JOSEPH BONAFACCIO WHISTLED as he strode through the lobby of the Miami Hilton. The murals of reclining Egyptian royalty lifted his spirits even higher, their art deco contours reminiscent of Manhattan.
The Don would have been proud. Forging opportunity while favorably concluding an important piece of unfinished Family business smacked of his father's style. It also charged him with a virile rush. In the fifteen minutes since he'd left Noches Cubanas, Joseph had built upon his vision. Now he saw the cables of an illegal web stretching from Mexico to Canada and, ultimately, to Cuba. Joseph would be at the hub, manipulating, controlling, and funneling the pride of Cuba to eager American smokers. No chorus dancer had taken him to the high he felt as he stepped up to the reception desk.
“Oh, Mr. Bonafaccio! We expected you some time ago. Your suite is ready, and you have messages.” The clerk handed Joseph an envelope.
In his suite, Joseph opened the envelope and his mood darkened. Cornelius Gessleman had called five times for either he or Romelli. Each message was marked “urgent.”
Joseph picked up the phone, prepared to ask the hotel operator to connect him with the Kentucky number. Then he changed his mind.
“Operator?”
“Yes, Mr. Bonafaccio.”
“I want you to block my phone to all incoming calls except from one person, Dominick Romelli. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. No calls unless from Mr. Dominick Romelli. Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. Good night.”
There was no way, Joseph thought as he undressed, that he was going to risk talking on the telephone to the sonofabitch responsible for Kennedy's assassination. The Family needed to steer wide of that nut. He would leave the discussion to Dominick. Hell, Romelli could walk from a coal mine onto white sheets without leaving tracks.
Joseph turned on the TV and settled back on the bed, not really watching. The absorbing excitement of his cigar plans had blinded him to the other implications of the day's events. They involved Salazar and Gessleman.
Dominick had been right, as usual. Salazar should live, and not simply because the Don had thought so eight years earlier. Raul Salazar had demonstrated incredible nerve and operational talent in carrying out his dual mission for Gessleman. What was more, the way Raul had squared off with Joseph and Romelli had earned Joseph's respect. A negotiator and operator of that caliber was an asset to be cultivated, not eliminated.
That part of the Code mandating revenge for spilled blood did not call for the lives of skilled soldiers who simply carried out orders, or professionals who honored their contracts. After all, the loyalty of Bonafaccio soldiers to their generals had given the Family its muscle.
With the flickering TV images dancing before him, Joseph concluded that Raul Salazar and his amigos were immune for their part in the Kennedy business. But the immunity stopped there. When generals gave orders that violated the Code, it was
their
heads that should roll. Yes, he thought,
Cornelius Gessleman and his son-in-law will soon hear from Dominick Romelli.
Well satisfied with the day's work, and flushed with his new-found resolve as the Family's helmsman, Joseph Bonafaccio Jr. finally let Johnny Carson's wisecracks lead him toward sleep. He had found his destiny.
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“The young Don is serious about buying this place?” Raul asked, taking a quick mental inventory of the depleted cigar stock housed alongside the wine cellar. In one month, maybe a month and a half at most, they would all be gone. Without a steady supply from Cuba, there was no hope for Noches Cubanas.
“Like the man said, he does not joke about business,” replied Romelli. He sat forward for a moment, studying Raul. Finally, his professional curiosity got the better of him. “Tell me, how did you pull it off, that action in Dallas? And why, for crissakes, did your man use that goddamn Mannlicher? That was a tough enough shot for a marksman with a scoped .308. But
that
sloppy relic? Jesus.”
Unexpectedly, another bull had suddenly charged the ring.
Raul was exhausted and doubted his ability to continue the
torero
's dance much longer. Besides,
this
bull possessed a deadly advantage, a knowledge of weapons. Raul did not know a Mannlicher from a BB gun. He sighed and caressed the nearest box of Don Salazarios. It was time for the
remate
, that master pass of conclusion where the matador executes a subtle, but confusing, twirl of the cape. The bull, perplexed and still, is left defenseless to its fate.
“Señor Romelli,” he began slowly, “it is enough for now that you know we succeeded. We chose our tools for good reasons. History confirms the wisdom of our choice. Someday, if you and I come to know one another better, I may share these things with you. Until then ⦔
Raul opened the lid of the box. He raised two of the cigars and said, “Will you join me in liberating two more of Señor Bonafaccio's jewels?”
“REALLY, MR. BONAFACCIO, I would feel much better about this if you would let us arrange an escort.” The frowning bank manager seemed unable to release Joseph's hand after their farewell shake. After all, one million dollars of his bank's money was about to disappear through the door, strapped to the waist of a stranger. Though Joseph's impeccable credentials had immediately checked out, this was not an everyday transaction.
“Please, at our expense,” he added, clasping his other hand over the handshake, forming a vice.
