Dead Man's Land Page 11

  Ortega sneered and leaned back in his seat, muttering under his breath.

  “If you don’t like my rules, you can always get your own car,” Torres said.

  “I just might do that once we divide the loot.”

  Torres adjusted his sunglasses and stared straight ahead. “Wouldn’t bother me one bit. Besides, I’d much rather you get a car so I’m not chauffeuring you around all the time, especially when you’re not drunk.”

  Ortega growled and folded his arms.

  “Cheer up, my friend. We’re about to see your favorite person in the world—Louie Goretti.”

  A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway leading to Goretti’s home. At least a half-dozen cars lined both sides, leaving just enough room for Torres to drive between and park his car at the front of what looked like a frozen procession.

  Ortega grabbed the bag of money, but didn’t move more than a foot before Torres snatched it back with two hands.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Torres said. “If we go in there with all this money, he’s going to try and bilk us for more. Neither of us wants that.”

  Ortega let go of the bag and helped Torres count out $250,000. They shoved the rest of the stacks under the seat and on the floorboard, covering it with a jacket.

  “After we give him the money, we go home and divide it up. Got it?”

  Ortega nodded.

  Torres unlatched his door and put one foot on the ground before he stopped and turned around. “Just don’t say anything stupid, okay?”

  Ortega sneered and got out, falling in line behind Torres.

  They were greeted at the door by a pair of men with skin-tight shirts to show off their thick biceps and wide chests.

  “Well if it isn’t Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber,” one of the guards quipped. The guard next to him chuckled. “I hope you’re here to pay off your debt, because otherwise boss said I could make a piñata out of you.” He grinned.

  “I hate to be the one to disappoint you, but it’s all in here,” Torres said, patting the bag. He struggled to refrain from punching the guy in the face, though he knew he’d lose if he provoked him physically. And lose badly.

  The guard opened the door. “The boss is expecting you.”

  Torres and Ortega entered Goretti’s Spanish-style house, complete with an atrium and water fountain. The natural lighting felt warm, though it was far less humid between the walls of this complex.

  Torres stepped lightly on the marble floor as he went up a small set of steps leading to Goretti’s main hangout spot.

  In the Miami underworld, Goretti barely registered a pulse. His primary method of generating income was by granting high-dollar loans with high interest. He also helped fugitives get new government issued IDs or passports. When it came to harassment from law enforcement, Goretti received his share, but he never appeared at the center of an investigation. It was just how he liked it—sly enough to make money, but not enough to attract the watchful eye of the feds.

  Goretti took a long draw on his Cuban cigar before puffing into the air and taking another swig of his gin and tonic.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my two favorite lowlifes,” he said as soon as he saw Torres and Ortega.

  “That’s because we always pay,” Ortega said.

  Goretti held his index finger up and walked toward them. He put his hand on Ortega’s shoulder. “You see, this is why you’re not the brains of this farcical operation. You don’t even know why you’re my favorites.” He leaned in close to Ortega. “Because everyone pays one way or another.”

  Torres shot Ortega a look, urging him to be quiet, though Torres wasn’t sure if Ortega understood.

  Goretti paced around them and continued. “No, the reason you’re my favorites is because you’re my most consistent. You always seem to need me for something, like you just can’t ever get ahead. And thanks to you, I get further ahead.” He stopped and looked at both of them with a wide grin. “You guys are special to me.”

  Ortega couldn’t help himself. “That might be changing now since we—“

  Torres slapped Ortega in the chest. “Keep your mouth shut, man.”

  Leaning in on Ortega, Goretti said, “Since we—what?”

  “It’s not important,” Torres said. “What’s important is that we have your money—all two hundred and fifty thousand of it.” He threw the bag on the ground.

  “Impressive,” Goretti said as he puffed on his cigar again. “I thought for sure I’d made a poor choice in lending this money to you at a twenty percent discount.” He lowered his voice and whispered to them with his hand at the side of his mouth, as if the vacant room were full of curious ears. “You got a deal because you’re such good repeat customers.”

  “We’ll be happy to wait and let you count it,” Torres said.

  Goretti waved him off. “No need. I know where you live—and I’m quite certain you’re not dumb enough to try and pull one over on me.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you don’t need anything else from us, we need to get going,” Torres said.

  “Big plans for this evening?” Goretti asked.

  Torres nodded. “More than you know.”

  Once they climbed back into Torres’s El Camino, Ortega started to apologize.

  “I didn’t mean to say that, man,” Ortega said. “I just—”

  “You just can’t what? Keep your fat mouth shut? It’s going to be the death of you if you keep it up, especially at Sharkie’s tonight.”

  “I won’t say another word,” Ortega said.

  Torres turned the ignition and fired up the car. “I wish I could believe you.”

  He jammed the gear into drive and pulled onto the circular driveway. He looked in his rearview mirror in time to see Goretti stumbling down the steps and watching them as they left his compound.

  “I hope we never have to see him again,” Torres muttered as he turned onto the main road.

