Where There's Smoke (16 page)

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Authors: Mel McKinney

BOOK: Where There's Smoke
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DEP. LUTHER RUGGLES prickled in sweaty discomfort. He had stalled as long as he dared. His brother-in-law, Ernie, was pressing for an answer, and his wife, Patti-Ann, had told him that morning not to bother coming home until it was done.
“Uh, Hiram, got a minute?” he asked, standing at the doorway to the constable's office.
Hiram Thorpe looked up from his report. “Yes, Luther?”
Luther shifted from one foot to the other, not sure whether he should come in and sit down. He decided he'd stay near the door, on his feet, able to flee as soon as he broke the terrible news.
Hiram peered over his bifocals. “Somethin' botherin' you, Luther?” he asked.
Shucks
, thought Luther,
I'm in it now. Have to see it through
.
“Well, Hiram, it's like this. You remember Patti-Ann's brother, Ernie?”
Hiram nodded. It was hard to forget Ernie. Any grown man who played with toy soldiers should be put away, he had told Luther.
“Well, Ernie's got this plan. Me and Patti-Ann think it's a pretty good one.”
Hiram rubbed his eyes, preparing himself.
“Thing is,” Luther continued, “it involves me and Patti-Ann pullin' out and movin' to Portland, Maine. See, Ernie wants to open this model shop and wants me to come in as …”
Hiram sat upright. Luther knew he had his full attention now. Oh, this was going to be worse than he had feared.
“Luther, you tellin' me you're quittin'?”
“Well, Hiram, Patti-Ann wants to be closer to her folks, and it's a pretty good opportunity for me. But I won't do it if it leaves you hangin'. You know that. I can hold off for a time 'til we find a good replacement. I'll stay and help you train him even.”
Hiram stood and came around the desk. Luther took a step backward but then was caught up in Hiram's thick arm as it wrapped around his shoulders like a hairy anaconda.
“Hell, boy, when opportunity knocks, you got to answer! Don't you worry 'bout me. You do what's best for you and Patti-Ann. I'll fix it with the county so's you're paid for one month, and you can just leave right now.”
Hiram's hand slid down and he unpinned Luther's
badge. “There. It's done. Luther Ruggles, civilian. Good luck, son.” Hiram took Luther's hand and pumped a vigorous shake.
“Now, just sign this Civil Service form and it's official.” Hiram whisked a sheet from his top desk drawer.
Luther scrawled his signature, stunned Hiram was taking the blow so well. Still, he wanted to get out of there before it really sank in. Sometimes Hiram had an awful temper.
 
Hiram watched Luther almost skip down the sidewalk. He returned to his desk, chuckled, and picked up the phone.
“Oscar? Hiram Thorpe. No more break-ins? Good. Didn't think there would be. Say, Oscar, is that Pedro Vasquez still hangin' around? You know, the Latin fella that did some work out there and was sweet on Felicia? He is? Good. Tell him to stop by and see me, would you? The sooner the better.”
After hanging up, Hiram reopened his desk drawer and began rummaging. “Ah, here they are,” he said, satisfied. “APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT,” he read aloud. “Liked that boy from the moment I met him. Should make a fine deputy. Good instincts and fast on his feet. Be a good husband for Felicia, too.”
Hiram settled back and lit a Muniemaker. The stack of cigar boxes from the Gessleman place filled the corner of his office. He would make
that
phone call soon enough, he thought. The newspapers would tell him when.
“PHEW. PAULO,
MI
amigo, you are not smelling so good. Time to get you out of here before someone gets curious.”
Raul surveyed his preparations. Food, water, nautical chart, fuel, oh yes, plenty of fuel. For this trip he had filled both tanks.
Satisfied all was ready, Raul cast off both lines, climbed to the flying bridge and slipped the boat in gear.
Ahh,
he thought,
a great day to start a new life.
The
Don Salazario
idled out of the marina and nosed toward open water. Reaching the harbor mouth, Raul brought her up to full throttle. The sleek cruiser rose to a plane and danced across the blue water, her bow pointed due south.
 
