Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps

STRAITS OF FORTUNE ANTHONY GAGLIANO

To Lana

Contents One IT WAS LATE AUGUST when the Colonel called me, one... 1

Two AN HOUR LATER I sat on the edge of my... 65

Three I AWOKE JUST BEFORE DAWN and got dressed in the... 187

Acknowledgments About the Author Praise Cover Copyright About the Publisher ONE

IT WAS LATE AUGUST when the Colonel called me, one of those hot, humid, interminable days when you search for a new adjective for the heat and end up with nothing for your trouble but the taste of salt at the edge of your mouth. I was surprised to hear from the old man. For one thing, anyone with the money for a personal trainer will generally use some of it to leave Miami in the summer, a fact that had left me time for some casual fishing. I had just come back from the pier at Haulover with my catch of the day--a pair of yellowtails--when the phone rang. The plan had been to fry them up in a little olive oil with a few slices of lemon for company. But after my conversation with Colonel Patter- son, I put the fish into hibernation, took a quick shower, and then drove out to Sunset Beach. After all, that was where the money lived. Strange, now, that I used to call the Colonel's place "the 2

house of light," but light was so much a part of the archi- tecture it was as though it had been written into the plans. The mansion was all mirrors and white steel and the au- dacity that comes with great fortune. It was all about math and money and inhuman precision, and at night it was mag- nificent, especially when the moon was full. But at the same time there was something about the place that worried you. I can't quite describe it except to say it was not a place where the birds would land, but it had cost $10 million to build, and with that kind of money you can buy all the birds you want. Funny, though, that with all that glass it was impossible to see inside. By the time the diamond mansion was halfway built, property values within a quarter of a mile on either side of the inlet where it sat had tripled and the movie stars had begun showing up with their eyes and wallets open. So, all in all, Sunset Beach had been a good place to have a client, and I liked the Colonel well enough. If anyone asks me if I'd ever met anyone of true genius in my life, then I would cer- tainly offer up Colonel Andrew Patterson as my contribution to the conversation. He had been a Green Beret who served in Vietnam in the days before anybody had ever heard of them, but that was only the soldier part of the story. Then there were his years as a military scientist and the top-secret experiments for the government. There was also Professor Patterson, the West Point graduate with the doctorate in chemistry who later started his own biotech company, Pel- lucid Labs, which is where he had made his fortune. You can imagine that the Colonel was a very interesting man to spend an hour with. But as great as it had been to have a wealthy client with a beautiful mind, it was even better to have such a client with a beautiful daughter--a rich girl I had ended up train- ing for free. (And why not? Who's to say the rich have no 3

need of charity?) So as I drove out there that hot day in late August, it was neither the mind nor the money I was really thinking about. Though if the truth be told, when it came to Vivian Patterson, thinking wasn't something I usually brought along with me, but I'm not ashamed to admit that. You can't stay tied to the mast of reason all your life, and Vivian was as good a reason to become untied as any other woman I had ever met. You just had to know how to survive her company. With Vivian you rode an unsteady wave of ex- citement, always in imminent danger of crashing, but it was a wave you rode with a smile on your face, although maybe it was a stupid smile. The guard at the gatehouse took one look at my car, real- ized I didn't live anywhere near Sunset Beach, and so came out with his clipboard and wrote down my name and license number along with the time of day. That way if any Picassos went missing, they'd know where to start looking. I glanced past the guardhouse and up the lane that led to the Colonel's house, its slanted roof leaning in the heat as though it had melted down from a previous altitude. When the guard was done checking me in, I drove very slowly past the corridor of super-tall California palms that flanked the hard-packed road of white gravel, then on through the second gate. As I drove, the car kicked up a cloud of dust that hung in the air for a moment before the breeze pulled it apart, and beyond that the man-made brightness of the Colonel's mansion. I parked the car and walked past the flagpole that didn't have a flag that day and up to the door and rang the buzzer and waited. The black Bentley was parked slantwise on the grass, but even though the red Porsche I remembered so well was nowhere in sight, my heart beat harder in anticipation. Waiting there at the door, then ringing again, I felt a sense of trespass, as though I weren't supposed to be there, like I had gone back on my word in returning here and was in viola- 4

