Green Monster (20 page)

“Yeah, well, we took a vote here,” Mink finally said. “Three of us want to kill the cocksucker. Even with your vote, it's still three to two. The polls are closed. So long, Skarda.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Caracas, Venezuela—

“How much longer?” Elena asked Jefe, in a dreamy, defeated voice.

She lay on the filthy mattress, disgusted by her own smell, beyond hunger and now simply wishing to sleep until someone came to set her free, or until she died. She didn't care which anymore.

Jefe knelt at her side, a plate of
pabellon con baranda—
plantains, rice and beans—on the floor and a forkful of the food in his hand. He held it up to her mouth, but Elena would not open for him. He shrugged and ate the forkful himself.

“
No se
,” Jefe said. “Maybe two days, maybe three. Not much longer.”

He scooped up another forkful of the food and held it up to her mouth. Elena rolled her face away from him. A fly landed on the fork, and Jefe blew it away, scattering a few kernels of rice into Elena's hair. He reached out and picked the rice out of her hair, kernel by kernel, and threw it on the floor.

“You must eat,” he said to her.

“I don't want to.”

He reached over to her and gently turned her chin toward him. She'd been a beautiful woman; Jefe could see that. She still had admirable features, with just enough peasant stock to differentiate herself from the usual society whores of the Venezuelan aristocracy that Jefe hated so much. Elena had new money—her rich ballplayer son had allowed the Mirandas to leap from the working class to the status of landowners. She bore her new station well, but the fierce pride that had been in her eyes the night they'd kidnapped her had all but burned out. Her expensive clothes were now soiled rags, her hair was a tangled, matted mop, and sores were forming on her arms and legs. It couldn't be helped, Jefe told himself; he was not going to wash and dress her each day. But he did have to feed her. A dead hostage does no one any good.

Besides, he liked her. She had shown enough courage, when she still had the strength, to try to escape. She had never lost her dignity or her defiance, and in their conversations she had passionately and convincingly defended the capitalism that had allowed her son to sell his athletic abilities for American riches. But she was now rapidly losing her strength. If she didn't eat, she'd be dead in a couple of days.

Holding her chin, he pulled her lower lip down with his thumb and put the forkful of food to her mouth. She would not move her jaw, but even the effort to keep it from being opened was too much for her. Jefe put the food in her mouth, and to keep from choking on it, she attempted to chew and swallow. It was difficult at first, and she gagged, half sitting up to clear the food from her throat. She managed to take a few more forkfuls, then lay back on the mattress and covered her face with her arms.

“
No mas
,” she said.

“I will put this aside for later. You need more.”

“My son is going to pay,” Elena said. She had slipped back into her near-trancelike state. “Then I will go home.”

“It's not that simple. I have told you before. It is not your son who must pay. We are waiting to hear from Kenwood, who has far more money than your son will ever have.”

“Kenwood,” Elena said. She repeated the name slowly as though she'd never heard it before, though Jefe had told her who Kenwood was several times.

“A rich Yankee, very rich,” Jefe said. “When he pays, you are free to go.”

Jefe laughed to himself. He knew enough about American
beisbol
to know that Lou Kenwood, of all people, would not want to be referred to as a Yankee. But Elena would not get the joke.

Jefe wanted this to be over, too. A million dollars—his share—would set him up for life, allow him to leave the police department and become a landowner like the Mirandas—though certainly in another country. But there was so much more to do, and the waiting, the constant watching over Elena, and worrying that someone would discover them, perhaps try to rescue her—it had been a long, aggravating month. He didn't know how much longer he could stand it. Truthfully, if he had not had Elena to talk to, an intelligent, prideful woman instead of those two ignorant fools he'd hired—now down to one—he might have gone crazy. He was earning his million, no doubt. He would not have the slightest pang of guilt when he killed that drunken lecher, Hector. He deserved Hector's share, too.

He was not so certain about killing Elena Miranda. She had been through so much, and he really did admire her son for all he had accomplished. It would have been easy for an Alberto Miranda to accept the crushing poverty and lack of opportunity in Venezuela, slip into a gang, deal drugs, and end up dead or in prison before he turned twenty. That was the fate of so many in Caracas; as a cop, Jefe saw it every day. But, like Jefe, Alberto Miranda wanted more from life, and had the focus and determination to achieve his dreams. Those dreams were about to end, but there were far sadder stories in Venezuela. Soon, it would be Jefe's turn to have what he wanted.

