.”

  “For starters, I’d like to avoid spending the rest of my life in prison.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “According to my attorneys. I have four of ’em and they’re top guns. I mention their names and trust me, Channing would know who they are.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The question is, what am I accused of doing? You want to hear the list?”

  “Of course.”

  “Income tax evasion, filing false returns, failing to report offshore bank accounts and international income. Also, racketeering, conspiracy, money laundering, interstate transportation of stolen property, sale of stolen goods. That about sums it up. Well, mail fraud. I don’t think I mentioned that. There might be a few I forgot, but most are variations on a theme.”

  “No violent crimes?”

  “Those charges were filed separately. The ones I mentioned are all under the RICO Act.”

  “Will you be convicted?”

  “Not if I can find a way out. My attorneys tell me the feds will offer a plea bargain, but the terms won’t be nice.”

  “What kind of sentence are you looking at?”

  “Forty years. Plus forfeiture of a shitload of property, which really pisses me off.”

  “Forty years? Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t think I’ll wait, but I’ll miss you.”

  He laughed. “It hasn’t happened yet. The good news is these investigations move forward at the typical government pace. Glacial. It’ll take ’em years. In the meantime, there are contingencies in place.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. What contingencies?”

  “I’ve told you enough. The point is, if I opt out, you might consider going with me. There’s more than one kind of prison.”