“I appreciate your concern,” said Joseph, wriggling free. “I have my own security people. Weâahâare used to dealing with these situations.”
The banker's blatant curiosity concerning the wire transfer had irritated Joseph. Bankers all suffered from the same dilemma: Their desire to know details was always at war with their need to be insulated from them. There had been no questions asked and no answers offered.
“Thanks for your help; I'll be in touch soon. I'm buying a business in this area and have plans for expansion. We'll be needing your services.”
Joseph turned away and headed briskly for the main door.
Stepping from the air-conditioned comfort of the bank into the muggy morning, he gave the money belt a reassuring pat and crossed to the parked rental car. He felt naked without Romelli and conjured a thousand pairs of eyes boring through his linen coat. Impatient with himself, he shook off the temptation to accept the banker's offer and unlocked the door.
Sending the two soldiers home had been mandatory. Once a soldier did a job, he cleared town, no exceptions. The messy work on the old man two nights earlier had triggered the policy, though Joseph now wished he had kept them around. Driving around Miami with a million-dollar waistband did not seem particularly bright.
He pulled into traffic quickly, anxious to get the day's business done. Carrying three boxes of cigars home to Manhattan seemed a lot safer than wearing one million dollars.
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Raul awakened to sounds at the top of the stairs. He immediately longed for a shower and a shave. When Jorgé had come down to relieve his vigil over the cigars with Romelli, the night's adrenaline had compelled him to stay. Now, at 10:30 A.M., the stale odor of three cloistered men smoking cigars in a small room for eight hours had sapped that energy.
He swung his legs off the cot and could not help but
smile. Jorgé and Romelli were sitting across the table from each other, a dozen or so cigar stubs crowding the ashtray. In the middle, on the swatch of black velvet, the few gems that had been there when he'd closed his eyes three hours earlier had ripened into a shimmering cluster. Jorgé and Romelli, each mouthing a glowing stub, sat watching each other like cats in opposite yards as the noise at the top of the stairs became descending footsteps.
“Hey!” boomed Joseph Bonafaccio, “you guys have been busy! Look at all those little beauties!” Then he stopped, wrinkled his nose, and laughed. “Jesus Christ! Smells worse than a forgotten gym locker down here. What pigs.”
Joseph ran an index finger through the stones, gently turning them, letting the light from overhead play off their edges.
Romelli stood and stretched. Joseph took his chair and pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. He unfolded a hand-printed sheet of paper on the table next to the stones.
“I drew up an agreement this morningâfor the sale of the restaurant,” he said, looking at Raul. “Nothing complicated. The lawyers can do that later. Just something for each of us to sign to give them something to work with.” He pushed the paper toward Raul, who stood up from the cot, blinking the sleep from his brain. He was back in the bullring.
Bonafaccio unbuttoned his coat and reached for his waist. Raul saw Jorgé tense, then relax as Joseph's hand surfaced. Bonafaccio's fingers gripped the tongue of a padded belt, which he uncoiled from around his waist. He
dumped it on the table with a flourish and unsnapped three of its long pockets, revealing thick layers of bills. Then he took a cigar from the open box.
“You know, Salazar,” Joseph said, “maybe your plan wasn't so crazy after all. Why
not
smoke out those diamonds? Give us something to do back in Manhattan, hey, Dom?” Romelli nodded, not with enthusiasm.
“Well, go ahead! Count it!” Joseph laughed. “It's not some snake. It's only money.” He cut the cigar and lit it.
Who
, thought Raul, was
this man who could laugh at giving up one million dollars, who smelled so fresh and wore the clothes of a movie star? Could this be the deadly bull he had waltzed with hours earlier?
Then he remembered that Joseph had presided over Paulo's torture and murder in the same room not forty-eight hours before. Had he been dressed in pressed linen and smelling of Bay Rum even then, as he'd taken in Paulo's sweating agonies?
Raul stepped to the table and gestured with his head to Jorgé, who stood. Raul took his chair and unsnapped the remaining pockets of the belt. He pulled out several thick packets of bills, riffled them like decks of cards, drew in the acrid smell of new money, and went to work.
Ten minutes later, his mind numbed by the monotony of counting, Joseph's happy shout snapped him back to the moment.
“Hey! There it is!” Bonafaccio brushed the glowing tip of his cigar against the ashtray and laughed as a buried gem tumbled from the embered point. “Christ!” he exclaimed, “Can you imagine the effect this would have on a dame? Now,
that's
something to think about.”
Finally, surrounded by piles of counted bills, Raul finished.
Thank God
, he thought,
seeing that Bonafaccio was struggling with whether to waste another of his diamond cigars in Raul's cellar or save it for the fleshy pleasures of Manhattan.