The only light in the shanty came from a table lamp in the corner of the room, on the opposite side from the waste bucket. Elena now dozed on the mattress. Jefe hated it when Elena slept. There was nothing to do here, ever, except talk to her. Hector was not due to arrive for three more hours, and Jefe had no faith in Hector's abilities or character. Now that Paquito was dead—his body carried to the nearest landfill in the middle of the night and dumped like a sack of garbage—Jefe had assumed his shift. He took time off from the police department, stayed later at the shanty and returned earlier, so Hector would not have to put in more hours. He thought Elena's dirty, weakened condition might have lessened Hector's obvious lust for her, but he still hated to take that chance. As Elena got weaker, Jefe wondered if he should just kill Hector now, and assume full-time guard duties. She wasn't going anywhere.

Jefe was sleepily opening and shutting the cover of his cell phone when it rang. He checked the number on the incoming call. Jefe was surprised; he wasn't supposed to get a call for two more days.

“
Hola
,” Jefe said.

“How is she?”

“Getting weaker,” Jefe said. “I'm trying to make her eat.”

“She can't die. Not yet.”

“She can't last much longer, and there's nothing I can do about that. She's been here too long.”

“Do you have some place you can move her to?”

“Why?”

“There's a detective asking questions. I think he's getting close.”

“How can he find us? The only ones who know…”

“I don't trust Frankie. I never have. If that detective finds him, he might talk.”

“So kill him.”

“Who, Frankie?”

“Him, the detective…kill whoever you have to kill.”

“Jefe, I don't know if you've ever been to the U.S., but it's not like Caracas. You don't just kill people here and dump them in the street.”

“I have seen that on American TV many times.”

“Anyway, get ready to move Elena. Where could you take her?”

Jefe thought for a minute. His house was out; he lived in a nice enough place that the neighbors would notice if Elena managed to wander out of the house, or if they saw Hector coming and going every five or six hours. But Hector—he lived in a place not much better than this shanty. He used to have a wife and three daughters, but they moved out a few months ago after the oldest one accused Hector of touching her. He lived alone now, with nothing, which was why Jefe had known he'd be a good hire for this job. Moving to Hector's house would work for a couple of days. Then, when the money came through, Jefe could blow Hector's brains out in his own house, put the gun in his hand and leave a stupid, illegible suicide note, just the kind a man like Hector would write.

Though she deserved to die in a better place, he would probably have to kill Elena there, too.

Chapter Twenty-three

“Mink hung up,” Sam said.

“He's going to kill Frankie,” Miranda said. “My mother will die. Call him back. Please.”

“Let me call him,” Heather said.

She took the phone from Sam and pushed the redial. Sam wasn't even sure Joey would pick up. Mink might have told him to turn his phone off while they dragged Frankie out of the car, made him kneel down in a ditch, and put a couple of hollow-points in the back of his skull. Nobody liked being interrupted in the middle of a job.

Heather stood in the living room with her right arm across her midriff and her hand under her left elbow, listening to the phone ring. She looked as though she were waiting impatiently for a vendor or a sponsor to answer her call. She showed no signs of panic, despite the reality that this was the most important business call she'd ever made: If she got no answer, or—absurd as it might have seemed, the mobster's voice mail—Frankie Navarro was history, and so was Elena Miranda.

But Heather got through.

“Is this Sid? Oh, Joey. Hi. My name is Heather Canby. I work with Sam Skarda, for the Boston Red Sox. Listen to me: Don't kill Frankie Navarro. My boss will pay you to let him live.” There was a momentary pause, then Heather said, “Sure. I'll talk to him.”

Heather glanced up at Sam. The cool expression on her face perplexed him. Was she doing this for Miranda, out of concern for his mother? Was she doing it so she could find out who was really behind the extortion plot? Or was she doing it because she was part of Frankie's scam, and was trying to save her co-conspirator's life? Sam wished they printed scorecards for shake-down operations. He had no idea who was playing for which team anymore.

He sat down on a leather armchair and waited to see what happened when she talked to Mink. That's all he could do now. Two lives were in Heather's hands from this point on.

“Is this Sid?” Heather said, turning on the charm in her voice like a charity fundraiser buttering up a wealthy donor. “Hi, Sid. Heather Canby, executive assistant of the Boston Red Sox. Look, I'll make this simple. Frankie Navarro has information we need. We'll pay you $1,000,000 to not kill him.”

She waited for a moment, then said, “Any way you like. Wired to a bank account, cash in untraceable bills, securities…you name it.”

Another pause.

“Yes, we'd like to talk to him tonight. Where can we meet you?”

She looked around for something to write with. Sam tossed her a small notepad he always kept in his pocket, and a golf pencil with an eraser. He had hundreds of those pencils lying around his house, and he was in the habit of carrying them for taking notes. When one got dull, he threw it away and put a sharp one in his pocket.

Heather wrote something down, then showed it to Miranda.

“How long will it take us to get there?”

Miranda looked at the address and said, “This time of night, twenty minutes, half hour.”

“We're in Pacific Palisades,” Heather said to Mink. “We can meet you there at…about three. Good. See you then.”