The telephone in Joseph Bonafaccio's bedroom was off-limits to all but Dominick Romelli.
This had better be pretty damned important, Dom,
Joseph thought, sliding
his hand along the creamy thigh nestled against him. He reached to answer the muffled ring that had interrupted his pleasure.
True to Joseph's forecast, the diamond cigars proved irresistible to the Rockettes he had selected to share a smoke. Word spread quickly among the leggy dancers of the glittering good fortune that could brighten the life of a girl willing to share the communion of Joseph Bonafaccio's bed and a cigar. Having nurtured the image, Joseph had begun conserving the diamond cigars, substituting ordinary ones on a random basis for his pretty guests. “Diamond Roulette,” he had dubbed the game, and, sure enough, the uncertain outcome often excited a heightened performance from his date.
“What is it, Dominick?” asked Joseph, not hiding his irritation.
“Something that can't wait, Joseph. Sorry.” The gloom in Romelli's voice told him nothing. Sounding sombrous was Dom's job.
Joseph hoped it wasn't a snag with the movie studio they were trying to unload. The deal had been shaky before the trip to Miami. Since their return, he had shored up the weak spots and the sale appeared certain. Once it closed, he would focus on his new venture.
“I've got Herman Meyer on the phone, Joseph. I think you'd better get in here.”
Joseph slid from between the satin sheets and wrapped himself in his robe.
“Back in a minute, doll. Got to talk to a man about some sparklers,” he said. Meyer was probably balking at
price. Predictable. He stepped into his slippers and padded out of the bedroom and into the office suite.
“Good evening, Herman. Hell of a time to be bickering about diamonds, isn't it? I thought we agreed on a price over a week ago—thirty thousand per.”
“Yes, Joseph, we did agree on a price. For diamonds.
These
, what Dominick brought me yesterday, are
not
diamonds. They are some of the best cut glass I have ever seen, but diamonds they are not. The work is exquisite, like that of Javier Menendez himself.”
The elevator cable snapped at the one hundredth floor, and Joseph Bonafaccio plummeted through space. Air escaped his chest with the whoosh of a compressed bellows.
“Joseph?” Meyer's voice queried from another planet.
Fragments showered the room as Joseph smashed the receiver against the wall.
“GODDAMNIT, FINGERS! GET AN ARMY! WE'RE GOING TO ATOMIZE THAT MISERABLE SONOFABITCH AND HIS WHOLE FUCKING MOB!”
CORNELIUS GESSLEMAN GENTLED the mare with a soothing purr, the silky tone masking the menace in his heart.
“Soon, precious, soon. Mr. Bonafaccio, Mr. Romelli, and their friends just paid me a visit on their way to Miami. We had a cigar and a very productive chat. They agreed my requests were reasonable and assured me they would be carried out. The money I paid them was a
bargain
. You'll win it all back for me next spring, won't you? Yes, yes, I have your treat.”
The horse nuzzled his hand, seeking the carrot in its bony clutch.
Around them, dormant trunks rose from mounded pastures, blanketed with a luminous dusting of new snow. Leafless, dark branches fused with the low sky, forming an uncertain, fitful canopy.
The horse persisted, its lips probing the clenched fist.
“Patience, my love, patience. Soon, I promise. Think
of it! Both of them, Salazar and Wesley. And they said they would make that thief Salazar sing a tune first, before he coughs up my money
and
those three boxes of relic cigars.”
Cornelius climbed onto the lower rung of the fence, and tantalized the horse further by snuggling the carrot behind his back. The animal strained its lowered muzzle around its owner in search of the concealed prize.
“Convenient, isn't it? Wesley at home in Miami. Both of them together.”
As Gessleman hitched higher on the fence, he steadied himself with the horse's neck, still teasing with the carrot. In the distance, where white fields met the gray sky, a blur of fresh snow flurries stirred and advanced toward them.
“Then another funeral, I suppose,” he said, mocking a somber tone. “Wonder if I can't talk Margaret into just a small memorial service?”
He looked past the horse's head to the approaching mist of snow and vexed the horse one more time with the carrot before yielding.
When the mare's white neck erupted in a bloody font, Cornelius Gessleman was already dying, the same .308 slug having passed through his own neck a millisecond earlier.
 
“Yeah, Dom, it was a great shot. But shooting the horse? Jesus.”
The Cadillac cruised sedately through Madison County, having left the exsanguinated corpses of Cornelius Gessleman and his Derby hopeful half an hour behind.
Romelli wasn't amused. “Joseph, in this business, you
take the shot when it's there. I could have been hours poking around the guy's farm waiting for a chance like that. We don't have that kind of time.
“Salazar's not going to wait for you to send him a letter telling him how pissed off you are. You said you wanted to get Gessleman off the books, that it would make you feel better since he'd started this whole thing. Well? Feel better? You got him
and
his three hundred grand. Worth the detour?”
Joseph settled into the thick seat. “Yeah, I guess. Too bad we can't tell anyone about it—that we just took out the guy who's responsible for assassinating the president.”
Then, inspired, he turned and said, “Dom, you're a national
hero
, and no one's giving you a medal! Jesus. Here, take the money. Your country owes you.”
Romelli stuffed the envelope in his jacket pocket and opened the door of the bar cabinet in the rear of the front seat. He poured two shots of amber liquid into crystal glasses and handed one to Joseph.
“Well, here's to me, then. A great American hero. Might as well toast me with good Kentucky bourbon, considering where we are.”
He leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder. “Hey, Angelo, what say we get off this back road and onto a highway while we're still young enough to piss, hey? I'd like to make Miami before next summer.”
Yeah
, he thought,
let's get there
. Through the scope, he had seen Gessleman's body crumple, the crack of the rifle still rising in the crisp, winter air. Until that moment, he had not realized just how much he, too, missed the old ways.
Romelli turned and looked through the rear window. The two other Cadillacs were close behind, a convoy of eight killers intent on blasting Noches Cubanas into an echo of the Alamo.
“EMPTY! WHAT DO you mean empty?” Joseph Bonafaccio's head and shoulders filled the lowered window as Dominick Romelli bent to explain.
“Joseph, the place is cleaned out. No employees, no food, booze, or cigars. The cupboards are bare. There was an envelope addressed to you taped to the office door. Here.”
Joseph tore it open and unfolded the letter inside. The handwritten printing was neat and concise.
Joseph Bonafaccio Jr:
You murdered my father, stole his business and that of my grandfather, leaving him to die a broken man. Then you murdered my great friend, Paulo. You call all of this “business.”
Though you think you know your “business,” you know nothing of life. And I think
you do not know so much about your business after all.
I fought you like a bull, but as it turned out you were just a stupid cow. Like a cow, you can now chew on your reward. I kept another Don Salazario from you, a very special one. It is in my office.
 
