Seven Deadly Sins
ENVY
“Who doesn't?” Deal said. Earlier that summer, the face before him had graced the front pages of the country's newspapers, as well as the covers of half a dozen major newsmagazines. "Crime Boss Calls Summit." "Feds Bust the Party." Et cetera.
Padilla winced, but Gargano seemed to find Deal's comment amusing. “Maybe it'd bother you, working for someone such as myself?”
Deal took a moment, watching the squadron of gulls whistle overhead, sail on toward the spot where the old guy was still working his fishing line in the dying light. Finally, he turned back to Gargano. “Do you pay your bills on time?”
The two bodyguards stared impassively, but Gargano laughed outright. “Padilla told me you were all right.” He clapped Padilla on the shoulder and the little man had to shift his feet to keep his balance in the sand. “Ugo and I go back a ways, did he tell you?”
Deal shook his head. He was wondering how many times Padilla had been cuffed on the shoulder while hosting occasions of state in Cuba. Maybe ernest Hemingway would have gotten away with it, he thought. He couldn't imagine anyone else.
“President Padilla told me that he represented an important client, that's all.”
“Makes sense. Ugo is the soul of discretion.” Sweeping his arm around their surroundings, Gargano continued, “So what do you think?”
That question again. “I thought I was going to meet some people, talk about an office building.”
Gargano nodded. “Yeah, well, we got an office building or two in the pipeline, too. Right now this is what's on my mind. I want to build a hotel, right on this very spot. Place is perfect for it. Makes me sleepy just standing here.”
Deal glanced up the beach. “Right next to the Hilton?”
“Right the f___ next to it,” Gargano said. “Competition is good for business, don't you think?”
“I've heard it said,” Deal told him.
“Thing is, we had intended to purchase the site north of here,” Gargano continued, “but Mr. Hilton got wind of it somehow and managed to ace us out.”
“The broker handling the acquisition,” Padilla interjected, shaking his head. “People get greedy.”
“Don't ask what else he got,” Gargano said, giving Deal a meaningful look. “Anyway, I went to Mr. Hilton himself, explained how this project was a union undertaking, we're seeking to invest the pension contributions of thousands of little people all over the country. All they want is just to retire one day without going into the hole, et cetera.... You know what he told me?”
“I can guess.”
“So many words, he said go s___ in your hat.”
Deal thought he heard honest disbelief in Gargano's voice. “So that's when you bought up this tract?”
Gargano nodded. “With Ugo's help. And we've already got a set of drawings.” He nodded at one of the thugs, who went back to the limo, ducked inside, returned with a rolled-up sheet of blueprints.
“We managed to get a look at the plans
for the Hilton,” Gargano said. He smiled at Deal, tapping his
palm as if he were holding a bat. “I had the architects work
it out, angle of the sun, certain months of the year, all that.”
He smiled. “Where we're going to put our
main tower, the shadow's
gonna fall in that direction, cover up Mr. Hilton's entire swimming
pool for about ninety-five percent of the tourist season.”“Like a permanent eclipse of the sun,” Deal said.
Gargano stared at him for a minute, then his face lit up. “I like that,” he said, beginning to laugh. “I like that a lot.”
“So why me?”
Gargano's laugh had segued into a rasping cough, and he held up a hand to Deal until he could get his breath. “What kind of question is that?”
“Why bring this to me,” Deal persisted.
Gargano glanced at Padilla. “Because you're the best around,” he said. “Ugo says so. He vouches for you one hundred per.”
Padilla gave Deal a thin smile and nodded.
“I've never built a hotel,” Deal said.
“So what?” Gargano said. “A hammer is a hammer, a nail's a nail. You saying you're not interested?”
Padilla was shifting from foot to foot, looking more nervous by the second, Barton Deal thought. “Of course I'm interested,” he said. “As soon as you've got working plans, I'll go over them, work up a bid--”
“We don't have to bother with all that,” Gargano said. “Ugo says you're right, then you're right. Whatever it comes out to, that's fine.”
“You'd award a job this size without a bid?”
“Some jerk___ comes to me, pulls a figure out of the air, what's that supposed to mean?” Gargano waved his hand. “I do business on the basis of trust.” He gave Padilla, who had stopped jittering for the moment, a knowing smile. Then he turned back. “So tell me, Mr. Deal, can I trust you?”
“You can trust me,” Deal said, “but what's the catch?”
“The catch?” Gargano lifted his brows and Padilla resumed his antsy two-step. After a moment, Gargano shrugged. “The catch is, you agree to build a hotel the way it says here in the plans. You tell me how much it's gonna cost, what you want to make for your trouble, then you go to work. Hammer and nails, that's all you have to worry about from that point forward.”
“Who keeps the books?” Deal asked.
“Now that's an item we take care of,” Gargano said. “Frees you up to concentrate on what you do best.”
“That's not exactly how I'm used to doing it,” Deal said.
“People change,” Gargano said.
“Do they?”
“I've seen it happen. Put a large sum of money in a person's hand, whole new emotions are born.”
Deal had to laugh. “Say down the line, someone, a union trustee maybe, finds there's a problem with the books. Who would be liable?”
Gargano shook his head. “You are looking at the union trustee, the trustor, and everybody in between. So there isn't going to be any problem down the line. The buck stops with me.”
Deal nodded, but it didn't mean he was convinced. He had a flash of those long columns of numbers he'd been adding up back at Wolfie's, then glanced off to where the geezer had been casting. The old guy had his pole planted upright in the sand now, was sitting in a webbed lawn chair at the edge of the surf, staring out to sea. Sure, he could take this job, make those figures balance in a flash. But would he ever get the chance to finish his days like that old guy up there, farting around, watching the sun going down, trying to catch a fish? Maybe. Or maybe he'd just as easily end up swimming with them.
