Salty Sky (19 page)

The Cuban did not need to be told. He knew Francisco did not like this answer. He bent down and lit the rags on both feet. Radcliffe screamed. He bounced his metal chair. Twenty seconds. Forty seconds. A minute. The rags began to burn out. Radcliffe’s screams turned into whimpers.

Francisco said, “Mr. Radcliffe, if there is nobody else to see, I have nowhere to go. This can take a very long time. Should we see if your wife would like to join us?”

There was no reply besides the whimpering. Francisco poked at the charred feet with his shoe and the intensity of the whimper changed. He nodded to Alberto, paint thinner glugged out of the bottle’s wide mouth onto Radcliffe’s thighs and lap.

“Mr. Radcliffe, I am going to ask you again. Who else killed my brother?”

Radcliffe met the inquiry with silence. He seemed no longer able to meet Francisco’s gaze. Francisco concluded Radcliffe knew his eyes would betray his desire for mercy.

“You still do not want to answer? Then let me tell you a bit about what I will do with the extra time I have now that I won’t need to find your accomplice.”

Francisco waved toward the tools he would use. At first, Radcliffe stared only at the floor, but then Alberto pulled his head up by his hair to show him his future.

There were water buckets that would put out the fire on Radcliffe’s lap before the next one started on his shirt. Sandpaper to remove the burned skin down to the muscle. Finally, the relief, the razor knife Francisco flicked open that would end the misery once he’d heard the truth.

As the Cuban bent to light the pants, Radcliffe, with a genuinely meek voice, confirmed Mr. Coleman’s involvement, and as the flame lifted to his crotch, he frantically—and somewhat pathetically, it seemed to Francisco—volunteered that Coleman killed his brother and explained exactly how. He seemed to have no other helpful information.

At this point, Francisco ended Mr. Radcliffe’s life with a slice across the throat. Reaching through the wound, he pulled the tongue through the hole. Alberto took a picture of the corpse with its signature necktie lolling on Radcliffe’s chest. The body would be burned too badly for the necktie to be seen by the authorities. But later, when Francisco was in Colombia, they would make the pictures public
while denying any complicity. Part of this killing’s purpose, after all, was for the image to make its way into the public’s consciousness.

The confirmation Mr. Radcliffe provided of both his own and Mr. Coleman’s participation was appreciated. If the report had been incorrect, Francisco didn’t mind killing an innocent
norteamericano
, but he did mind the thought of the guilty living on. Twenty years were enough. Mr. Coleman’s end would not be as painless as Mr. Radcliffe’s.

As they returned to the G5, Francisco said to Alberto, “You did well. You have not lost your touch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Escobar. We still have good men in Florida who provided the information and supplies. They are the ones who first introduced us to the Cuban last year. I feel he does very well for one so young.”

“Yes, he again did very well. Very clean.” Francisco paused, thinking of a role on his notepad the Cuban might play. He then added, “Please reward these good men generously. We will be spending more time in Florida and need good men.” Francisco looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Cuban following. “Do you think the Cuban would be helpful for the rest of our trip?”

Alberto agreed and pulled out his phone to make the arrangements.

FOCUSED ON THE
growth of the business, Francisco walked away from Alberto and the Cuban, who sat in the front row of the Gulfstream. Francisco sat on the couch at the back of the cabin and picked up his notepad. He felt good that the pad’s red was now overlaid with new initials, but there was still too much blue. He wrote the Cuban’s initials and a question mark beside one critical spot of red.

Unfortunately, he saw no choice but to form an alliance, even if the Cuban succeeded. A smaller Mexican cartel seemed obvious. These were the relationships he was developing. The men from the
Yucatan were more similar to the former
recolectores de café
that his family employed in his established territories than were the Aztec, Apache, and Pueblo descendants in northern Mexico.

Francisco looked forward to filling his men’s passports with stamps. They had the financial resources for the growth. They had the skill set. They had the product, and there was demand for that product. They had firepower. But they lacked manpower. His men were largely old or unproven. There was too much death in the middle. Could the Cuban be trained to not only perform but also to lead?

He ruminated on the old RAF pilot’s comment about the rule of law allowing England to rule the world. There seemed validity in this idea. In the failed states of South America, it was true: There was no rule of law. Even in Mexico, law only took hold within pockets of the citizenry. Certainly, there were laws, but the justice and value of these laws were not embedded in the culture. The creation of value that came from honoring deals or respecting property rights was little understood. There was no understanding of the fact that if there were no dishonor in stealing, then everyone’s property would soon be stolen, except the smallest amount they could physically protect.