  Later that evening, they entered the home of the infamous Sharkie. Though contrary to local legend, he didn’t earn his nickname from scamming people at billiards or from making high-interest loans. Whenever he got angry, his baldhead and fanged teeth reminded his closest associates of a great white. At first it was only talked about behind his back, but one day he overheard some of his men referring to “Sharkie” and he demanded to know who it was. When they relented and admitted it was him, he smiled and said, “Tell everyone to call me that now.” For someone with the given name of Theophilus Crappton, Sharkie was a welcome relief—even if it did poke fun at his appearance.

  His winner-take-all poker games were legendary and often included high stakes. With an entry fee of $5,000, the weekly event drew characters with money to burn. And most of the time, they watched every cent go up in smoke. Sharkie limited winners to two consecutive weeks before making them sit out for four. It kept the competition stiff and helped him avoid accusations of games being fixed.

  During the summers, the attendance for the games waned, but tonight the place was packed for a special event: high-stakes night. Instead of the usual entry fee, it was $200,000, something Torres didn’t know until he walked in the door.

  “It’s two hundred G’s tonight,” the guard at the door said.

  “Two hundred?” Torres said. “Are you out of your mind?”

  The man put his hand on Torres’s chest to prevent him from entering the house. “You don’t normally get invited on these nights, Señor Torres.”

  Torres turned around and looked at Ortega. “They need two hundred tonight.”

  “What? Have your lost your mind?” Ortega said. “Where are you gonna get that kind of money.”

  Torres stared at him without saying a word.

  “Oh, no. You’re not gambling with my share.” He wagged his index finger at Torres. “No way—over my dead body.”

  Torres followed after him. “I know it’s a lot, but do you know how much we could make tonight?”

  “Do you know how muc
h we could lose? Like, all of it. After we pay off all our bills, there won’t be any money left if you lose.”

  Torres winked at him. “I’m not going to lose.” He slapped Ortega in the chest. “I’m going to make us rich.”

  Ortega shook his head. “No, no, no. This is stupid.”

  “I’m always the one telling you that, but in this case you’re wrong. What’d be stupid is if we went home instead of turning our two hundred G’s into several million. And don’t worry—I’d make sure you get some of the profit, too.”

  Ortega closed his eyes and grunted. “This is loco—muy loco.”

  Torres smiled. “Loco o rico?”

  “I will go crazy if you don’t make us rich.”

  Torres sprinted toward his car. “You won’t be sorry, my friend.”

  Later that evening, Torres advanced to the final game at the big table, where the winners from each of the early games sat. For more than an hour, the competition dwindled until he was in a standoff with Sharkie.

  He peeked at his cards and tried to maintain his poker face. The odds of him losing with a straight flush were practically non-existent. He took a deep breath and pushed all his chips in.

  “All in,” he said.

  The rest of the crowd watched the game as if it were a tennis match, eyeballs shifting back and forth to each competitor, waiting for someone to make a mistake.

  Sharkie took a deep breath and looked at his cards again. He pushed all his chips to the center. “Let’s see ’em.”

  A grin spread across Torres’s face as he flipped his cards over, revealing the straight flush.

  Sharkie didn’t crack, one way or the other. He simply flipped his cards over, revealing a royal flush.

  Torres’s face fell as blood rushed to it. There was only one hand that could’ve beaten him. One hand! And Sharkie held it.

  The room erupted—shrieks of delight from Sharkie’s “minnows,” as he liked to call them, and a mixture of moans and celebratory cries from the rest of the men, who either shared in Torres’s pain or reveled in Sharkie’s success. Torres simply wanted to crawl beneath the table and disappear. Instead, he turned around and exited.

  “Torres,” Sharkie called.

  Torres turned around. “What?”

  “You’re not even gonna shake my hand?”

  Torres waved him off and stomped toward the front door. Ortega walked behind him, intermittently mocking him and bemoaning their fate. “Look what you’ve done,” Ortega said. “‘Trust me,’ you said. Well, look where that got us.”

  As soon as he unlocked his car, Torres sank into the seat and shook his head, staring vacantly at the lights from the harbor shimmering on the water. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  His phone buzzed. It was Goretti.

  “Yeah. What do you want?” Torres asked.

  “Boy aren’t we in a happy mood?”

  “I’m kinda busy.”

  “Well, I’ll keep this short then. While I appreciate your prompt payment today, I must confess that it was a little short.”

  Torres sat up in his seat. “Short? Are you kidding me?”

  “I wish I was, but this is gonna require another twenty-five G’s to get this corrected.”

  “Are you insane? I paid you every last cent.”

  “I’m very much sane, but I had my accountant go through it again. I’m gonna need the balance on that.” He paused. “Oh, and one more thing, Torres. I just texted you a picture of someone. If you don’t comply, I’m gonna snatch him. Is that understood?”

  Torres started to tremble as he swiped over to his text messages. There on his phone was a picture of his five-year-old son, David. They’d been apart for well over two years now and he deeply missed him. Torres was missing out on getting to watch his son grow up. With the way Torres’s ex-wife treated him, he doubted he’d ever be able to find his son even if he wanted to. But Goretti obviously had—and he’d likely done in a short period of time.