tion of something sacred, something personal, a promise I had made to myself. I half wanted to leave, but when you're that close, it's already too late. You've already committed yourself, even though you may not know it. Dominguez, the family's chauffeur, came out of the four- car garage at that moment and spotted me waiting by the front door. He waved but didn't come over, which I found odd, because we had been pretty friendly at one time. He had come from Santiago, Cuba, even before the revolution and had worked at every kind of job imaginable before join- ing up with the Colonel back in the seventies. We used to talk baseball like it was Esperanto, and the only person he had hated more than Castro was George Steinbrenner. In fact, he had a theory the two of them were related. When no one came to the door after a few moments, I walked over to say hello, thinking that maybe he hadn't really recognized me. Dominguez had lifted the hood of the Bentley and was staring down at the cleanest engine I'd ever seen outside of a car show. He didn't look well. His brown eyes had lost their shine and were surrounded by a sickly looking yellow haze, like a pair of beetles floating in pools of spittle. When I had seen him last, he still possessed the stubborn, wiry physique of an old lightweight fighter and at seventy had looked as tough as the bark of an ancient tree. Now he was downright thin except for a slight swelling of the gut beneath his jacket that didn't match the thinness of his arms and legs. We shook hands, but then he went back to staring down at the engine. "C�est�" I asked. "Good." "That's a nice-looking engine," I said. I could tell he didn't want to talk to me, but I pressed on anyway, thinking that maybe he was just in an off mood that might break with a joke or two. 5

"I never thought you come back here anymore," he said without meeting my eyes. "Neither did I," I said. "The Colonel called me." Dominguez slammed the hood down and turned to me. He was definitely sick, but there was more than illness in his expression. It was something, I thought, akin to disap- pointment. He took a white cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands. "Nice to see you, Jack." He turned and walked away toward the garage. I didn't believe him. I didn't think it had been nice to see me at all. I have a fairly thick skin about things like that, and snubs don't cause me much loss of sleep. But there was something off about it just the same, and I wondered if maybe he'd been body-snatched by aliens. I watched him walk away, then went back and rang the doorbell again. There was a brief flurry of footsteps, and then the maid opened the door and led me wordlessly through the acreage of the living room. The house was as cool as a meat locker, but it would have seemed cold at any temperature. The walls were bone white, and the extra-wide marble tiles looked as though they'd been cut from a slab of glacial ice. There were vases and sculptures and paintings on all the walls, some of it Mexican, most of it Asian. On the wall above the fireplace was a portrait of his first wife, Vivian's mother, a beauti- ful half-French, half-Vietnamese woman he had married against the advice of his superiors back in the days when we were still advisers over in Saigon. Seeing the portrait reminded me again of Vivian. His first wife had had the same oval-shaped face and high cheek- bones, the same liquid black hair. She had died in a car crash during the evacuation of Saigon. The Colonel brought Vivian back to the States while she was still in diapers, and a few years late married a wealthy socialite whose family 6

had made its money in publishing. It was the family who'd provided the seed money for Pellucid Labs, the Colonel's biotech-pharmaceuticals company. That marriage had also produced a son, Vivian's half brother, Nick, a guy I had spent a long time trying to like before giving it up for easier hobbies. Colonel Patterson had never spoken much of his second wife. The only thing I knew was that her name had been Mona, that her family owned Vermont, and that she was buried in Palm Beach County. If there was a portrait of her hanging anywhere in the house, I had never seen it. Maybe the Colonel kept a snapshot of her in his wallet, but then again, probably not. He was about as sentimental as a gang- plank on a busy day. It was hard not to suspect that the mar- riage had been mostly about the money. I turned for no particular reason and saw Rudolph Wil- liams peering down at me from the second landing. He was the Colonel's man, had served with him in the army, before and after Vietnam. He came down the winding staircase, moving with the ease of a man who knew very well how to move. Not once did he take his eyes off me. There had been few times during our previous meetings when in some way or other he hadn't tried to intimidate me--in that half- friendly, overblown macho way of his. To him I was an in- truder who didn't belong anywhere near the family that had practically adopted him, and that fact hadn't changed even when I was seeing Vivian, and everybody knew it. Williams--no one but the Colonel ever called him Ru- dolph--had never understood why the Colonel had elected to work with a personal trainer instead of himself, a man who looked as though he'd been raised in Gold's Gym, but the answer was simple: The two of them had been together for so long that the Colonel had decided he needed some vari- ety in his life, someone with a new batch of stories, and he 7

