The Downtown Deal (24 page)

Olivera
then said, "And the wine?"

Blake
looked at me. "Jack, would you please get the wine for Mr Olivera?"

I went
to the closet and put on my jacket. "I'll be back in about twenty-five
minutes," I said. No one objected, so out I went.

Julius
still sat in the Escalade. He nodded at me as I got in my car, as though he
knew everything that was going on. I hightailed it over to Ronnie's.

The
drive was mercifully quick, since my shoulder was starting to act up. Pain shot
out through my upper chest and down my left arm as I tried to maneuver the
steering wheel. When I got to Ronnie's, he was there, as he told me he would be.
After he asked me what happened to my arm, and after I told him the very short
version, he pointed to the wine in the corner of his apartment, still unopened.
I asked him if he would carry it to my car for me. He obliged.

About
ten minutes later, I pulled up into my empty spot in front of my apartment.
When I walked in the door, everyone was exactly where I'd left them. Blake and
Olivera had been chatting, but that all stopped the instant I entered the room.
Olivera leaped from his seat and said, "Where is it?"

I
pointed to my bum wing under my sweatshirt. "In my back seat. You'll have
to get it."

He and
Calzado rushed outside to my car, gingerly pulling the old wooden case from the
rear seat. As they brought it inside, Olivera said something to Calzado in
Spanish. Olivera asked me to push my coffee table to one side, as they placed
the box on the floor in front of the couch. Calzado reached inside the
briefcase, his hand coming out with a long, thick, flathead screwdriver.
Olivera took it, then started to pry open the first nail on the case.

A few
minutes later, he removed the final nail. As he lifted the lid, his grin
disappeared from his face. Calzado moved to the edge of his seat on the couch.
Apprehension was all over the both of them, as he reached into the case and
pulled out a magnum-sized bottle of Gallo White Zinfandel. Looking deeper into
the case, he saw five more bottles just like it.

Olivera
looked around the room like he had just become the butt of a practical joke.
"What the fuck is going on, Blake. Where the hell is the Château
Mouton?"

Blake
pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and punched in one number.
"Okay, Julius. Bring it in."

"You
better have some answers for me," Olivera said. In a moment, I thought I
might see steam coming out his ears, and maybe a gun coming from somewhere on
Calzado's person.

Blake
responded. "Mr Olivera, some time ago, I decided in the interests of all
concerned, that I would take the Mouton out of the case and keep it somewhere
else. To make sure it was … safe. If you get my meaning."

"Safe?"

Blake
remained calm. "Yes. It's very valuable wine, as you know, and I was
fairly certain it would be included in our land deal, no matter which way that
went. So I just wanted to protect it. To make sure no one would steal it. I've
been keeping it in proper wine storage facilities at another location here in
the city."

I took
all this in, smiling to myself at Blake's cunning. He knew all along what the
wine was worth, and once he got wind of Olivera's itch to get it, he pried open
the case himself — or more likely had it done by someone who knew how to
pry it open and then nail it shut again without leaving any traces. Then he switched
it out for the cheap shit, just in case anyone got any big ideas of stealing
it. He probably went over to Sandra's house to do it at a time when he knew she
wouldn't be home. Meanwhile, the whole world continued thinking this
million-dollar case of wine is sitting in a tiny pantry off her kitchen.

At
that moment, Julius walked in, carrying a wooden box a little smaller than the
Mouton case. It looked well-constructed, but homemade.

"The
wine," Blake said, "is in that box. Three magnums of it."

Olivera
picked up the screwdriver again and anxiously pried it open, while Julius went
over to stand behind No-Sleeve Steve. Inside were three objects, each wrapped
in what looked like a black woolen sweater covered with heavy gauge bubble
wrap. Olivera carefully removed one of the objects, sweater and all, placing it
between him and Calzado on the couch. After some fast instructions in Spanish
by Olivera, Calzado placed his hands a few inches on either side of the object
to prevent it from rolling around, Olivera slowly unwrapped the bubble wrap and
the sweater to reveal a magnum of Liberation Vintage Château Mouton.

