A Brew to a Kill (44 page)

“Maybe. Nadine would know.”

“Call her, get her down there. If there is a system, download the data. Restore Josh’s computer.”

I closed the phone, took a deep breath. Then I entered the Hop Sing Chophouse and boldly crossed the dining room to Matt’s table.

The undercover officers couldn’t mask their surprise, but their reactions were nothing compared with Matt’s. He watched me sit down beside him with wide, then baffled, then absolutely horrified eyes.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but get used to it, Matt
.
You’re not in this alone. Not as long as I’m around.

I reached deep for a persona and came up with a tough, cocky personality who’d been my shadow all week long. Locking eyes with Moustache Man, I channeled Sergeant Franco.

“So?” I said with clipped annoyance. “You wanted to see me.”

Just visible beneath his facial hair, the corners of the man’s mouth morphed into a suspicious frown. We stared in silence for a long, slow beat.

“Talk, or I’m out of here, and you’re out your
oxidado
,” I said, my gaze unwavering.

Another beat, and Moustache Man rose. “Come with me.”

During the run up to this meeting, Mike had instructed Matt and I to cooperate with these people, to pretend to go along with their plans and agree to their terms. But I soon
regretted my decision to follow Moustache Man when he bypassed the busy kitchen, pointing to a flight of wooden stairs to the basement.

I knew Sully and his crew would lose track of us if we went into that pit. Moustache Man must have sensed my reticence, because he reached under his oversized Izod shirt and pulled out a very large
gun
.

“Downstairs,” he commanded.

Matt shot me a look that was easy to interprete:
Do you finally get it, Clare? That’s why I didn’t want you here. If something bad happens now, it happens to us both, and Joy is an orphan!

His message sent and received, Matt pushed by me and went down the stairs. I followed, with Moustache Man bringing up the rear.

The basement was long and narrow, with naked bulbs screwed into the ceiling to illuminate the scene. A few dozen sagging cardboard boxes were stacked against crumbling brick walls, beside dented cans of cooking oil.

“Straight ahead,” Moustache grunted. When Matt didn’t move fast enough, our captor jabbed the gun barrel into his kidney.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing or I’ll make you eat it,” Matt growled.

Moustache Man’s face flushed, and his lips curled to reveal a missing tooth.
This is it, he’s going to pull the trigger.

I thrust myself between the angry men—a position I’d found myself occupying for much of this past week!

“Enough of this macho crap,” I said with all the forcefulness I could muster. “Let’s talk. Right here—”

“No. Someone else will do the talking,” Moustache replied.

A few more steps and the basement came to an end, but our journey did not, because an irregular hole had been cut into the ancient brick wall. Through that hole a long, narrow tunnel faded into shadows. I nearly yelped as a cat-sized critter darted across the tunnel floor.

Rats!!!!

Moustache hit a switch, and bare bulbs running along the roof of the underground passage sprang to feeble life. The tunnel smelled of wet earth, mildew, and even nastier things.

Matt took my arm and led the way. Again Moustache brought up the rear.

I tried to gauge the distance by counting footsteps, but there were so many twists and turns, noxious drips to dodge, puddles to jump, and rodents to avoid that I soon gave up. I knew we were far from Pell Street by now, in a place where Mike and his squad could never, ever put a tail on us.

The tunnel ended inside a dim underground garage empty of cars, save for a windowless van parked in the middle of the oil-stained concrete.

Moustache Man kick-slid a dented aluminum trash can toward us.

“Everything goes in there,” he commanded. “Wallets. Money. Phones. Watches. Jewelry. All of it.”

“So our journey to the center of the earth is all about a friggin’ armed robbery?” Matt groused. “Why didn’t you save time and mug us in the restaurant?”

“I’ll take your keys,” Moustache said, beefy hand outstretched.

We handed them over, and the gunman made us face the wall. The sound of more footsteps emerging from the shadows followed: two people, I guessed.

The pat down was gentle but thorough—and a little humiliating. Moustache Man didn’t give a reason for this harsh treatment, but I knew his people were looking for wires, recorders, a GPS device, or any kind of tracer.

“Keep your hands off my junk,” Matt warned.

The body search ended—and then rough hands seized me from behind. I struggled, but everything went dark as a blindfold was tied over my eyes. Handcuffs followed, and the cold steel bruised my already sore wrists.

Matt cursed a blue streak, until I heard a smack.

“Matt?” I cried, just as I was hauled off my feet (yet again!)
and tossed into the back of the waiting van. Matt bounced off the floor beside me. Doors slammed, the engine roared, and the irony didn’t escape me: Except for the rodents, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between being kidnapped by a couple of drug runners and being arrested by the DEA.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“Just peachy,” came Matt’s terse reply.

“No talking,” Moustache Man warned as the truck lurched into motion.

B
LINDFOLDED
, rolling around on the floor of the bumpy cargo bay, I tried to gauge where we were going. I feared our destination was the Red Hook warehouse, where these men expected to retrieve
oxidado
already confiscated by the Feds.

I had no illusions about our fate once Moustache Man discovered the drugs were missing.

But
Mike sent cops to watch the warehouse,
I reminded myself.
They would see us arrive, step in for a rescue—unless they’d been pulled away to participate in the chophouse surveillance, in which case they were probably scratching their heads and wondering where we were.

