Where There's Smoke (13 page)

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Authors: Mel McKinney

BOOK: Where There's Smoke
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It had been Romelli's practice to keep the entire fee for jobs he performed as an independent contractor. Here, where his services were sought in satisfaction of a long-ago pledge by the Don, he was in a gray area. In a sense, it was Family business, and then again, it wasn't. Depended on how you looked at it.
Dominick Romelli was a true professional. With this kind of work, everyone involved had to have a clear understanding of the terms and conditions in advance. Terminal
results were irreversible. Suddenly Romelli was relieved by Gessleman's postponement. It would give him time to discuss the fee arrangement with Joseph.
Another advantage of the delay was that Romelli would not be forced to drop Salazar in his own restaurant. Hits on the target's home turf were to be avoided. Romelli was convinced his strict adherence to this rule had contributed to his long and healthy life.
The prospect of taking Salazar for one of those famous New York “rides” similarly held little appeal. Romelli much preferred that he watch Gessleman's son-in-law and Salazar meet their ends through the fine precision of a Bausch & Lomb scope.
“We'll give him a couple of minutes after he goes in, Joseph. Always better to let the mouse think he's made it safely back to the hole. If we're lucky, he'll go right for the cheese we couldn't find last night.”
It gratified Dominick Romelli to pass this bit of street wisdom along to Joseph, who was always quick to tell him how to invest his money.
RAUL CHECKED HIS watch as he entered Noches Cubanas: 9:10. Cruz was on duty as maître d'; and Jorgé, together with four large friends, had revived the celebration Raul had interrupted when he'd met them an hour earlier at La Paloma. Drinks and cigars flashed as well-worn arguments and jokes were dusted off and enjoyed again.
Jorgé nodded to Raul, who winked back as he passed through the arched opening.
“Señor Raul!” Cruz exclaimed. “You're back from your trip already? And Paulo? He is not with you?”
“No, of course not. You mean he is not here?”
The assistant-chef-turned-maître d' shrugged his shoulders, his palms upward. “No one knows where he is. When we closed last night, he was here with four men I did not know. Bad hombres. He said everything was all right and that he would lock up. He did not show up for work today. It is very strange.”
“Yes,” said Raul. “That is not like him at all. You have called him?”
“Sí,
many times. There is no answer.”
Satisfied with his charade, Raul turned and climbed the stairs leading to his office. Halfway up he paused, turned, and came back down. He went into the kitchen and approached Rafael, who was working at the stove.
Raul placed a hand on his chef's shoulder. “Rafael,
uno momento por favor
.” Rafael grinned and stepped away from the stove.
Five minutes later, Raul left the kitchen and again started up to his office. This time he stopped at the head of the stairs, as the melodic herald of a lone trumpet rose from the jukebox in the bar: the announcement of the
toreros
entrance. He turned and looked down. Jorgé and his “four hombres” were looking up at him, and Rafael was poised at the kitchen door, smiling. His
cuadrilla
assembled, he was ready to face the bull. He had not missed the large sedan parked a block and a half away.
 
Dominick Romelli interlaced his fingers and pushed, popping his knuckles in rippling succession. “Okay, Joseph, time's up. Let's pay Mr. Salazar a visit and see about those diamond cigars you're so worked up about.”
Bonafaccio started the engine and inched the car down the block. A car pulled from the curb and he took its place, parking almost in front of Noches Cubanas.
They stepped from the car and were instantly surrounded by the rich aroma of fine cigars.
By, God
, Joseph thought,
I haven't smelled anything like this since we left
Cuba
. There was nothing in New York to compare with the fragrance spilling from Noches Cubanas.
“
Buenas noches, Señores!”
boomed the maître d' as they entered.
The enthusiastic greeting drew a smile from Joseph in spite of himself. The restaurant had an incomparable character, and the perfume of strong cigars was unbelievable. This was not at all what had met them the night before, when empty tables and the gruesome business downstairs had blanketed the raucous charm of the place.
Too bad we're here on business again
, he thought. This was a spot he could enjoy. There sure as hell was nothing like it in Manhattan.
Romelli led off, his low voice leaving no room for negotiation. “Take us to Señor Salazar, now. No announcement. No bullshit.” The maître d' smiled, in spite of Romelli's uncompromising menace.
“Of course, Señor. Follow me, please.”
Joseph glanced at Dominick, who nodded. Romelli's eyes swept the interior as the maître d' led them upstairs to Raul's office. Joseph noted Romelli's deft assessment of their potential opposition; the handful of expatriates in the bar debating racing odds and baseball statistics were certainly no threat. He watched their lively gestures stir clouds of cigar smoke, exciting small tornadoes.
Halfway up the stairs, Joseph whispered to Romelli, his head inclining toward the passage leading down to the wine cellar. “Dom, do you think that guy's still down there?”
Romelli stopped, gave Joseph a long look, and shook his head. Joseph understood. Once a message like last
night's was delivered, the recipient didn't keep the letter around; something else they had never taught him at Columbia.
 