“It's something I'd have to think about,” he said, turning back to Gargano.
Gargano glanced at his watch. “Sure,” he said. “Take your time. I don't have to be at the airport for another half hour.”
Deal stared at him. “You mean you want an answer now?”
Gargano put a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it was meant to be a friendly gesture, but Deal didn't feel anything tender in Gargano's touch. “You're a stand up guy, Mr. Deal. I didn't know that about you, we wouldn't be here talking. But you don't want this job, that's all you have to say. Goodbye, good luck, and we're done. I'll find somebody else. I don't have time to waste, that's all.” He took his hand from Deal's shoulder and stood back, his hands clasped, evidently waiting for his answer.
Deal turned to Padilla, who held up his hands as if to ward him off. Thees ees up to you, my fren’.
Deal ran a hand through his hair. “I'm stretched pretty thin, right now. I'd have to hire a couple people just to gear up ...”
Gargano nodded at the second thug, who handed over a thin briefcase he'd been holding. Gargano hefted it, seemed satisfied, then extended the case to Deal. Deal stared at the case, uncertain.
“That's two hundred grand,” Gargano said. “Form of a retainer. You can hire yourself a couple guys, a couple of girls, whatever you like. Money is not going to be an issue here. All I care about is that we"--he paused and smiled again--"lay an eclipse on our friends over there. You make that happen, Mr. Deal, you and I will be friends for life.”
Deal couldn't remember actually reaching for the briefcase, but he must have, for there was no mistaking its heft, its thick handle resting in his grip. Gargano and his entourage had already turned and were walking toward the limo.
He felt a moment of giddy panic--as if he were about to fall from a great height and should stop himself only by catching hold of a high-tension line. He glanced at Padilla, who stared back at him from behind his dark glasses like a Havana pimp. A voice in Barton Deal's head told him to rid himself of that briefcase-- throw himself in front of Gargano's limousine, explain it was all a mistake. Another part of him was already gleefully adding and reading long columns of figures, every total accompanied by the satisfying ka-chung of a cash register.
Deal watched silently as the limo made its turn and began to purr through the dunes back toward Collins Avenue. He noticed that the sun was nearly gone and that the old geezer who'd been surf-fishing had packed it in. He had his webbed chair folded under his arm and was headed down the beach their way toting his tackle box and his poles.
“Why didn't you tell me who we were going to meet?” Deal asked Padilla.
“Would it have made a difference?”
“You're damned right it would have,” Deal said. He brandished the briefcase between them. “Nobody does business this way.” He stopped and glanced helplessly toward the dunes.
“It does not matter,” Padilla said. “You have acquired the job.”
“I haven't acquired anything,” Deal protested. “No papers were signed. I give him his money back, the whole thing's off, simple as that.”
“I do not think so,” Padilla said.
“Bullshit,” Deal said. The briefcase seemed to have grown much heavier, as if it were filled with concrete now. The breeze was whistling in off the water, and with the sun gone, it should have seemed cooler. But Deal felt feverish, felt a slick of sweat beneath his arms, on the back of his neck. He thrust the briefcase toward Padilla. “Take it back. Tell him it's too much for me to handle. Gargano's a businessman. He'll understand.”
Padilla stared back at him. His mouth drooped as if he were sad, but with his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses, it was difficult to tell. “We have moved past that point now, my friend.”
“Take the f___ing thing,” Barton Deal insisted.
“We have moved to a different plane, you and I,” Padilla said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The old geezer had made a turn away from the line of the surf and was moving their way now. Even in the dying light, Barton Deal could see that he'd been wrong about the guy. He wasn't a geezer at all. All the trappings were there: floppy hat, white plastic nose protector, an untucked checkered shirt flapping over a mismatched pair of plaid Bermuda shorts. But the face was unlined, the eyes keen, the movements of the legs graceful and pistonlike as he came steadily up the slope of the beach toward them.
The man stopped a few feet away and nodded at Padilla, who returned the gesture. The man turned to Deal, removing the ridiculous nose beak and then the floppy hat. No, not a geezer at all. Burr-cut blond hair, pale brows, steely blue eyes, an athlete's body hidden behind the loose-fitting clothes.
“Looks like you got a lot of money there,” the guy said, nodding at the briefcase in Deal's hand.
Deal gaped at him. He felt like he'd been rabbit-punched. After a moment, he turned to Padilla, feeling his mouth moving before the words would form. “Who is this?” he finally managed.
“Don't get your bowels in an uproar,” the man said. “Padilla didn't have a choice in this.”
If deal had felt unease moments ago, he had moved toward full-fledged dread now. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of it all. They meant to kill him, take the money, flee to the Caribbean in a fishing boat? But where were the weapons?
The man dropped his chair in the sand, plopped his tackle box on the seat, stabbed his fishing rod into the soft sand at the edge of the packed roadway. He gave Deal something of a smile, flipping the lid of the tackle box open, and gestured at what was inside.
“We've got it all on tape, Mr. Deal,” the man said. “A bit noisy with all the wind out there, but with the pictures and all, it'll make a convincing package.”
“Pictures?” Deal was shaking his head. Instead of the innards of a tackle box, he was staring at what looked like a radio transmitter.
“There's more wire on Ugo than a Wyoming fence,” the man said.
When Deal stared over the man's shoulder at Padilla, whose mouth had not lost its downward pooch. He spread his palms in front of him in a gesture of helplessness.
“I knew who he'd been doing business with,” the blond man continued. “I made him a deal he couldn't refuse.” He stopped and stared at Barton Deal for a moment. “Now it's your turn, I'm afraid ... no pun intended, of course.”
--Les Standiford, Deal With the Dead521
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