Better to partner directly with the Americans and Europeans rather than the Mexicans or Moroccans. The westernized criminals with whom he would deal were culturally bound to honor deals. Their deceptions would only occur when it was in their best interest. A calculated gamble. These partners would realize they made a choice to steal and would understand the ramifications. The men who grew up without the rule of law stole because they could at that moment; they didn’t consider the consequences.

The Americans and Europeans were also sheltered. Even their poorest grew up with doctors to treat the sick. They rarely saw youthful deaths from poor health or violence. The untimely passing of a single friend traumatized them; a mass grave was a fairy tale. The idea that law enforcement officials could be left hanging from street lights was unfathomable.

Using the Western men would save lives. The reminders of his violent capabilities would be needed less frequently. Another benefit of dealing with the Westerners was their fifty years of equal rights movements. He could align with women as well as men. Certainly, his socially repressed competitors under their turbans or machismo wouldn’t. The old RAF pilot would probably say that the Western world ruled today, because it allowed women to contribute. Francisco could hear his cockney accent, “Lad, how do you not use half your population and move forward? Do you think if I cut the engines off on the left side of the plane we’ll get there as fast as if they were all trailing blue flames?”

ESTELLA INTERRUPTED HIS
thoughts. “Mr. Escobar, would you like a drink?”

He looked up and replied, “Please. A Heineken.”

He had missed the pleasure of watching her approach. He did not repeat the mistake as she walked away, taking the time to absorb her fluid motion. As she walked, she traversed a tight rope, each foot landing almost exactly in front of the other. Her shanks cocked up and down with each stride. The tucked-in shirt highlighted her narrow waist and straight back. The slit in the skirt’s back stopped just below his imagination. She bent at the waist and opened the undercounter refrigerator in the middle of the cabin. This was for his benefit; it would have been more comfortable for her to bend at the knees. He started to relax. It had been a good day. As she returned, he watched a drop of water from the cold bottle land in the open fold of her button-down shirt and slide first sideways and then accelerate vertically down between her breasts.

Handing the bottle over, she asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Escobar?”

He motioned for her to sit. Estella drew the curtain separating the plane’s lounge from its passenger rows before sitting. Silently, he enjoyed her fragrance. He felt the skin above her knee as it turned to soft inner thigh. He turned toward her, and their eyes met and held. A knowing look of pleasures to come passed between them. Francisco felt it was a shame he had not already upgraded the back of the cabin with a wall and door.

Francisco did not find the limited privacy inhibiting. Estella soon wore only her heels. Two of Francisco’s buttons were lost on the floor. From the sounds Francisco heard and the quivers he felt, the missing wall did not detract from Estella’s experience either.

15

“HE SPEAK TO
the cops?” Joe asked the two nervous trainers who’d awoken him with the story of the attack on Gino.

“Yeah, he was telling them the story when we were at the hospital. Oh, and the docs won’t release him before eight.”

“OK. Thanks. I’ll get him in the morning.” Dark thoughts of retribution seeped into Joe’s brain. A moment of silence passed as they stood on either side of Joe’s cabin doorway.

One of the trainers finally said, “Mr. Pascarella, one more thing.”

Where did all this “Mr. Pascarella” come from? Joe nodded for him to proceed.

“Do you mind calling Gino’s mom? He asked us to, but, you know, you’re her brother or whatever, and maybe she would take it better from you.”

When they waxed their pubic hair, it must have pulled their balls off too.

“Yeah, I can do that. Oh, I was going to tell you in the morning, but since we’re all here: The captain got you a Hertz car to drive to Raleigh and fly home tomorrow. Assuming Gino’s OK to fly, he has a seat on the plane with you.”

There was no reaction from the two man-boys. Joe remembered he’d told them earlier in the night. He turned and shut his door. He cut his light and fell onto his bed. He heard the trainers leave. He lay
on top of his sheets until he heard the rain start. Somehow, he fell back to sleep.

TONY HAD COFFEE
ready when he got up. The conversation between the trainers and Joe woke Tony last night, so he was up to speed. Fortunately, the captain had already picked up the rental car the trainers were to take to the airport. He and Tony could use it to check on Gino. Leaving
Framed
, Joe put on a yellow raincoat, flipped the hood up, and filled a to-go cup. They hurried through gusts of rain to the small rental SUV. None of the console buttons were where Joe thought they should be.