liked having an ex-cop for a trainer. And yes, he'd had me checked out thoroughly, and by the kind of people a man like the Colonel would know. By the time I showed up for the first appointment, he already had a file on me that went back to kindergarten, and he let me know about it, too. He also knew why I wasn't with the NYPD anymore, but he never brought it up, though we had talked about everything else. Williams looked about fifty, and the book on him was that he'd been too crazy for even the Green Berets, which is scary when you think about it. So the army stuck him on long-range reconnaissance patrol to keep him out of mis- chief. He would go off into the jungle for weeks at a time, cut off people's ears and noses, then use them as receipts when he got back to base. The more ears, the more money he made. He was six-four and went about 260 or so, but without the 'roids he would have only been 240 at the most. He had a shaved head, the bright blue eyes of a Viking on a raid, and a red handlebar mustache flecked with gray. It wasn't hard to imagine him wearing a necklace made of human ears. He'd been bred for war and was wound way too tight for civilian life. He stared me up and down, then sneered. "You look soft," he said. "What happened? You take up yoga or something?" "Origami," I said. "I'm a black belt now." We shook hands. His were so callused that if my eyes had been closed, I might have thought I was holding a piece of sanded-down driftwood. He squeezed a bit more than was necessary, but that was Williams for you: He never let an opportunity pass to show you how much more of a man he was than you were. "I can still break five boards with either hand," he in- formed me, regarding his own hands as though he had just found them again under the bed. 8

"You should have been a lumberjack," I told him. "You could have saved a bundle on chain saws." "Is that supposed to be funny?" "Where's the Colonel, Rudolph? I didn't come out here to go down memory lane with you." He frowned at the sound of his first name. "Out by the pool," he said. I followed him past a wall of windows toward the French doors that led out to the patio. After the air-con- ditioned chill of the house, hitting the August heat again was like walking face-first through a box of invisible cotton. The sunlight was shining on the surface of the swimming pool, and it gleamed like liquid turquoise. At the far edge of it, the Colonel sat at a table under a green-and-yellow-striped umbrella. He was looking out at the ocean through a pair of binoculars. I followed the line of his gaze and saw a white yacht anchored about three hundred yards out. The sea it sat on was as blue and as flat and as calm as the water in the swimming pool. The sky above it was a tourist's dream of permanent summer. The only thing in it was a small plane dragging a banner I couldn't read in the sun's perfect glare. The Colonel stood up as I approached and tightened the sash of his black silk robe. I knew he didn't like to shake hands, so I didn't bother with the gesture. The Colonel was nearly my height but as lean as a fox and looked as if he hadn't gained a pound since college. He had a widow's peak of straight white hair smoothed back over his narrow head like a skullcap or maybe one of those latex hoods some sprinters wear. His eyes were light gray and penetrating. He had a million-dollar tan, skin so taut it looked shrink-wrapped, and the ultra-high cheekbones of an ex-model--though he would have died if you'd told him that. I knew he was seventy, but he looked at least ten years younger. We nodded at one another and sat down in a pair of teakwood chairs without cushions. 9

"Well, Jack," he said in a jovial tone that didn't suit him, "how's business?" He looked up at Williams. "I'll take it from here, Rudy." Williams nodded, then walked back along the edge of the swimming pool like a tiger very sure of his footing. The maid appeared and filled our glasses with orange juice from a crystal decanter, then set it down on a place mat at the center of the table and went quietly away. "Business is fine," I lied. "For this time of year." "Training anybody interesting these days?" the Colonel asked. "Just Elvis, but he's missed a few appointments lately. I'm starting to get worried." He smiled and set down his glass. "It's been a long time, Jack. I've missed your sense of humor. I'm still working out, but it's not the same without you. Of course, considering the circumstances, I understood why you elected not to keep me on as a client. It would have been awkward." "What happened to the trainer I referred you to?" "Raul? Oh, we get on fairly well; he's a nice fellow, really. But you know how it is. I was rather spoiled by your company. Raul is a good man and all, but not much of a conversationalist--other than on the subject of progressive resistance, which, as you know, has its limitations as a topic of interest." "Not for Raul," I said. "We had some rather interesting discussions, you and I, wouldn't you say, Jack?" Something seemed to come to him. "By the way, did you ever finish reading Gibbon?" He was referring to the leather-bound, hand-sewn, three- volume set of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire he had given me as a gift soon after he realized, once we'd worked together for a week or two, that I could actually read. He'd bought it at an auction in London. It was without a 10