IT HAD TAKEN Cornelius Gessleman two hours to commandeer an airplane and a pilot brash enough to challenge the winter storm.
Enduring the turbulent passage south with gritted teeth and a death-claw grip on each armrest, every violent soar and plunge that buffeted the twin-engine Cessna further widened the vents of his anger. He drew comfort only from the anticipated news that his bumbling son-in-law no longer drew breath.
Gessleman snorted aloud, recalling how he had shoved the miserable bootlicker aside on the Hyannis tarmac. “What about me?” Wesley had croaked. “Get your own plane, asshole,” he'd retorted, the satisfaction of leaving his son-in-law standing there shivering a mere fraction of the pleasure he would feel when Dominick Romelli called to confirm his Wesley's untimely demise.
Now, straining in his seat, grimacing at every surge,
dhe began to realize that Wesley's death would not be enough. The whole cigar fiasco had simply exacerbated his impatience with Wesley's bumbling. If it had not been the cigars, it would have been something else. Wesley was like that: doomed to succeed at failure.
What emerged as the
real
source of his displeasure was that he had forked over one hundred thousand dollars to that assassin-blackmailer Raul Salazar for the Kennedy cigars, which were now in the clutches of some hick sheriff.
Suddenly, Gessleman stiffened, this time not from the turbulence. How had that sheriff managed to appear on the scene precisely as Salazar's “amigos” were delivering the cigars to Gessleman? Of course! It had been a setup from the outset! Salazar had shrewdly let the cigars remain in Massachusetts because he was in cahoots with the sheriff. How else could the Cuban's so-called “professionals” have pulled off a burglary of the Kennedy estate?
His face mirroring the darkening hues outside the aircraft's cabin, Gessleman pondered this for several minutes. Then a narrow smile split his grim features. The answer didn't matter. He was not quite done redeeming favors from the Bonafaccios.
He recalled young Joseph's passion for fine cigars. The iron reputation of Joe Senior had been forged from the retribution visited ruthlessly on those who had cheated him. Certainly Joseph Junior would be sympathetic to the plight of an old man who had been in his father's favor, an old man cheated by the son of the man who had cheated the Bonafaccios. It was little more to ask that
Bonafaccio extract a refund of Gessleman's one hundred thousand from Salazar before handing the slick Cuban blackmailer his last cigar.
Finally, as the beautiful symmetry of it all settled in, Cornelius Gessleman began to chuckle. How fitting that he not only would recover his losses but would also bring down the president's assassin! He would see that history received a polished version of his role so future generations could pay grateful homage to his memory.
His chuckling swelled to a hacking crescendo. Old Don Bonafaccio had been a conspicuous patriot and close friend of Joseph Kennedy. The Bonafaccios would no doubt deal with Raul Salazar in their own painfully special way before letting him die. Cornelius might just present young Joseph with a gift: one of the boxes of Sancho Panzas. Then again, maybe he wouldn't.
As the beleaguered aircraft drove though waves of sleet and skirted mountainous thunderheads, the struggling pilot was momentarily distracted by a noise behind him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and, at first, thought he was witnessing the fear of God striking a skinny old man panicked by the raging storm. Then, amazed, he realized his passenger was convulsed in hysterical laughter as Gessleman's explosive peals greeted each fresh flash of lightning.
“FINGERS, WE'RE NOT leaving until we find that thieving sonofabitch and get those diamonds.” Joseph Bonafaccio Jr. folded his hands across his chest as they threaded their way through Miami's afternoon traffic toward Little Havana and Noches Cubanas.
During the long course of Dominick Romelli's service to the Bonafaccio's, he had been called upon to handle just about everything friends and enemies of the Bonafaccio family could conceivably devise. With the unfolding transition from Mafia bosses to entrepreneuring capitalists, Dominick had been pleased to see most of the old ways fall awayâthe feral violence gradually replaced by the reasoned, bloodless power of money. The old ways led to prison; the new style led to flattering pieces in the
Wall Street Journal
.
Romelli's young employer had always been the epitome of the new leadership, his Columbia pedigree and
instinctive ease in the loftiest towers of finance cutting him off from the paths of the past. Until now.
A powerful sense of déjà vu overcame Romelli. For an instant, it was the Don seated next to him, not the educated, urbane son who had been so carefully groomed to inherit the Bonafaccio empire.
As traffic permitted, Romelli continued his clandestine study of Joseph Jr.'s face, noting the eyes were narrowed in a countenance of anger and revenge. Joseph seemed possessed by his untapped heritageâthe code of the Sicilian hills that refused to accept honorable defeat, where retribution had been spit with a fiery, two-barreled blast from a Lupo. Romelli knew he would be unable to dissuade Joseph from his quest, but hoped he might yet protect him from it.
