Once a Crooked Man (7 page)

Cora was confused. “What are you talking about?”

Max walked over and turned off the television. “What are you doing here?”

“Darlene wanted to meet this morning and talk before she went to her day job. I thought it best we do it here. I lay down after she left. God! I'm tired.” She swung her legs to the floor. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You can catch up with your sleep later. Pack me a bag. Just a shirt and some underwear.”

He bent down and flipped over the corner of the rug.

“What did Darlene want?”

He removed a square black metal plate and spun the dials of a small floor safe.

“To get married.”

Cora put on her shoes and crossed the room to the bedroom.

“She says she's met the perfect guy. He's taken her three times to the Bronx Zoo. Can you imagine? Seems on the last visit he proposed to her in the monkey house. ‘Very romantic,' she says. We talked for hours. I still wasn't able to change her mind. I'm sorry, Max. I know how much you like her.”

Cora returned with a carry-on. “How was the other night?” she asked unzipping it on the table.

“The other night?” There was a click. Max opened the round door.

“Carmen. Remember?”

“Who the hell is Carmen?” Reaching in, he pulled out two manila envelopes.

“The girl you took home with you.”

“Oh, her. Fine.” He crossed to the table and emptied the envelopes out bedside the case. “Her name was Carmen?”

She gave him an exasperated look and headed back into the bedroom muttering, “You men!”

She pulled open the chest of drawers. “Where is it this time? Hot or cold?”

“Colombia,” replied Max, sorting through a bunch of passports. “If anyone calls I need you to cover for me.” He found the one in the name of Perez and picked up a wad of money.

“Why the deception?”

“Things go better in New York when everyone thinks I'm around.” He selected a small packet of papers and envelopes held together with a rubber band.

“What should I tell them?”

“Nothing. You know nothing.”

Cora got a brown leather toilet bag from the bathroom and finished packing. Max picked up the phone and told Nino to take the rest of the day off.

In the bathroom, a brief shower washed his mind and body clean. He was now Fernando Alejandro Perez on his way to South America to see his cousin Raul. Not only did Max speak excellent Spanish but he would also be carrying papers that confirmed his identity. None of the passports the Bruschettis used were fakes. A great deal of cash had passed through a great many hands to procure the genuine articles and more to keep them up to date. Any one of them would take him across borders, without question, anywhere in the world.

Cora stood in the bathroom door and watched Max as he dried himself. “So what about Carmen? You want me to hire her?”

“No. Not right now.” He dropped the towel and went past her into the bedroom. “When will you be seeing Darlene?” he asked as he took out a pair of pants and a jacket from the closet.

“Tonight. She'll be here tonight.” Cora opened a drawer and selected a pair of socks and briefs and held them out. “Why?”

Max pulled on the underpants and sat on the bed to put on the socks. “You can tell her she can leave. It'll be okay.”

“I see,” said Cora, nodding her head. “No Carmen and Darlene can go. I don't get it.”

“You will.” He stood up and put on the shirt and pants.

“Max, what the hell's going on?”

“Later.”

Cora took out a belt and laced it through the loops. “I thought we agreed not to keep things secret from each other.”

“Secret? This isn't a secret.” Max reached for a hairbrush. “I just can't tell you right now.”

“You can't tell me? This is Cora, remember?” She pulled the belt tight.

Max sighed. “There's gonna be some changes.”

“What sort of changes?” She fetched the jacket and held it out.

“Look,” said Max as he put his arms into the sleeves. “A lot depends on what happens in the next couple of days.”

She spun him round and held him by the lapels. “When people start talking about changes it usually means for the worse.”

“This time it's for the better.”

“You're taking that doctor's advice, aren't you? That's why you're doing this, isn't it?”

“Not now, babe,” he replied.

“Have you told Sal and Enzo about your little trip to the Emergency Room?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “Nino may have told them.”

“Don't you think they deserve to know?”

“No. It would show them I was worried.” He went towards the other room. “I don't need that right now.”

“Rocco knows, doesn't he?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Max growled, and stuffed the wad of cash into his coat pocket. The passport and papers were tucked into the case and it was zipped shut.

“You're right,” he said. “My little dance with death is the main reason I'm making these changes. But remember what the man said: I have to reduce the stress in my life. Fat fucking chance!”

At the doorway he turned.

“So I get up this morning. I have everything worked out. No pressure. I've come up with a real neat solution. But then every fucker I meet gives me shit. Little bit here, little bit there. Even Sal. But that's okay. I say to myself I'm a big boy, I can work it out. So enough already. When I get back you'll be the first to know.”

He walked back over and kissed her on the forehead. “That is, assuming I make it back.”

 

16

Carter had started the morning in a good mood. Fiona's father had invited him to play a round of golf at his club on the North Shore of Long Island. They had teed off with two friends at noon in bright sunshine and with a cool breeze. The course was in immaculate condition and Carter's swing had been loose and easy for the first nine holes. Then he had begun to think over what Max had told him the day before and specifically about all the things that could go wrong. That opened up a Pandora's Box of possibilities. His body tensed and the ball flew wildly to all the wrong places.

When it was over he didn't stay for the usual farewell drink at the bar but jumped in his car and headed to the city. On the journey back he tried to concentrate on the positive aspects of the proposed changes. As he went up in the elevator his mood had improved.

Soon after Fiona and Carter were married her parents had given them the apartment as a wedding present. Her mother took great pleasure in overseeing the interior design. The result was classic Upper East Side: carpets by Stark, curtains by Belfair, a hidden sound system and a paint job that cost what the average citizen pays for a house.

The living and dining rooms were at the front overlooking Park Avenue. The kitchen, laundry and maid's room were sensibly arranged in the center with the four bedrooms off a rear corridor. The smallest of these was fitted out as a gym.

