Magic City (22 page)

“I provided the CIA with advice, but the idiots ignored me and relied on Lansky to make the selection. They planned this
gran proyecto
and disregarded the people who knew the most. Lansky muscled me out of the plan. Told lies about my patriotism. He didn't care about the project. All he wanted was to take back his Havana casinos. He had no passion, no political understanding. He was a greedy man. He made a stupid mistake. Killing a nobody like Morales accomplished nothing.”

“Was it Pauline Caufield who ran the operation?” Thorn said.

Cielo's lips twisted into a sour shape.

“That woman betrayed us. Her people have betrayed us over and over.”

“Is it possible,” Thorn said, “that Meyer Lansky put the hit on Morales out of jealousy? Removing a romantic rival?”

Cielo made a dismissive hiss.

“Meyer Lansky was motivated by one thing only,” he said. “Not women, not politics. It was money and money alone he cared for.”

Cielo looked at Thorn, then turned to Snake.

“Out of respect to your father and your mother and your sister, I have allowed you to come into my home. But I am an old man. I have little patience anymore for fools or foolishness.”

“I understand, sir,” Snake said. “One question more and we will go.”

Cielo was silent, keeping a drowsy eye on his flock of beauties.

“If you could simply explain what it was the CIA was attempting to do.”

“Those fools,” he said. “They failed. They have always failed. They continue to fail.”

“Stanton King,” Snake said. “What role did he have in this?”

Miguel Cielo watched his butterflies dip and wallow. He watched them for nearly a minute before he spoke.

“Of all the traitors involved in this catastrophe, King was the worst.”

“How so?” Snake said.

“He degraded himself, sacrificed his honor as well as the welfare of my countrymen. A transgression for which no payment would be sufficient. If he had not fallen so low in recent years, become so pathetic, I would have torn out his heart by now.”

“How did he sacrifice his honor?” Thorn said.

“He sold us out for his own petty purposes.”

“What exactly did he do?”

“That's a question for Lola, and for Stanton King. See if they have the courage to tell you.”

And that was all El Padrino had to say.

On the way out, Snake arrived at the vestibule table a step ahead of Thorn and scooped up the .38. He turned and handed Thorn his cell phone.

“Power shift,” Snake said. “You'll drive now.”

Mariana led them to the drive, and Snake got in the passenger seat and waited.

Mariana put a hand on Thorn's arm.

“You must realize,” she said, “my grandfather has only one cause. The desire to return to his homeland has burned in him for so long that I believe his vision of the truth has clouded in certain ways.”

“So we can't trust what he said?” Thorn asked.

“I think there are others who might complete your knowledge.”

“Like who?”

She pressed a slip of pink notepaper into his hand.

“What is this?”

“A house. Someone lives there who might be useful to you.”

On the note she'd scribbled a street address.

“How do you know this place? What is it?”

“In this city my people have many memorials. Ordinary homes that have played a role in shaping Cuban history. We care deeply about our heritage. This address I give you is one of those. You would be wise to go there.”

Snake rapped his knuckles against the windshield and motioned for Thorn to hurry up.

Thorn thanked Mariana and opened the car door, slid behind the wheel, and cranked it up.

In a rear bedroom at Thorn's Key Largo house, Alexandra used a pillow to muffle her sobs. Each time she thought the waves of grief had passed, another image came to mind: Lawton in the stern of the aluminum skiff, teaching her to cast plugs, or Lawton at the wheel of a Dodge Dart, driving her mother and her on a family vacation, singing that damn bottles of beer song.

She wept into the pillow while Sugarman went about the house, opening windows, airing the place out, puttering in the kitchen. And then another image of Lawton. His Sunday night ritual, shooing away her mother from the kitchen while he assumed cooking duties. Using the only recipe he ever mastered, Lawton melted a brick of Velveeta, mixed it with milk and liberal doses of paprika, and poured the pot of goop over crushed saltines. Welsh rabbit, he called it, and Alex loved it beyond any food she'd known.

She pulled the pillow away, struggling for breath, and stared up at the blurry ceiling, waiting for the next rumble to heave up from her bowels. But the flood of anguish seemed to have tapered off for now.

The truth was she'd been mourning her dad's loss for years, readying herself for this day. Though it was becoming clear that losing him in those torturous increments had not really prepared her for his final departure. Nothing could soften that.