“Joseph, when we catch up with Salazar, maybe I should do the talking. You're too involved, too emotional about this. Hell, you're
wearing
the guy!” Joseph shot him a black look. Romelli continued.
“Remember, it's only business. It was his
father
who stole from the Family, not him. We've got no reason to hurt Salazar.
“Of course, it's complicated by this Gessleman's petition that I kill him. But again, that's strictly business. What do we gain by carrying out this contract? Obviously, I can't kill Salazar until he turns over the diamonds and his family's debt is paid. Then our only reason to kill him would be your father's pledge to Gessleman. Is that enough? What would your father want? Remember, the Don cared for Victor Salazar and was saddened to learn
of his treachery. He decided the kid shouldn't pay for his father's crime. Would he want us to kill him now? When we used to take on contracts we always screened them for conflicts of interest. Seems to me we've got sort of a conflict here.”
Traffic stopped and Romelli stole another glance at Joseph. He could see that his words were falling on deaf ears. When Joseph spoke, his voice was from another time.
“Fingers, are you going soft on me? Come on! This guy's father screwed us out of three million dollars! And Salazar knows where it's at! Why else would old âMr. P' fight so hard last night to keep Salazar's whereabouts a secret? Why the cat-and-mouse chase from Jamaica? We put up with bullshit like this and we stand to lose a helluva lot more than the lousy three million. This guy's as dirty as his father, and he's gonna get the same treatment. Just as soon as we get the diamonds. I mean it. We cut whatever deal he wants. Sure, why not? But once we get those diamond cigars, all bets are off. He dies. And we collect Gessleman's hundred grand to boot.”
Dominick Romelli nodded patiently. Nothing was going to shake Joseph from his course. It wouldn't do any good to tell him that Raul Salazar was far too smart to surface at Noches Cubanas. Let the kid spend a few long, sticky days staking out the joint. Joseph thinks the old days were all action and muscle. He'll learn. Most of it was long sessions in stuffy cars, especially with a wily target like Salazar.
What the hell,
he thought.
Maybe the kid has a point
.
I am getting soft. No one
cheats the Bonafaccios. Joseph is, after all, his father's son. When it came to “business,” the Don had always been right. Always
.
Romelli focused on the crawling traffic and began to plan the two jobs to come. No messy stuff this time. Just nice, clean, long-range hits. It had been his favorite work.
Â
Raul stopped the gasping truck at a scrolled iron gate with a flowing capital N crafted into the bars. Out of curiosity, he had first located the home of his father's old friend several years earlier. There had been no reason to disturb the old man's seclusionâuntil now.
There was no address. Few Palm Beach residences displayed one.
Raul pulled close to the speaker box mounted on an adobe column and pressed the button. After ten seconds a young woman's voice answered, her voice creamy and mellowed by a Spanish accent. “Yes? Who is it?”
Raul leaned from the truck window toward the speaker. “Señorita, my name is Raul Salazar. My father was a friend of Señor Nuñez. I need to speak with him. It is very important.”
There was a pause. Then, “Señor Nuñez says he has never heard of you. You must have the wrong person. I am sorry.”
Raul opened the driver's door and stood, his mouth almost touching the speaker. It was important that he be precisely understood. There was no time to come at this ghost of the past from another direction. He was positive he had puzzled out the key to Victor Salazar's belated triumph over the Bonafaccios: Felipe Nuñez.
“Señorita, wait. Please. Tell Señor Nuñez that my father was Victor Salazar. Tell him we met one night long ago, in Havana, at Noches Cubanas, when I was introduced to my father's friend, Javier Menendez.”
The speaker was silent for half a minute. Then, without announcement, the ponderous gate swung open. Raul climbed back in the truck and drove toward the four-story adobe hacienda, bracketed in the foreground by stately palms. Beyond spilled the glare of sand.
As he approached the shaded, brick entry, a set of large French doors on one side opened and an olive-skinned woman in her late thirties appeared, guiding a wheelchair. In the chair, a shawl covering his legs, sat a frail, much older man.
The woman wheeled the man onto the veranda that spanned the front of the building. She was dressed in loose, white slacks and a matching blouse.
Driving closer, Raul feared he may have been wrong. The emaciated husk before him bore little resemblance to the man he remembered from long ago.
Raul switched off the ignition and sighed at the truck motor's death rattle as it expired on its own terms.
The old man clapped twice, his hoarse laugh nearly lost in the light breeze. “What a wonderful sound! I had one just like it many years ago. It, too, always spoke to me after I told it to stop.”
Raul climbed out and mounted the steps. The woman studied him with an intense curiosity. The man reached up and patted her hand on the chair handle. “It is all right, Maria,” he said. “I recognize him. It is Victor's son.” Then, extending his hand, he said, “You are either a remarkable
detective or your father shared with you our secret, a secret known only to one other living person.” He looked up at the woman, who returned his smile.