She closed Sam's phone and handed it to him. Where he'd failed, a beautiful woman with a million bucks to throw around had succeeded. So much for a dozen years of police training.

“Where we going?” Sam asked.

“Laswell's gym.”

Sam did a quick calculation. Laswell's was obviously a comfortable hangout for Navarro. Those human dumbbells he'd bumped into at the gym must have been members of Frankie's gang. Sid apparently wanted to take Navarro back to his own turf to lure the rest of his oiled-up freaks out of hiding. It didn't much matter to Sam who came out of that meeting alive, as long as Frankie was one of them. As for the rest, it couldn't happen to nicer guys. Sam had a passing thought that they ought to invite Kenny and his thugs at Quasar to the party, too.

“All right, this is going to be bad,” Sam said. “Heather, you're staying here with Alberto. Write out a check to Mink for a million bucks, or an I.O.U.—whatever mobsters take. I'll bring it with me to Laswell's.”

“What are you talking about?” Heather said. “You know I go where you go. That's the deal.”

“Not to a mob hit, for Christ's sake.”

“Everywhere.”

Maybe Mink and his crew would get there first. With any luck, the shooting would be finished by the time he and Heather arrived.

Miranda wanted to come, too, but Sam told him they'd call him as soon as they knew anything.

“Be smart about this, Alberto,” Sam said. “You won't do your mother any good if you get shot in a mob crossfire. And if things go down the way I think they will, the cops will show up. When they find you there, you'll make the papers all over the country—‘Dodgers All-Star at gangland slaying.' Your family doesn't need to read that.”

Miranda nodded helplessly. He looked exhausted. Sam wasn't even sure how he'd found the energy to play ball the last few weeks, and still go out to clubs at night. Well, on second thought, there was the HGH …

Heather walked over to Miranda, whispered something in his ear, and kissed him.

“It will be all right,” she said aloud. She held Miranda's hand for a lingering moment. “We'll call you as soon as we know something.”

As she and Sam headed to the front door, the ballplayer slumped onto a couch in the living room and picked up a remote control. He pointed it at the floor-to-ceiling audio unit built into the wall, surrounding the wide-screen video monitor. Hip-hop music filled the house. His knees were bouncing up and down, though not in time to the music, and he rubbed the side of his head with the remote. Sam could only imagine what it had been like for this man, with both his career and his mother's life hanging on the edge of extinction for weeks on end. No wonder he'd finally opened up to Heather. He was a 'roided-up bundle of nerve endings, ready to blow.

They were a couple of miles from Miranda's house, Sam driving the BMW down West Sunset toward the ocean, the stars blinking through the light haze overhead and Heather sitting beside him, when he asked the question he couldn't hold back any longer.

“What did you mean, he couldn't do it?”

“I mean, I think the steroids have made him impotent,” Heather said.

“How far did you get?”

“Far enough. I suppose you want to know how big he is?”

“Sure. I can't get enough of celebrity penis stories.”

Sam heard Heather sigh, and even in the dark, he could sense the disgusted look on her face. He'd seen photos of bodybuilders on stage with their enormous muscles and their minuscule swim suits. That wasn't the only thing that was minuscule; Sam had always assumed that the supplements those guys took to increase muscle mass had an inverse affect on their equipment.

“He's no bigger than you, if that's what you want to know,” Heather said.

“I didn't…”

“But he can't do it. He wanted to, and to be honest, so did I.”

“I'm having trouble dealing with all this flattery.”

“Hey, don't get all possessive on me. It's not about you. Anyway, I just feel bad for the guy.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Mansion in Pacific Palisades, $20,000,000 per year contract, world-class athletic ability, adored everywhere he goes…”

“You know what I mean. His mother.”

“Okay. I'll try to be more sensitive.”

“How are we going to get her free?”

“That's not what you hired me for.”

“We're paying you to end this, and it doesn't end until Miranda can tell Babe Ruth to fuck off. So what's your plan?”

“I'm really hoping something comes to me by the time we get to Laswell's.”

First things first: They had to find out who had bankrolled Frankie—assuming Sam's theory was correct—and then find the bankroller, preferably before the night was over. When the sun came up, it would be Thursday. Then they'd be down to twenty-four hours.

They reached Laswell's gym a little after three. They'd put in a very long day, and Sam should have been feeling the fatigue by now, but the adrenaline pumping through him had kept his eyes wide open on the drive across town. Nothing like the prospect of walking into gangland warfare to hold your attention.

The lights in Laswell's main exercise room were still glowing, though the hours painted on the glass doorway said 6 AM - 1 AM. Sam didn't expect to see Mink's Cadillac on the street in front of the building, and he was correct. If Mink had already brought Frankie here, they must have used an employee entrance behind the building. There was another car on the street by the front door—a dark blue Chevy Impala. Sam parked behind it and got out to look in the Impala's windows. He saw several CD jewel cases by Latino and hip-hop artists in the front seat. Two gym bags and a creased copy of Monster Muscle Magazine were visible in the back seat. It looked like Frankie's pals had already arrived.