“You have a pen, Señor?” he asked Joseph, reaching for the document on the table. Bonafaccio pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to him. Raul signed the paper and let it flutter back to the table. For the first time, he was a stranger in Noches Cubanas, now owned by Hudson Valley Properties, whatever that was.
“So, we are done. It is over,” Raul said solemnly. Then he added, “At great cost.”
Bonafaccio stood and spoke as he bundled the stones together in their cloth. He nodded to Romelli, who gathered together the three boxes of Don Salazarios.
“Well, Señor Salazar, look at it this way. You had two jobs to do: to get the president and his cigars. You used one job to do the other, a means to an end. Like you say, at great cost. Not one I would have agreed with, but sure as hell effective.
“Like you, I had a job to do, to reclaim my family's assets. The old man who died here was a means to that end, another great cost. We are even. It was business, that's all, just business.”
Raul choked back the rage in his throat, rage at himself. This dandied gangster was offering as justification for Paulo's murder the very ruse Raul had used to dupe Gessleman and the congressman!
Bonafaccio continued. “I've got to tell you that your
entire operation, the work in Dallas and getting the cigars, was a masterpiece. You've got the whole goddamned country buzzing around, investigations, commissions, who knows what else? It would be a shame to see that talent wasted on cows. Go buy your ranch. Hell, everyone needs a hobby. But your life, your
real
life, is with
me.
Action, you love it. Anyone can see that. After you come to New York, you'll agree.”
The arena filled with a roar as Raul stood, motionless. The bull was down, quivering spasms of death rolling in waves along its bloodied back. The
presidente
of the fight stood in his box, responding to the fluttering
pañuelos,
a sea of waving white handkerchiefs. Trumpets blared in acknowledgment of his triumph. The
presidente
dropped his own handkerchief, signaling the award for a great kill,
dos orejas,
two ears. Raul took the first steps of his
vuelta al ruedo
, his victorious circuit of the arena.
He shrugged. “Perhaps. We shall see.”
“Good!” exclaimed Bonafaccio. “Very good. Dom, let's go home. Salazar, a lawyer will call you in a day or so to finish the restaurant deal. You wrap things up here; then you come to New York. We'll have a place for you.”
Bonafaccio stopped and turned at the door. “And Salazar?”
“Yes?” answered Raul.
“Don't even think of
not
coming to New York. It's part of our deal, remember? You must know by now that no one,
no one
, reneges on a deal with us. Understand?”
Raul nodded, still circling the ring, his cap raised to the adoring crowd.
Jorgé and Raul watched from Raul's office as the black sedan pulled away.
“Quickly, Jorgé, tell the amigos and staff to meet with us in the dining room in half an hour. Then come upstairs and help me. We have much to do and time is short. Those two will return here within days. They will not be so friendly, and they will not be alone.”
Thirty minutes later Raul and Jorgé came down the stairs. Raul carried a box. The good-natured buzz of camaraderie hushed as Raul folded his arms and stood before his friends and employees.
“Amigos,” he began, “many years ago in Cuba, my father took certain actions he thought necessary to protect himself from the gangsters who stole his business. Well, those men he so offended have long memories. They have visited me and, as before, are taking over
this
business.”
Raul studied the faces of his staff.
“You may think that they will need cooks, waiters, busboys, and helpers. But I am afraid that will not be so.” He paused.
“You see, when they return here, it will not be to claim their new business. It will be to kill me and everyone associated with this place.”
Amid gasps and shocked faces, he continued.
“You brave sailors who faced the ocean's terror to avoid Castro's jails must now face another challenge, but it will be a more pleasant one, I promise you.”
He read the trust in their eyes and felt a warm rush from what he was about to do.
“You must all leave here today and never return. You should move from Miami and forget Noches Cubanas. I have destroyed all records with your names and addresses, and the Mafia gangsters will never find you if you do as I say.”
Now, facing looks that questioned and puzzled over what had been asked of them, Raul lifted the box he had brought down from his office and placed it on the table in front of him. He opened it to reveal a stack of sealed, white envelopes. Jorgé began handing them out.
“In these envelopes,” Raul continued, “you will find the cash you need to move and start a new life, hopefully a better one.” Raul circulated, shaking hands and hugging his staff. Then he turned to Jorgé and his amigos.
“You three and Pedro have been well paid for your recent services. But knowing how you go through money, and because what I have done has put you at greater risk, I have prepared a bonus for you.” He withdrew four more envelopes from his jacket pocket.
“Bonafaccio has seen your faces, and you know what he believes you have done. When he returns to Miami, he will be seeking revenge. He must find none of you. There is enough money here for you to disappear, and I urge you to do that. Jorgé, you must explain this to Pedro and see that he gets his money.”
Jorgé nodded, passing envelopes to the other two men.
“And what of you, Raul?” Jorgé asked. “What will you do?”
Raul smiled. “I think I will go fishing, no?”