In too short a time the van rolled onto a bridge—this I knew from the distinctive hiss of the wheels on the roadway. We had to be crossing either the Manhattan or Brooklyn Bridge because there wasn’t enough time to reach any other span—which meant we were probably on our way to Brooklyn and the warehouse. By the time we hit the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I was certain Matt and I were doomed.

I didn’t know how long the van was actually on the BQE, only that we ran into a traffic snag when we exited. As we idled, the van’s interior began to heat up, so either Moustache or the driver cracked the window.

Cool air washed over me, along with a series of familiar smells—coriander, turmeric, curry: the basics spices of Indian cuisine.

We certainly weren’t in Red Hook, where the aromas were very different. Had we gone north to Queens instead of south to Brooklyn?

Moments later, the rattling roar of an elevated train passing overhead rocked the van. The sound seemed too loud to be anything but the exposed tracks of the Number 7 line.

That theory was reinforced by the sweet, yeasty smell of brioche and a hint of chocolate—like the
champorado
I had smelled that morning. But it was a sweet, tangy, distinctive, and very familiar aroma that finally convinced me. I had to be smelling Amina Salaysay’s special pork bun filling!

I knew where we were! On Roosevelt Avenue, near Amina’s Kitchenette, in Little Manila.

A sudden turn sent me rolling into Matt. The van bumped onto a curb and braked. The horn blared three times, followed by the rumble of a garage door. I smelled motor oil and old rubber as we rolled into the garage.

The engine was cut, and the doors opened. I sat up and someone ripped away the blindfold. Blinking against the sudden brightness, I didn’t resist as the handcuffs were removed and I was lifted out of the van.

When my vision finally cleared, I glanced at the youth in front of me. Short, stocky, with black hair and dark eyes, he was definitely Pinoy. If I had any doubts, they vanished when I saw
Balikbayan Boy
emblazoned across the front of his red T-shirt.

B
ALIKBAYAN
Boy led us to a small, windowless kitchenette with white walls and a faded hardwood floor. He sat us down at the table, then headed back to the garage. Moustache Man was nowhere to be seen.

“God, Matt,” I groaned when I saw his swollen eye.

“I’m fine,” he replied in an angry hiss. “But what were you thinking when you came to that restaurant?”

“I was thinking of you—”

Muted cheers interrupted me. The noise leaked through the walls, or maybe from above. It sounded like a party.

“At least someone is enjoying their weekend,” Matt grumbled.

We both heard the first strains of a familiar pop tune.

“Peelings… Nothing more than… Peelings… Trying to poor-get…”

“Karaoke?”

Matt blinked. “What does she mean by ‘peelings?’”

“The singer sounds Filipino,” I said. “Lilly Beth told me they sometimes switch their
Ps
and
Fs
.”

I was also dying to tell Matt that our location was no mystery.
Despite the blindfold, I knew where we were. But I feared someone might be listening to us, so I kept that fact to myself.

“You know what? Puck this,” Matt said angrily. “I’m tired of waiting—”

Another door opened and Moustache returned. This time he was armed with a tall, tinted bottle and three shot glasses. He set them on the table and departed without a word. He left the door ajar, and we heard more party noises.

Matt reached for the bottle. “Lambanog. No wonder they’re so happy.”

“That’s arrak… Coconut wine, right?”

Matt nodded.

“In vino veritas…”

“Here’s the truth. This stuff is ninety proof and packs a wallop.” Matt glanced at the label a second time. “And it’s bubble-gum flavored?”

He set the bottle down when we heard high heels clicking on hardwood. A stunning brunette sauntered through the door. Petite, she flaunted her fabulous shape with a flimsy yellow sundress that set off her perfect, bronzed complexion. Her ensemble was completed by fetish-style dominatrix shoes and little else.

Without introduction, she sat across from us, crossed her silky-smooth legs, and batted her heavily made-up eyes. (Okay, most of her looked real, but those lashes had to be fake.)

“So, how did you like our test charge?” she asked, her leg bouncing up and down on her knee.

Test charge?
Matt and I glanced at each another in surprise.
Didn’t we have this conversation in the roasting room last Saturday?

“I didn’t like it,” Matt replied. “I turned down O Negociante’s offer.”

“My cousin doesn’t take no for an answer. He’s pushy that way.”

“So you’re Brazilian?” I assumed.

“Half.” She snapped her darkly polished fingers. “The rich half.”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

She leaned forward, pursed her lips. “I’m a successful businesswoman. I own real estate, a delivery service, a few bars, the party house upstairs, and the girls who work there. It’s a humble beginning, but I’m looking to branch out.”

I was willing to bet Dragon Lady’s real estate holdings included the building leased to Amina’s Kitchenette. I couldn’t believe it. I was sitting across the table from Mrs. Salaysay’s greedy, gouging landlady!

Dragon Lady poured three shots. “A drink, then we talk.”

Without waiting for an invitation, I snatched a shot glass and downed its contents in a single gulp. The lambanog was smooth, and reminiscent of vodka, though I could have done without the bubble gum aftertaste. When the ninety proof part began its slow burn, I nearly gagged.