Heather had gotten out of the car and was walking to the front door.

“Hold it,” Sam said. “Let me go in first.”

“Fine with me.”

Sam drew his Glock and held it down at his side. He put his left hand on the door handle and gave it a turn. It was open. He pushed the door ajar and took a step into the vestibule. There was an inner door that led to the reception area, where they'd met Kaylee hours earlier. Sam could see through the inner door that she was not around anymore. He couldn't see anyone else, either, though the lights were blazing throughout the building. He opened the inner door and motioned to Heather to follow him. There was no sound anywhere in the gym, but Sam knew people had to be inside, somewhere, or the front door wouldn't be unlocked. The question was, how many of them were alive?

Sam walked cautiously over to the reception area and picked up the receiver on the telephone. He heard a dial tone and gently replaced the receiver. His gaze turned past the idle exercise machines and weight benches to the doorway at the back of the room, the door Roy Laswell had emerged from. That must be where the action was—or had been.

“Hey! Anybody here?”

Sam instinctively dropped to his knees when he heard Heather's piercing shout from a few feet behind him. Maybe Sam hadn't adequately explained the likelihood of encountering trigger-happy wiseguys.

“Shut up,” he hissed at her. “Trying to get us killed?”

Heather ignored him and walked down the center row of machines toward Laswell's office. Sam got up from his crouch and followed her, holding the gun out away from his side so he could either drop it or use it, as the situation dictated. Heather reached the door to the back offices, opened it and went down a short hallway. Sam had nearly caught up to her when she turned to her left in an open doorway, looked inside, and put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh. God,” she said. She backed into the hallway.

Sam could smell them before he rounded the corner.

The room had a desk, filing cabinets, track shelving with weightlifting and bodybuilding trophies, and the bodies of two men lying on the floor. Both had been shot in the face, one lying atop the other, their blood pooling together in a dark circle beneath them. Sam recognized the guy on top as one of the weightlifters who had tried to push him around earlier. He didn't recognize what was left of the face of the guy underneath. Was it Frankie?

“See, I always thought muscles were overrated.”

Sam heard Sid Mink's voice coming from a room on the other side of the hallway. The sign on that door said “Roy Laswell, Owner” but when Sam crossed the hall and looked in the office—plastered with photos and posters of pro athletes and barely human strongmen—he didn't see Laswell. Instead, he saw Mink, Joey Icebox, and Leon, with a brawny, dark-haired man tied to a chair and a gag stuffed in his mouth.

“Skarda, meet Frankie Navarro.”

Sam looked Frankie up and down. He was clean-shaven with a dark complexion, at least part Hispanic, and his black hair was moussed up in trendy little spikes. He wore a silver cross on a chain around his neck, and a black sleeveless shirt that showed off his bulging biceps, one of which had a fresh, ugly bullet wound through it, leaving partly dried streaks of blood down his forearm. He had on a pair of navy blue jogging pants with a red stripe on the side, and white running shoes that were spotted with blood. The expression in his eyes was wild and desperate.

Mink sat behind Laswell's desk under a poster of Alberto Miranda dropping his bat and striding out of the batter's box. Mink's curly silver-and-gray hair gleamed like a crown under the fluorescent light overhead, and his eyes sparkled with a renewed vigor that Sam hadn't seen at Dodger Stadium or at the restaurant. The act of snuffing Navarro's posse had seemingly dropped ten years from Mink's round face.

Joey Icebox sat on the edge of Laswell's desk, one foot on the floor next to Frankie. Leon was on the other side of the room, holding a Walther PPK as though he wasn't through using it yet.

“Put your gun on the desk, Skarda,” Mink said. Sam did as he was told.

“Who's the babe?” Joey Icebox asked.

Heather was standing behind Sam in the doorway to Laswell's office. Sam was trying to think of a way to get her out of there without having to reveal her identity when she said, “Heather Canby. I work for the Red Sox.”

Sam could have groaned out loud.

“I gotta pat you down,” Joey said.

It was obvious that Heather had no place to conceal a weapon, but Joey Icebox crossed the room toward Heather as though headed to a buffet line. She sighed and pulled up her top to show her bra, turned around, then hiked up her skirt. She turned back to Joey and said, “Satisfied?”

“Not yet,” he said with a grin, but Mink growled, “Joey, calm down.”

Mink now had the identities of two witnesses to a gang slaying—just the kind of thing someone in his position would normally find inconvenient. Then again, the more people he killed tonight, the more ways the cops would have to come after him.