Gibson & Clarke (Failed Justice Series Book 2) (22 page)

CHAPTER 47

There were five of them. They were all from Chicago. They were all Sicilians. From their body language, two were lawyers; they clung to their highly polished briefcases like they contained the crown jewels or maybe the Magna Carta. Two were associates or body guards, probably a combination of both. The shortest man, only five foot five, maybe an inch taller than Xiang, slicked black hair and a thin mustache, was clearly the boss. He was wearing a light gray, almost silver, silk suit, a white on white shirt, and a white silk tie. He looked like someone from wardrobe on a Hollywood remake of the Godfather had dressed him for the meeting.

Xiang refrained from laughing. They still controlled the money.

Three Chinese gentlemen, all over the age of sixty, all from the Golden Triangle, bowed deeply when Xiang entered the room. There was no question who they were and what role they played.

All told, there were eleven people in the conference room. The host, a Swiss banker, introduced himself and said he would be available by just pressing the button on the table when it was time to transfer funds. He mentioned the room “was clean;” there were no recording devices, and whatever they wanted, coffee, tea, fruit, or lunch, would be available by merely asking. The “Godfather” asked for a plate of cannoli. The banker nodded and suggested the room be locked from the inside. Then without any introductions of the parties—he knew exactly who was in the room; he had collected their passports a half hour ago—the banker left the room.

Each side waited for someone to break the silence. It was the Wall Street attorney, used to controlling the negotiations, who began.

“We all understand why we are here. Mr. Yeung has a business to sell. Mr. Anthony Scalesci and his associates have made a most generous offer of seventy-eight million to purchase it. The five million, non-refundable down payment has been made and the offer accepted in writing. The gentlemen from southwest Asia along the Mekong River and Laos, normally referred to as the Golden Triangle, are here to assure Mr. Scalesci they will guarantee delivery of the product in question under the same terms and conditions as they have to Mr. Yeung for the past thirty years. I have all the agreements here for your lawyers to review.”

There was relative silence in the room as the lawyers read the contracts that had been previously emailed to them. There were no surprises. At least not on the part of the seller.

“Mr. Yeung, while we trust everyone here at the table, and we acknowledge we are all honorable men, my client feels there must be some money held in escrow to guarantee delivery.”

Xiang looked at his own attorney. There had been no mention of a hold back or escrow. This was to be a cash deal. He was about to stand up when Winthrop looked him down.

“What sum of money are you suggesting, Counselor?”

“One half, thirty-nine million, to be held for six months and half of that, nineteen million, for the following six months. The money can be held by the bank. You will be paid in full at the end of one year, assuming all deliveries are on time with the same terms and conditions.”

Winthrop looked at his client for instructions.

Xiang rose to his full stature. He smiled and bowed.

“It appears we have all traveled a great distance for nothing. Of course your new terms are unacceptable. I thank you for your time, and of course, your non-refundable deposit, but if you will excuse me, there is another buyer waiting. Although I trusted you, I always believe in backup. The group from Miami, originally out of Venezuela, can be here in the morning. Mr. Winthrop, will you please call Mr. Escobar’s lawyer and tell him his offer has been accepted and we can close tomorrow?”

With that, Xiang got up and headed toward the door.”

“Hold on, motherfucker. You got our five mil. We want it back. Now.”

Winthrop was already on his feet.

“Mr. Scalesci, with all due respect, that language is totally uncalled for. You are in a foreign country as their guests. This type of behavior is unacceptable. If necessary, I will call the bank manager in right now. I strongly suggest you ask your attorney to explain to you, in the simplest of terms, the meaning of non-refundable.”

With that, the rest of the room emptied, leaving Scalesci, his two associates, and two lawyers, sitting with their mouths open.

“That son-of-a-bitch is dealing with Carlos Escobar. I hate that cocksucker.”

***

Mr. Winthrop had no idea his client was bluffing. He had never heard of Mr. Escobar. Well, he had heard the name of Carlos Escobar the drug lord on the news and in the paper, but certainly never from Mr. Yeung.