The sharp eyes and long, delicate fingers of the man he had met fifteen years earlier were now apparent to Raul. His father had remarked then that the man's eyes and hands were the tools of his treasured craft. Raul wondered whether they'd survived whatever had ravaged the rest of him.
“Yes, Señor Nuñez, my father told me about you, but not everything. Only in the last twenty-four hours have the pieces come together, and I now know why he never told me more. It would have endangered both of us.”
The old man regarded Raul thoughtfully. Then, nodding his head toward the study behind them, he said, “Come. Strong reasons must have brought you here. They are best discussed inside, over a glass of sherry.”
Maria turned the wheelchair and Raul followed them through the French doors into the book-lined study. After filling two crystal glasses, she handed one to Nuñez and one to Raul. She took a seat next to the wheelchair, while Raul sat across from the two of them. He raised his glass.
“To your health, Señor Felipe Nuñez Javier Menendez.”
The old man lifted his glass and smiled. “Shhh, we do not use that name here. Thanks to your father, I was able to leave Javier Menendez behind, long ago, in the Caribbean.”
Nuñez sipped from the glass and set it down. Then his sharp eyes narrowed and he fixed on Raul a gaze that penetrated
to Raul's soul. “I hope you are not here to resurrect him.”
Hastening to put his host at ease, Raul shook his head emphatically. “No, no. Nothing like that. Your secret is safer now than it ever has been. I have no reason to expose you. In fact, keeping your secret is critical to my own plans. As you will see.”
Raul drained the rest of his sherry.
“No,” he continued, “What I need now are your skills. The saga of the diamonds you cut and sold my father continues. It was supposed to have played out long ago, when my father thought he could get them out of Cuba.”
Nuñez leaned forward, nodding, concentrating. His intensity was that of a child enraptured by a good story. Raul continued, noting Maria was also hanging on his every word. Apparently sensing her concern, Nuñez reached up and covered her hand.
“After my father bought the diamonds from you, he had my grandfather roll them inside some of his cigars. My father must have intended to send them to me after he was sure I was safe in Miami.”
Raul paused. Through the open doors, a freshening breeze rustled the slender palms encircling the veranda.
“My call was never answered. He miscalculated the impatience of the Bonafaccios. They murdered him within hours of sending me from Cuba. The cigars with the diamonds stayed in my father's humidor room. The Bonafaccios looted it when Castro drove them out.”
Again, Raul paused, his mouth dry from the telling of
what he had pieced together. Maria filled his glass. He softened his tongue and continued.
“Incredibly, the cigars with the diamonds have now surfaced. Fate, luck, maybe even a curse, have brought them to me, as my father intended. The Americanos and their embargo have forced Castro further into the embrace of the Russians and have caused serious deprivations that will kill many of our innocent countrymen. Children die every day for want of medicine and food. These diamonds can make a difference, and I am determined they will do so. But I will need your help.”
Maria's eyes filled. Nuñez stroked her hand and spoke.
“We know well what you say. I met Maria at Santiago's carnival in 1954, the same year I met your father. I had just come to Cuba and was still living the life of a phantom, fleeing the long tentacles of Winston's and the U.S. authorities. I had a fortune in uncut diamonds, but no way to sell them.
“As my friendship with your father grew, we shared confidences. When the Bonafaccios forced their way into his business, he knew it would only be a matter of time before they took everything. He began to divert money, a little at first, then, when he thought he had perfected a channel, large sums. As he did this, he paid me for the diamonds I cut for him. He helped me establish a new identity and a new life.”
The old man raised his hand in a sweeping gesture, including Maria. “Your father made all of this possible.
“Maria has two sisters. Both have lost their infant children to disease because of Cuba's shortages. We tried
to send money, but it never reached them. If you think you can help others, then God be with you.”
Raul nodded. “Yes, I have a way,” he said. “Like you, I will have a new life. Let me tell you what I need. First, please examine these and tell me what you see.”
Raul removed a knotted white linen handkerchief from his shirt pocket and handed it to Nuñez. The old man motioned with his head to Maria. She wheeled him over to a small table in the corner of the study. Raul followed and watched slender brown fingers with alabaster pads carefully pick the wadded cloth apart. The four stones Raul had discovered tumbled in a gentle glissade onto a black velvet cloth.
The old jeweler hunched over them for several seconds, turning one, then another, before the magnifyied inquisition of his loupe. Then he sat upright, a sad smile spreading across his tanned face.
“Yes, Raul, these are four of one hundred diamonds I sold your father. I cut these diamonds myself, of that I am positive. If you have the rest of them, you possess a fortune. Is that all you require of me?”
“No, Señor,” Raul whispered. Drawing a breath, he exhaled slowly. “There is more.”