Adios,
Raul Salazar
Joseph folded the letter, pinching each crease twice. If,
when
, they snagged Raul Salazar, he would relish making him eat it. He stepped from the car. “Let's take a look in Señor Salazar's office.”
Fifteen minutes later, standing in the rubble of their search, Dominick spotted the picture. There on the wall, the perky lift of
Don Salazario
's bow topped a foaming crest as Raul grinned from the flying bridge and waved a skipper's cap.
They stared at the picture for a full minute. Joseph spoke first.
“Dom, the bastard thinks that by running off to Cuba or somewhere in the Caribbean, he can escape us. Not so, my friend, not so. We may be out of Cuba, but we still have connections. It doesn't matter
who's
in charge—a bribe's a bribe. We'll scour the place until we find him. When we do …”
Romelli nodded as Joseph finished.
“ … well, Señor Salazar is going to learn that we know our business very well. I swear it'll be the last thing
he learns. He's younger and healthier than the old man. He'll last longer to enjoy the lesson. Let's go. I've seen enough.”
As they passed through the bar, one of Bonafaccio's men picked up a bottle of liquor and hurled it into the back bar, shattering glasses and bottles.
“Hey! Goddamnit, cut that out! I own this place!” Bonafaccio shouted, glaring at the dark-suited killer.
They stepped into a bright Miami afternoon, and Joseph blinked, adjusting to the change. On the corner, a few feet away, a barefoot boy was hawking newspapers. The front page arrested his attention.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Joseph, hooking the boy's arm. “Dominick, look at this. It's him!”
There was only one thing on the Spanish language paper they understood: a headline-captioned photo of Raul Salazar.
“Kid,” said Romelli, “you speak English?”
“
Sí
Señor, I do, very well,” the boy replied, twisting away from Joseph. “You want to buy a paper?”
“Sure,” said Romelli, handing the boy a five-dollar bill. “Do me a favor,” he said, pointing to the photograph. “Read to me in English what it says about this man.”
The boy hesitated, eyeing Joseph.
“I'm sorry kid,” Joseph said. “I just got excited when I saw my friend's picture on your paper.”
The boy's eyes widened. “You know Señor Salazar?” he asked, his voice pinched with excitement.
“Yes, we know him. We are—old amigos,” Joseph answered. “We came to visit, but he's moved away. Now, tell us; what's the paper say about him?”
“Señor, I do not have to read it to you. Everyone knows what it says. Señor Salazar blew up. Boom! He was out on his boat and it exploded. He did not move away. He is dead.”
Joseph snatched the newspaper, scanning, searching. No kid with dirty feet could rob him of his vengeance.
Romelli laid a hand on Joseph's shoulder. “Joseph, the police. We need answers. Let's go.”
 
Two hours later, in a small park across from the Key Biscayne Police Station, Dominick Romelli slid into the front seat of the Cadillac and turned to face his employer.
“Happened three days ago, the day after we flew out of here. He bought some bait at the marina. The harbormaster saw his boat leave. Looked like he was alone. He was rigged for fishing.
“About an hour later, there was an explosion eight miles off shore. By the time the Coast Guard got there, the boat had burned to the water line and the hull was sinking. There were pieces of his body, burned beyond recognition. And, oh yeah, one other thing.”
“What's that?” asked Joseph, crushing Raul Salazar's letter.
“There was money floating around the wreck. Lots of it. They recovered over twenty-five thousand dollars, still in the bands from the bank in Miami. They think it must have had something to do with drugs. They don't have a clue what really happened.”
Joseph opened the door, stepped from the car, and stretched. He started down the sidewalk. Romelli exited and fell in alongside.
“So, Boss, that's that, I suppose.”
Joseph shook his head. “Not quite, Dom,” he said.
Romelli looked puzzled. Joseph stopped and turned. “There's
still
the goddamn congressman, Dominick,” Joseph said patiently. “We got paid to take out the assassinating-cigar-stealing sonofabitch, and by God, we're gonna do it. We owe it to our country.”
Joseph turned and marched with renewed vigor back to the Cadillac.

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