What the hell did I sign up for? I’m a corporate attorney; I don’t want to get involved in people killing other people. Or me.

After thanking the banker, assuring him the closing would take place the following morning in the same room, Xiang, Jack Renaldo, who had not uttered a word and was amazed at the balls of the little Chinaman, and Winthrop headed back to their hotel, a short block away.

“Do not accept any calls from Scalesci or his lawyers. None. They know where we are staying. I promise you they will be in the lobby waiting for us before five p.m. Mr. Anthony Scalesci needs my connections, needs my referrals, needs my business, and he will pay for it. I have been in this business long enough to know they can make back their investment in one year. I am authorizing no one to talk to them. I will do everything. Is that understood?”

Jack nodded his head. Winthrop did the same.

“I am going to my room to take a nap. I must not be disturbed by anyone. When Mr. Scalesci shows up, and he will, I will agree to meet with him alone.”

Xiang did not say another word. He had his key card and went right to his room. He had no intention of talking to anyone until after his afternoon nap.

***

Marta was standing alongside the
Happy Hooker
at precisely five p.m. It was obvious the boat had been scrubbed down. It was still wet and sparkled.

Rod was standing on the aft deck, wearing freshly pressed jeans and a denim shirt. The sleeves were rolled up and the tail not tucked in. He was wearing dark brown Dockers, a type of loafer with rubber bottoms. They were deck shoes.

“Permission to board, Captain.”

Rod returned her salute. “Permission granted, Mate.”

“You up for dinner, drinks, and an evening sail?”

Marta was not surprised. She sort of thought this was what Rod had in mind. Quiet, romantic, and very private.

“You know it.”

Thirty minutes later, they were in the middle of nowhere. At least Marta had no idea where they were. Rod had cast off the bow lines, spoken to the dock master on Channel 16, and quietly exited the harbor. As best she could tell, after sailing under a huge bridge, they were in the Gulf of Mexico, heading south by southwest. The engines were now cut; he had thrown out two anchors and had gone below to retrieve something from the ice box. He had opened a bottle of a pinot grigio a few minutes before.

“I hope you like chilled salmon already grilled with a touch of rosemary, thyme, and partially marinated in a very light rum. It was my father’s favorite. Made it myself a few hours ago after getting the
Hooker
in ship shape. I also have a rather sharp cucumber and onion salad.”

“So you’re a cook.”

“Live by myself and I like to eat good. Seems to me it’s a no brainer. Love to cook, grill, and listen to quiet jazz from a small radio station out of Miami. Do you like jazz? Miles Davis and Wynton Marsalis are two of my favorites.”

Marta’s eyes lit up. She couldn’t believe it.

“I love Miles, especially his album
Kind of Blue.
That’s the one with the five minute cut of “Freddie Freeloader” on it.”

Rod was impressed.

She does know her jazz.

“Let me refill your glass.”

By eleven thirty, they had finished eating, drinking, and listening to jazz. They talked like they had been together forever. The stars appeared to be standing still so they could take in all the conversation. Now Rod started the engines and brought up the anchors. It had been a perfect evening. Then she remembered they had not made out. He held her hand while talking about his family and friends back home, meaning Jamaica, but he never made a move on her. She was sure they would have made love in his cabin by now. She certainly would not have said no or resisted.

It never happened.

Did I do something wrong? Did I give him the wrong signals? Is there something wrong with me? Is he gay? No way.

As he was tying up at the dock, he mentioned he had some errands to run early in the morning, but if she was free, he would like to take her to brunch at the Wooden Spoon around ten thirty.

“I’d love it.”

Rod put his arms around her, gave her a quick kiss. When there was no resistance, he gave her a longer, far more passionate kiss.

This boy is definitely not gay.

“Let me walk you to your bungalow. Can’t be too careful around here. Lots of tourists.” Then he added, “Present company excepted.”