She supposed there was some comfort in the way he'd died. He always claimed he wanted to go down swinging. Exactly as he lived, trying to bring order to an unruly world. Believing as he did that a man's honor was forever tested, his courage always under assault by those who would cheat and steal and betray the trust of others, and it was Lawton's sworn duty to represent the best that common man believed, to serve and protect his fellow man. A simple, sappy world-view. Welsh rabbit, crushed saltines, and cheese sauce.

 

Alex and Sugar were standing on the dock, watching mangrove snappers cruise the riprap wall. The four Advils she'd gulped were kicking in and the ache in her shoulder was down to a dull thump.

Sugarman brushed an insect off the front of his black polo shirt.

Even after the sleepless night, he was somehow unrumpled. Creases still holding in his tan slacks; even the shadow of beard on his smooth cheeks seemed tidy.

They stood for a while looking down at the snappers, then Alex said she had to return to Miami. This was all wrong, hiding out in the Keys.

Sugarman turned and studied her face for several moments, then said, “I'll whip up some eggs. We can sort it out over breakfast.”

“No eggs, Sugar. I'm going back.”

He nodded without enthusiasm. Sugarman's caution wasn't based on any degree of fear for his own well-being. He calculated risk and acted with measured responses that placed the safety of others far ahead of his own. On the other hand, he had a long-standing appreciation for impulsiveness and its occasional rewards. He was, after all, Thorn's closest friend.

“I'll get the keys,” he said.

He'd been inside the house half a minute when a car rolled into the sandy drive.

“Sugar! We've got company!”

Alex heard the car door slam and a few seconds later the distinctive click of steel meshing with steel. She'd heard that same sound a thousand times at the pistol range—the magazine of a semiautomatic snapping into place.

Alex broke for the house. In the past twenty-four hours, two different men had tried to kill her. She wasn't about to let the third time be the charm.

As she entered the kitchen, she heard the intruder come through the front. She took the hallway that led to the north wing. It was a long corridor lit by transom windows and ran the entire length of the house. Thirty feet away down the hall, she heard Sugarman's piss ringing in a toilet bowl.

After entering the front door, there were two ways the trespasser could go. Straight ahead through the open living room and into the kitchen, perhaps drawn in that direction by the bank of windows, where he could peer out the back and check the grounds, or else he could take a hard left through a foyer, which meant at any second he'd appear at the other end of the corridor from where Alexandra stood.

She ducked into the first bedroom she came to. Thorn's boyhood room, little changed after thirty years, with bright posters on the walls, moose roaming across an Alaskan ice field, a hooked tarpon surging from the water. She scanned the room, saw nothing she could use, then drew open his closet door.

A flurry of gnats emerged from the shadows around his old clothes and shoes and fishing equipment. The leathery citrus scent of him was strong, radiating from the ancient boat shoes, the canvas gym bag, the collection of ancient poles and reels and tackle. She knelt down and pawed through the junk, looking for any kind of weapon. In the back corner, she uncovered a lead-filled wooden club. At the business end the wood was pitted and stained dark brown with fish blood. Not a handgun, but it would do.

She rose and fit the billy club to her hand, took a practice swipe at a slash of sunlight, then headed to the door.

As she cracked it open, the toilet flushed and she heard Sugarman washing his hands and whistling a low tune. Making enough noise to attract the intruder, and if the stranger had gone through the living room, as it now seemed, he would have to track past her door to locate the source of the noise.

With an eye at the crack, she waited. She heard the squeak of the faucet as Sugar shut off the water. Only seconds after that she felt the faint give of the floorboards beneath her feet and heard the slow creak of the man's approach. Sure of himself, he wasn't coming on tiptoes.

A breeze stirred through the room and shivered across the back of her neck. She stiffened and raised the club. With only one working hand, she'd have to toe open the door to get any kind of weight behind her swing. One shot was probably all she'd have. She blinked the film from her vision, imagined the blow of that heavy baton against the man's wrist or his skull or whatever crucial spot was most available. She'd have about half a second to decide.

At the other end of the hall, the bathroom door came open and then Sugarman's surprised grunt as he must have seen the man coming toward him. She angled her shoe into the opening of the door and tensed for the strike.

Rendered clumsy from the drugs and pain, Alex stubbed her foot against the door, took an extra beat to throw it open before she could lunge into the hallway with her good arm cocked.

By then the man had stepped back out of range and was aiming his .45 at the center of her chest.

“Can't we all just be friends?” he said.

He was about her height, in his early seventies with gray bristly hair. Wiry body packed tight inside black jeans and matching long-sleeve T-shirt. On his right cheek there was a bright red splash, as if he'd been slapped by a bloody hand.