Raul stiffened when he heard the footsteps on the stairs. It was suddenly a magnificent day in the summer of 1950, when Victor and Raul, then twenty-five, had followed the
temporada
to Bilbao. As he rose from his desk, the echo of phantom trumpets from that hot Plaza de Toros charged him with a brassy courage and determination.
It was fitting he should greet these murderers on his feet. His father's sage advice still held true: Respect was everything for these men. What was in your heart must remain hidden. If he adopted their charade of respect and honor, he might gain an edge in the precarious moments ahead.
Bonafaccio and Romelli stood in the doorway for several seconds as Raul faced them from behind his desk. “Thank you, Cruz,” he finally said. “Set up for the three of us in the private room, will you?” Cruz's questioning eyes lingered on Raul, who nodded, sending him on his way.
Romelli spread his stocky bulk in front of the closed office door while Joseph crossed to Raul's desk and stepped behind it, edging Raul to one side. He commandeered Raul's chair and sat down, his feet propped comfortably on the desk. Toying with a dagger-shaped letter opener, he looked up.
“Yeah, Salazar. That'd be real nice. A couple of good cigars and a good dinner. Sort of celebrate our little reunion. But first you turn over what your old man stole
from us, plus interest. Either five million dollars cash or the other three boxes of cigars with diamonds. Your choice.”
Raul folded his arms and stood still, letting several silent seconds pass. The deadly dance had begun.
“What makes you think I have the money or these cigars you speak of? As you see, I run a simple business.”
“Come on, Salazar, cut the crap. Too many arrows point straight to you. That little side step you gave us in Jamaica clinched it.” Bonafaccio pointed the letter opener directly at Raul. “Your father's game is up. I want what he stole from us—now. After that, all is forgiven.”
“Oh, really?” Raul asked. “Like with Paulo? He had neither money nor diamonds. I buried the pieces of your butchery this morning. Is that your forgiveness?”
Bonafaccio shrugged.
“Or suppose I
did
have these cigars you seek and I gave them to you—what then? Again, the same as Paulo, only perhaps without the torture? Don't both roads lead to the same place—a grave?”
Bonafaccio rolled his neck as if relieving a kink.
“You must know,” Raul continued, “that I understand how your Family does business. You must think I am either very brave or very stupid to return here after what you did to poor Paulo. Well, I am neither.”
Before pressing further, there was something Raul had to know. There was yet a piece missing, a very important piece. It might lie in the question he had put to Bonafaccio, still unanswered. He looked over at Romelli.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
Romelli left the door and crossed to Raul. He frisked him then nodded toward the chair in front of the desk. Raul sat, fixing Bonafaccio with an intent gaze.
“What makes you think I have either your money or diamonds?” he asked. “Many things could have brought me home from Jamaica.”
Raul read nothing in the poker expression Bonafaccio offered. Then Joseph gave a what-the-hell shrug.
“Damnedest thing,” he said. Then he lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward. “Here we were, Dom and I, smoking a couple of those Don Salazario cigars your grandfather made. All of a sudden, a diamond plunks into the ashtray. Well …” His voice tightened and his expression softened.
“After Kennedy was killed”—again Bonafaccio's voice caught—“I had been thinking back to those days in Havana when we were in business with your father—you know, when the senator …”
Raul watched in disbelief as Bonafaccio's eyes clouded and he choked with emotion. In the several seconds that had passed since Bonafaccio had mentioned the slain president, a chameleon-like transformation had reduced the Mafia heir to near sobs. Raul had been prepared to confront a murderous gangster, not a mourning patriot. He stiffened, alert to some kind of ploy.
“ … When Senator Kennedy and those rat-pack friends of his used to come down and enjoy themselves,” Bonafaccio finished, composing himself.