When they got to her door, she fumbled for the key. She was waiting to see if he was going to kiss her again. She was hoping.

“Want to come in for a late-night drink—or a cup of coffee?”

Rod smiled. “Would love it, but not a real good idea. We don’t really know each other that well, and I don’t like being frustrated. Maybe some other time. Hopefully soon.”

He kissed her again, held her for a split second, and reminded her he would be at the Wooden Spoon around ten thirty.

“If I’m a few minutes late, save us a booth. Just tell Jenny it’s for me—I mean us.”

Rod blew her another kiss as he headed back to the boat.

He has no idea what the meaning of frustrated is. My God, I practically gave him a written invitation. What do I have to do?

Marta went inside, sat in the rocking chair, and thought about Rod until she fell asleep.

It was close to two thirty in the morning.

CHAPTER 48

There was no way Xiang would have, could have taken the chance of bringing his pipe with him even if it were a strictly business charter flight where Customs was rarely enforced. Yeung was an expert on the subject. His livelihood had depended on it.

Fortunately, he did not need it. He wiped out all thought of the meeting with Mr. Scalesci in a mini second, put his head on the goosedown pillow, and was asleep in no time. He did not even hear the phone ring three times.

By four p.m., he was refreshed. He washed his face, put on a clean shirt, and decided to test the teas the hotel was famous for. He noted the blinking light on the phone and ignored it. He was sure he knew who it was.

Anthony Scalesci and his entire entourage were sitting in a corner of the lobby, facing the bank of three high-speed and antique-looking elevators. Xiang spotted Anthony the moment he stepped onto the classic Persian rug. He pretended not to notice as he turned to his left and walked toward the coffee shop.

“Mr. Yeung, please, a moment of your time.”

Xiang stopped, looked around to see who else was in hearing distance, and faced Anthony. “You can’t possibly be talking to me. I’m a, how did you say it, oh yes, a motherfucker. You should never associate with motherfuckers. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to have a cup of tea.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Yeung. At times, my temper gets the best of me. I didn’t mean it. Again, I sincerely apologize. May I please join you? My treat.”

Xiang had to smile to himself. He was about to really stick it to the baboon for millions more, and Scalesci was offering to buy him a lousy five-dollar cup of tea.

“If you insist, but I must tell you, Mr. Carlos Escobar is most interested in buying my business with no contingencies and is prepared to make me a most inviting offer. I am prepared to complete the transaction with him the minute the bank verifies the funds are available. That should be at ten tomorrow morning.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll match it. Fuck the escrow. That was my lawyer’s idea. He doesn’t know shit. He doesn’t know how we operate. I trust you one hundred percent.”

When looking for a convenient scapegoat, always blame the lawyers,
Xiang thought.

“Mr. Scalesci. The price is now ninety-five million. You have already paid five. If you are prepared to make that offer to me now, gentleman to gentleman, and advise the bank at nine thirty tomorrow morning you can transfer ninety million, we have a deal and I will tell Mr. Escobar I misunderstood you and the deal is done. I am quite sure Carlos will not be pleased.”

“You have a deal. You have my word. Ninety million more. I’ll tell my lawyer to draw up something right now, and I’ll sign it. I think this calls for a celebration.”

“You may celebrate anyway you want, Mr. Scalesci. I am going to have a cup of tea. Alone. I will see you at the bank at precisely nine thirty. No contingencies, no escrow, no hold back, no nothing. If you are more than five minutes late, a sale will take place with Mr. Escobar. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. Thank you, and again I apologize for my big mouth.”

That big mouth just cost you an additional seventeen million dollars, you dumb Occidental.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Scalesci. I will see you at UBS at nine thirty sharp.”

Xiang had a difficult time repressing the smile, for now he had to notify his two lawyers. He would call Mei Ling after confirmation of the transfer of funds.

He also wanted to call Marta. Perhaps they could celebrate his good fortune, without the pipe, when he returned. Yes, he had to speak to Marta. Without thinking about the six-hour time difference, he picked up his cell and impulsively called Marta.