“Relax, Mr. Mayor,” Sugar called. “We mean you no harm. Isn't that right, Alex?”

Her hand wavered. She stood two steps from the man with the .45. He could nail her twice before she got within striking distance.

She turned and tossed the wooden club into Thorn's room.

“What're you doing here? What do you want?”

“I suppose it's too much to hope for, but do you happen to have the photograph? I think you know the one I mean.”

 

Outside the Key Largo house Pauline Caufield knelt and watched. She had infiltrated to thirty yards. Isolated house, no neighbors anywhere she could see. She'd discovered an excellent vantage point, shielded by shrubs, the rear of the house spread before her—patio, lagoon, three sets of French doors that exposed the kitchen and dining area. Everything was well within range of the Glock 23.

She ran the Zeiss across the back of the house, thumbed the focus. It had 5 × 10 magnification, housed in a unit the size of a fountain pen.

Thirty feet to the center of the patio, forty to the interior of the kitchen. Shooting through glass would hurt her accuracy, but if anyone presented themselves, she was secure in taking the shot. On her last range test she'd consistently grouped them in three-to-four-inch clusters within the chest circle of the silhouette, and that was at fifty feet with the same Glock 23. A little wider spread at a hundred feet, but still within the target, and most were lethal hits. Not bad for an old broad.

Her only shooting problem: it sometimes took her one or two to warm up, get rid of the flinch. But with this vantage point working in her favor, she had the luxury of wasting a couple before she got the kill.

Doing it this way was making more and more sense. Simply go down the list, execute her plan, take whatever countermeasures were necessary, and be done with it. She'd been crazy to pass the assignment to Stanton and Runyon in the first place. That was sloppy, unprofessional, an easy way out.

Naturally she had some qualms about this approach, the repercussions it would have, the inevitable investigation, the press. Seven more deaths on top of all the rest. But she blocked that out. She'd been schooled in every aspect of crime-scene obliteration. She knew exactly what they looked for, knew exactly how to defeat them. And on this mission she had no doubt that Hadley S. Waters would cover her ass. Make certain any tracks, fabric, hair, prints, bullet casings she might leave behind were expunged.

Her only issue: killing Stanton here and now meant that locating the Southwoods documents could prove to be more difficult.

February 1964, two days after the Morales killings, five military police officers showed up at her door, scoured her Miami apartment, and bagged every item that might be connected to Southwoods. Simultaneously the same routine went down with each of the other members of the planning and execution teams. Even the generals on the Joint Chiefs got the treatment. Orders coming straight from LBJ. The president was pissed. Majorly pissed.

Because of that quick action, no Freedom of Information request was ever going to uncover the scheme. Every document was shredded. At least that's what they'd thought.

Stanton claimed he still had a copy. He'd only been a bit player. Unlikely he'd been given any paperwork. Though now that she thought about it, she supposed Lansky could've leaked it to him.

There was no way around it. She had to take his threat seriously. In the long term the document could be far more damaging than the photograph. But the two together could set off a nuclear fission that would blow apart dozens of careers. And send people to Leavenworth, or worse.

Pauline settled into her nest, checked the Glock, patted the spare clip in her jacket pocket. All set.

The phone in her pocket vibrated.

She drew it out, flipped it open. A text message from Runyon. Good boy, staying in touch.

Key Biscayne? What the hell were they doing at Key Biscayne? But worse, they had gone to see Miguel Cielo, that poisonous old man. Where'd they learn his name? Old and sick, he might say anything. Deathbed shit. Just waiting for someone to walk in so he could get it off his chest. She should've followed Thorn and Snake and Runyon. She'd tailed the weak sisters. Goddamn it to hell.

So what to do?

Go forward, do a hurry-up job on these three, or break off and head back to Miami, where the real action was unfolding? She took out her list of names. Read down it, weighing her alternatives. The hotter scene was clearly in the city. The greater threat. If she left Stanton on his own down here, he might just succeed in taking out Sugarman and the Collins woman himself. Stanton doing Pauline's work for her. Then later on she could make a deal with King for the Southwoods papers. Once she had them in hand, that would be the end of the mayor.

That seemed the cleaner option. Cut and run.

But then again, she'd driven all this way. It was an hour back to the city. She was here. She was invested. Why not just get it done, pop all three and get the hell back to Miami afterward?

It was a simple logical choice. She was usually so good with logic.