“So there I was, remembering better days with my father, Kennedy, all those people.”
Bonafaccio stopped, his face again hardening.
“I had also been thinking of your father. Then I saw that diamond.
“So when Dom and I tore up the rest of the cigars and ended up with a pile of twenty-five diamonds, it was pretty clear how your old man had planned to get the money out of Cuba. Only he didn't. He had his ‘accident,' and the cigars sat there in the big humidor room until Castro kicked Batista's butt and my family got the hell out.
“Of course we took all the cigars with us, and those few boxes of your grandfather's just got mixed in with the rest.”
Raul shook his head, saddened by the image of the two Italians reducing a box of Don Salazario Presidentes to a pile of tan confetti.
Bonafaccio continued. “When Jack Kennedy visited us in Havana, he really enjoyed your grandfather's cigars. Then this past July, when he put out the word he wanted to stock up on good Cuban cigars, I gave him some, including the remaining three boxes of Don Salazarios. I'm pretty sure you've ended up with them. I don't know exactly how they came to you, but I'm not leaving here without them. Either that or …” He shrugged, the implication clear.
Raul frowned. This was the missing piece.
“Do you mind telling me
why
you think I have them?”
Bonafaccio sat back, relaxing, his mouth breaking into a broad smile. “Not at all! Seems you're a popular guy, only in the wrong way. Not long after we found the diamonds, Dominick got a call from an old business associate
of the Don's. Seems he wants you dead. That did it for me. Another arrow pointed in your direction. First, the diamonds in your grandfather's cigars; then this guy Gessleman puts out a contract on you …”
Shock pulsed through Raul. Gessleman!
Madre de Dios!
How he had underestimated him. Then the chilling realization of
why
Bonafaccio was telling him this struck him. Bonafaccio was talking to a dead man. But first, he intended to extract his money or his diamonds.
“I take it you know the guy?” Bonafaccio asked.
Raul nodded, rapidly filling in the blanks. He realized he had just been handed an extra sword. He would need it. This bull was a killer, a
miura
, bred for deadly ferocity.
“So tell me, Salazar,” Bonafaccio was asking, “how
did
you come to wind up with some of the cigars I gave the president, particularly cigars stuffed with diamonds?”
“Pardon?” replied Raul, the kaleidoscope still tumbling.
And then it formed, suddenly, beautifully.
Once again, he was in the arena, the matador resplendent in his
traje de luces.
The sequins flashed their challenge as the toril gates opened and the bull's muscular hulk stamped defiantly into the arena, dust rising from his gouging hooves.
“The diamonds, Salazar. How did you get them?”
Raul's focus sharpened with the bull's impatience. He knew what he must do: the mariposa, that tantalizing spell cast over the bull when the matador spreads his cape and glides backward, letting the cape's edges flow to the left and right of his exposed body like butterfly wings.
For the next fifteen minutes, Raul Salazar spun an intriguing
story for Joseph Bonafaccio and Dominick Romelli. He told them of a Florida congressman and his wealthy father-in-law, two political fanatics whose hatred for Kennedy and envy of his private hoard of forbidden Cuban cigars had bred a contract of assassination and theft.
 
When Raul finished, he let the silence linger. He watched as Bonafaccio's face contorted in rage and concentration. Now it was Bonafaccio's turn to twist the kaleidoscope of reason. Ultimately, it was Romelli who couldn't contain himself.
“Jesus, Boss!” he blurted. “Can you believe that old bast—”
Bonafaccio held up his hand, mandating quiet, still weighing Raul's story. Another full minute passed as he kept his head down and massaged his temples. Finally, he looked up.
“Okay,” he said, his voice weary and preoccupied, “back to the diamonds. Like I said, you've got a choice. Five mil or the boxes of cigars with the diamonds. Since I doubt you've got five mil stashed away, I suppose it'll have to be the diamonds, right?”

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