Since the birth of their second child, Fiona had made it a rule to work out for an hour every evening. All forms of sweeteners were scrupulously avoided and at social occasions she only drank lemon-flavored Perrier. The result was a young body and a sharp mind. Carter headed to where his wife would be pounding away on the cross-trainer in her red leotard and black tights. He stretched up and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, sexy. How much longer?” he asked.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Couple more minutes. Did you hear about Valerie?”

“No. Who's Valerie?”

“Geoffrey Johnson's wife. You sat next to her at the Special Surgery benefit.”

“Oh, her. Thin, blonde and on continuous transmit.”

“That's the one.”

“What about her?”

“She's been arrested. Isabel told me.”

“This sounds fascinating,” he said, handing her a towel.

“Well,” said Fiona, wiping her face. “It seems that for about a year she has had her own secret little brokerage account that Geoffrey didn't know about. She keeps it on her laptop.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes, but Isabel said that she's been taking notes when Geoffrey is on the phone, or when he's having clients over for dinner. Apparently she went online and used what she had overheard to update her portfolio. About a month ago she made a real big killing and the flags started to fly at the Securities and Exchange Commission. They started to monitor her trades. Wasn't long before they figured she was using inside information. At eleven this morning the Feds came and arrested her.”

“You're kidding.”

“Isabel said Geoffrey got a call at the office in the middle of a meeting and had to leave to post bail. He's hopping mad. Isabel says even if she gets off it's going to cost them a fortune in legal fees. And there's the publicity. It's going to be all over the papers tomorrow. They might even have to resign from the clubs. I feel so sorry for the kids.”

Fiona switched off the machine and headed into her bathroom. She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain.

Minutes later Carter stood in his own shower letting the water cascade down his face. His wife had just put into words everything that he feared. She had just described what would happen to the Allinsons if Max and his brothers fucked up.

Valerie's husband, Geoffrey, was not one to ever give in easily. His aggressive personality would never let him suffer the consequences of his wife's idiotic transgressions. He would engage the best lawyers and put the whole matter to rest swiftly. No one in the Johnson family would be dragged into court and the limelight. No one would do jail time or even submit to one of those stupid ankle bracelets under house arrest. Geoffrey would skillfully handle the press and his marriage would remain intact.

As Carter and Fiona dressed for the evening he learned the details of his daughter's upcoming trip to Europe. Also, James had called to let them know he had done better than expected on his science exam and could he please have money for a new lacrosse stick? For the moment at least, everything at home was normal.

Carter slipped on his jacket as Fiona gave her neck a light spray of Floret.

In the kitchen Mathilda was sitting in front of her little television watching the Catholic Channel.

“We're off, Mattie,” said Fiona, checking the contents of her sequined black evening purse. “We should be back by midnight.”

“Shall I be leaving a little something for you in case you get hungry?” Mathilda was from Limerick.

“No, there's no need. We're having supper out.”

“Right you are. Have a lovely evening now.”

A limo was waiting in front of the building to take them the short ride across the park to Lincoln Center. The doorman opened and closed the door and respectfully touched his cap as they drove off.

 

17

The long flight down to South America had been endless with strong headwinds. On the connecting flight from Bogotá to Medellin, Max Bruschetti had been seated next to a fat woman smelling so strongly of fish and cheap talcum powder that he wanted to puke. As he walked from the plane into the terminal his neck and shoulders were stiff with tension. In the swaying taxi from the airport he had reminded himself that this was his last trip to this godforsaken place. It was too hot, too humid and too dangerous.

Once in his hotel room downtown he threw his case on the bed and went into the bathroom. Switching on the light, he washed his hands and face.

Minutes later in front of the hotel, Max approached two taxi drivers who stood smoking and waiting. He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket and said in Spanish, “I want to go to the Finca de los Caballos Blancos on the main road into Llano Grande. It's close to the Hipico Club.”

Max noticed the younger driver give a flick of recognition at the name of the house. He asked him, “
La conoce?
”

The young man shrugged. “
Sí, la conozco.
”

Max nodded towards the two vehicles. “
Que taxi?
”

Both of them pointed at the first. Max opened the rear door and climbed in.

The young man flopped in behind the wheel. Using his horn to clear the roads ahead, he raced at breakneck speed through the streets as if challenging his passenger to ask him to slow down. Max ignored him and sat back in his seat. The road rose up through the valley and corrugated iron gave way to red brick and space began to appear between the buildings. Minutes later they crested the ridge and sped down towards Llano Grande. Max's driver grunted and pointed to the right.

The Finca de los Caballos Blancos lay on a gently sloping hillside and at the end of a long sweeping driveway. Flanked by tall trees and fields of verdant grass, the walls were white, the doors and windows painted deep green. Around the main building stood stables, barns and a large circular exercise arena with a high pointed roof of Roman tile. The walls of the Finca were taking on a dusky orange hue as the sun lingered on the brow of the far hillside.

Some of the staff wore khaki pants and white open-necked shirts with brown leather cases for Ray-Ban sunglasses on every belt, the flaps trimmed off for easy access. A few wore ties and sports jackets. The menial tasks were being done by workers dressed in blue overalls and straw hats, some tending the gardens, others grooming or exercising the horses. One washed a white Jeep Cherokee parked in front of the main house.

To the casual observer this appeared to be a well-run horse farm. To Max it was an armed camp with no shortage of firepower. The Finca was said to possess a state-of-the-art torture chamber, but no one had ever come forth to confirm or deny the rumor. Several people had allegedly disappeared without a trace on the orders of the man he was about to meet. But all this was hearsay. The Hernandez family kept a low profile and avoided the flashy and fatal lifestyles of certain other families in Colombia.