Groaning,
he held it in both hands, his black Latin eyes widening as far as possible. His
mouth was open, but no words came out. He barely breathed. He didn't dare lift
it more than an inch or two off the couch.

The
dark magnum glistened in the light of my living room as all eyes became fastened
to it, mine included. No one said a word. Olivera calmly turned it around in
his hands, his every move measured. The Liberation label was intact, in mint
condition as promised, and the precious liquid sloshed around a little inside
the oversized bottle.

He
spoke softly in Spanish to no one in particular, but I didn't need a
translator. The awe that coated his voice told me what he felt. It was such a
human moment, I almost could've forgiven him for trying to kill me the night
before last.

He
rewrapped the magnum, then examined the other two, one at a time. They were
just like the first one, both in primo condition. Then he eyed Blake.
"What about the other three?"

"You
get those at the closing. I'll give you the original case today."

Olivera
turned to Calzado, speaking more Spanish. This time, it sounded like an order.
Calzado got up from the couch and headed away from the rest of us, into the
kitchen, as he opened up his cell phone.

Olivera
said, not to Blake, but to all of us in general, "As you might imagine, I
cannot trust the airlines with this treasure, so I am arranging for a limo to
take us back to Miami." He gestured toward Calzado. "Marco Antonio is
making the arrangements now. Two drivers. Nonstop. Even still, I will miss the
Marlins victory parade tomorrow, so you can see how much this acquisition means
to me."

Momentarily,
Calzado returned to the living room, speaking in Spanish, apparently telling
Olivera the long-distance limo was lined up. They then began to transfer the
Mouton into the old wooden case, carefully placing the magnums into the
original semicircular slats designed by the winery to hold them. When they were
done, and the case was resealed, Olivera stood up to shake hands with Blake
once again.

He
turned to me for a handshake, saying, "Jack, I am so sorry for what
happened to you. I will make it up to you in my own small way." Then, he
and Calzado guardedly lifted the case of Mouton off the floor and carried it to
the door. I held the door open for them, watched them put the wooden case into
their waiting car, and then they were gone.

I
let out an exhale as I closed the door and returned to the
couch.

"That
was a pretty swift move with the wine," I said to Blake. "Using the
original case as a decoy in case Olivera's people got too close to it."

"You
have to think ahead, Jack," he said. "I couldn't take the risk that
he would get his hands on that wine before we made the deal."

"Speaking
of the deal, how did you happen to cave in so fast? I thought you were after
his
strip of land."

He
allowed a tiny smirk to land on his face. It almost made it into a smile.
"I was, until I learned that the Marlins aren't leaving Miami."

"What
do you mean, they're not leaving?" I just noticed the Dalmore I poured
before Olivera got there. I'd set it down and forgotten about it during all the
commotion with the wine. I went over and picked it up, drinking a little from
it.

"Do
you remember my telling you I had a source in Miami? A source of
information?"

"I
think so."

"That
source is none other than Elva Wiltenauer, majority shareholder in the Florida
Marlins."

"You
know her?"

"You
could say that."

"From
where?"

He
shifted his weight on the couch. "She's from California originally. A
widow. She was into Los Angeles real estate, big projects. I was out there
doing some business with her on a hotel complex, when … well, let's just say we
got to know each other."

"Don't
tell me," I said, recalling Martine's revelations about his divorce.
"You and she became an item, Sandra found out about her, and that's why
your marriage dissolved."

Now it
was his turn to be surprised. His eyebrows leaped up on his forehead.
"Whoa, where'd you get that?"

"I've
got my bed made. Go on."

He
gathered himself for a moment, then he said, "Okay. So Elva forms a group
and goes to Miami to buy the Marlins. The team was having all kinds of
problems, running into stone walls with the city, the county, and what have you,
over a new stadium. Now, along comes Olivera, who controls about five points of
local ownership in the team. He's hot to get a new stadium built under
his
umbrella, for obvious reasons of profit. Elva goes along with him."

"Goes
along with him? As in stringing him along?"