  Goretti finally spoke again after a few moments of silence. “I said, ‘Do you understand’?”

  “Yes, sir,” Torres muttered.

  “Good. Now get me what I asked for—and, Torres?”

  “What?”

  Goretti started to smile. “Tell your little partner to keep his big mouth shut. He’s only got himself to blame for this.”

  Torres hung up and got out of his car. He took a deep breath and let out a guttural scream.

  Nothing was going as planned.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE SINGLE LIGHT BULB SWAYED over the table as if it were keeping time. Prado watched it drift carelessly back and forth. After moving him to solitary confinement in a dark cell, this was his first glimpse of light in over a day.

  A man entered the room dressed in military garb. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Sanchez and sat down. He opened a file in front of him and put on his glasses as he hunched over the papers.

  Prado noticed his picture attached to the side of the folder with a paper clip. He caught a few words scribbled on the documents, phrases like “el traidor” and “el criminal.” He wasn’t sure if it was referring to him or someone else, though he knew the Cuban government viewed any attempt to escape the country as a treasonous one.

  Sanchez closed the folder and clasped his hands. “It seems as though we have a problem.”

  Prado stared at Sanchez but didn’t say a word.

  Sanchez stood up and began to pace around the room. “Actually we have plenty of problems with you, starting with the fact that you deserted your team when they needed you during the playoffs—and for what? A pittance of a salary. Be glad we rescued you from those slave masters.”

  Prado wasn’t inclined to agree. Though his contract with the Mariners wasn’t close to the millions superstars received, Prado had more money in his bank account than he’d earned over his lifetime combined. He figured he’d need to work at least another seventy years at his previous government-mandated pay level just to equal it. He shrugged.

  “But the real problem we have with you is that you deserted your country when it needed you most,” Sanchez continued. “What you saw on the Isla de la Juventud docks—and then you did nothing—” He let his words hang for a moment.

  “I saw nothing,” Prado said.

  Sanchez stopped. “Do you know I could have you shot for lying to me?”

  Prado didn’t blink.

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re continuing to lie. We have proof that you witnessed a murder the night you left your beloved motherland, yet you sit here, smug in your arrogance, refusing to admit what we both know is true. I don’t know how you sleep at night with such contempt for your country.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  Sanchez slammed his fists on the table. “You didn’t see anything or you won’t tell me what you saw? Which is it?”

  Prado sighed and shook his head. “It was dark.”

  “I knew you were lying.” Sanchez shuffled back to his seat and sat down. “So, tell me what the man looked like who did this.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Stop playing games with me, Señor Prado. It’s time for you to start cooperating before I begin to force it upon you.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I could make it worth your while. Maybe let you see your daughter—”

  “You monsters already put her in an orphanage.”

  “What if I said we could get her out of the orphanage.”

  Prado sat up. “And get me out of this prison so I can be with her?”

  “Perhaps. It’s up to you. Depends on how much you cooperate with me. Tomorrow I help you get sunlight. The next day—who knows? Maybe I can arrange for you to visit little Isabel.”

  “I’m not saying a word until you guarantee me that I’m going to get out of here without being punished.”

  Sanchez stood up. “I cannot make such guarantees, but if you cannot accept my offer in good faith, I’m afraid I
must leave. Guards!”

  A guard opened the door to the cell and held it open for Sanchez. “Have it your way, then. I’ll make Isabel’s transfer to the orphanage final tonight. She’ll never get out again—even if you manage to escape and become the greatest baseball player the world has seen.”

  Sanchez walked toward the doorway and stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Prado. “Once they shut this door, this offer will end. It’s up to you as to how you want your daughter to spend her days here while you sit in prison.”

  A hundred thoughts flooded Prado’s mind at once. He had several friends who grew up in Cuban orphanages—and every one of them shuddered to think of it. Then he thought about Isabel shaking her little bottom and smiling at him. That smile would be lost forever, as would her innocence. He couldn’t live with himself if that was the case.

  “Wait!” Prado said. “I might have seen something.”

  Sanchez rushed back to the table and pulled his chair out again to have a seat. “Tell me about that night.”

  Prado swallowed hard as he forced the words to come out. “What do you want to know?”

  CHAPTER 25

  WALLER TAPPED HIS PENCIL on his notebook and stared out the window. The slow-turning wheels of government bureaucracy ground to a halt. Of all the agencies he worked with, the Department of Homeland Security operated on greased skids. If there was an issue, it always seemed urgent. His lack of response from them on the matter of Vicente Prado meant perhaps it wasn’t the high priority he believed it to be—or something else was afoot.

  He put his pencil down and clicked on his favorite playlist while he waited for a call back. With his ear buds in, he gazed out the window and imagined himself sitting in the same spot in Sausalito, California, where Otis Redding penned the classic, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Waller felt like he was doing nothing more than wasting time.

  “Heard anything yet?” Hampton said.

  Waller yanked the buds out of his ears. “Geez, Hampton. You scared me half to death.”

  “Perhaps it’s because you’re not doing any work.”

  Waller sighed and gestured toward his phone. “I’m trying but DHS is in shutdown mode or something. I don’t know. They won’t call me back.”