She did not answer.

***

Marta could not believe Xiang was calling her. She was in the middle of packing. She was also thinking about last Sunday morning and having coffee with Rod.

He is the most self-assured guy I have ever met, and he’s just plain nice. He didn’t play games with me, try to hand me a crock of shit, or try to impress me with who and what he is. He told me Saturday night he was tired of fighting corruption and liars in his home country and just wanted to be left alone to do his thing. In addition to playing a mean saxophone, he loves to sail and fish.

Rod saved up from hundreds of gigs, moved to Miami, got a job on a fishing vessel, and put a down payment on his own boat, a used thirty-six foot Grady-White with twin 360 Merc engines. After two months in dry dock to get it in top-notch condition, Rod moved down to Marathon to try his luck as a sport fishing Captain. That was at least twenty years ago. Today he had a larger, newer, and more luxurious boat, one that he could sleep and entertain on when he was too tired to drive back to his small two-bedroom home on Turtle Key.

Everyone at The Wooden Spoon, almost everyone in Marathon, knew Rodney McGuiness, and no one, no one had a bad thing to say about him.

The back booth had a small handwritten note on a napkin on the table:
‘RESERVED.’

Two piping hot coffees were served two minutes after they were seated. Jenny was hovering over them, reading off the breakfast specials. As far as Rod was concerned, anything before noon had to consist of eggs, in some form or shape.

Marta decided to be a bit more creative.

“You first.”

Marta looked over the menu and ordered crab meat Benedict on a toasted English muffin with tomato juice. Rod sort of looked at her sideways.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Want me to pay for it?”

Rod shook his head.

“I’ll have three eggs over easy, a mess of home fries, and rye toast loaded with butter. It’s what I order every morning. Don’t know why you even ask me. I’ll never change.”

Jenny said nothing and brought over a plastic bottle of ketchup.

Marta thought for at least the tenth time,
He’s my kinda guy.

By the time they were on their third cup of coffee, the subject changed to when she was heading back north.

“Probably day after tomorrow. I feel much better and have my head screwed on again. I’ve also thought long and hard about my priorities. Life has to be more than just making the big bucks. Someone recently taught me that.”

Rod did not respond.

“Maybe it’s time to relax and take a few deep breaths,” she continued.

“Do you like to breathe salt air? I’m going down to Jamaica next month for a week to ten days. To see friends and family. Might be nice to have someone to talk to along the way. Don’t need an answer today. You have my cell phone number. Call me after you get back home and see the pile of work on your desk.”

The bill was $18.73. Rod laid a twenty and a five on the table for Jenny.

Marta now had her mouth wide open. She had gulped down the last of her coffee and was close to speechless.

“Are you asking me to spend a week, more like ten days, with you on board your ship? Just you and me?”

“I don’t think there would be room for anyone else. Who were you thinking about bringing?”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. I don’t want to bring anyone else. I guess I’m just surprised. As you said last night, ‘we really don’t know each other that well.’”

“You’re absolutely right. What better way to get to know somebody than to spend a week on a small boat where we can’t possibly avoid each other? We’ll have a great time or end up hating each other by the second day. I’m betting it will be the former. As I said, no answers today. Think about it, and call me next week. Or the week after. Now, I’ve got to head down to my place on Turtle Key and do some laundry and pick up some clean clothes. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see you before you leave.”

Without thinking, Marta blurted out, “Want some company? I can throw in a wash while you’re getting some clean clothes.”

Marta stopped talking. She had just invited herself to Rod’s home. What could possibly be more brazen?

He has to think I’m crazy—or unbelievably desperate.

“Hope you don’t mind riding in a Jeep. She’s clean, and I guarantee you’ll get lots of fresh air.”

***

The Jeep had no doors and no top.

Marta was told to buckle up tight. Marta always—well, almost always—did what she was told. Especially if it was something she really wanted to do in the first place.