Blake
nodded. "Even so far as letting him travel out here and nose around for
possibilities. He takes the bait, comes out here, and sets up the Las Vegas
deal from A to Z, getting the stadium financing, as well as the mayor's seal of
approval, with Elva even telling him the team will move out here in a New York
minute. You with me so far?"

"So
far." I took another sip of Scotch.

"Elva
encouraged all this. She wanted him to line up a pretty firm deal out here, so
she could hold that over the heads of the politicos back in Florida, and bash
them into submission with it. And believe me, despite all their rhetoric back
in Miami, the last thing they want is for the Marlins to leave town. That kind
of thing is public relations poison for a city. Say, would you have any bottled
water, by any chance?"

I
shook my head, saying all I had was tap water. He sloughed it off, then
continued. "So last week, around Wednesday or so, when it looked like the
team was just about ready to announce it was packing up its bats and balls for
real, the governor of Florida telephones Elva in the nick of time and asks her
to call it off. He tells her he's going to twist a few arms in the state
legislature and in the Miami city council to get the stadium deal done down
there, no matter what. Elva called me immediately, so I contacted Olivera and
told him he could have my land for the price we agreed upon, forty-three
million. And I would throw in the wine, of course."

"A
price which nets you about two million in profit?"

He
shook his head once. "More like thirty million. I can tell you now, where
I couldn't say anything before. It was too confidential. Remember, that
property was basically wasteland and I bought it piecemeal. I'm maybe twelve
million into it altogether."

"You
made over thirty million dollars on this deal?"

Blake
finally smiled. "I did." He said that as if congratulating himself.
Shit, I couldn't bedgrudge him this moment. He deserved it.

He
continued: "So Olivera jumped at my offer, thinking Mayor Niekamp
pressured me into it. Meanwhile, he's still positive he's going to build a
stadium here and ultimately grab a bigger stake in the team. He thinks he's
going to make hundreds of millions out of this. But all he's going to get
besides the wine is a big headache when he finds out the Marlins are staying in
Miami. The taxes on the downtown land will probably eat his lunch." He
smiled, this time all the way. "He might even consider selling his
interest in the team to cover the taxes. I'm sure Elva will give him a fair
price for it, and she might even give me a little taste for my efforts."

I
slowly shook my head from side to side in amazement. "So you and she were
in this together all the way."

"The
Marlins never had any intention of moving out here, Jack. Or anywhere else, for
that matter. She called me this morning to tell me the mayor of Miami had
spoken to her, after the governor had spoken to him. The mayor assured her a
stadium deal will be worked out. That assurance alone keeps the team in Miami
for at least three more years, even if they can't work something out."

"Which
slams the door on any hopes of bringing the team to Las Vegas."

"Slammed
shut," he said.

"You
sure you're not a closet poker player?" I asked, as I polished off the
Dalmore.

Now he
laughed. "Definitely not."

I
leaned forward, toward him, putting my elbows on my knees. "Now I've got
some news for you."

The
smile ran away from his face. "Go."

"Sandra's
killer is in custody."

"Who?"
I saw him hold his breath.

"Martine."

He let
out a groan, while he looked away. "Are you sure?"

"
I'm
sure. But there's not a lot of actual evidence, so I don't know if the cops and
the DA can make it stick. She might actually walk, but there's no doubt that
she did it. She as much as admitted it to me earlier today right here in this
apartment. The cops took her away in handcuffs not long before you got
here."

"Oh,
God," he whispered, still looking away. "You know, she and I …"

"I
know all about it. She was 'Netty'. You were thick with her. Or as thick as
someone like you could ever get with someone like her." He slowly nodded
his head up and down. Then I said, "She found out Sandra was working with
Olivera against you. She figured Sandra was selling you out, and she couldn't
stand it. That, plus the fact that Sandra didn't really see their 'friendship'
the way Martine saw it. That was her motive. Ironically, if she had learned
that Sandra had come back over to your side of the street, she might've
forgiven her. But, being out of the loop, she never found that out. She always
thought Sandra was on Olivera's team."