The Prince (44 page)

As Mastrangelo explained the details of the plan, Gabriel and Cornelius glanced at each other, amazed. They never dreamed they'd be able to aim so high. They were pleased with themselves and at the same time proud to be held in such high regard by this guy.

“Any questions?” Mastrangelo asked at the end of his long speech.

Gabriel tried to disguise his elation. “How many Puerto Ricans will there be? And who are the people the stuff's supposed to go to?”

“Not more than five Puerto Ricans and the same for the Stokers.”

“We gotta kill Brian Stoker?”

“No, he won't be there. Bosses never get involved in these matters.”

The two men looked at each other, a little worried. It wouldn't be a piece of cake.

“Did I get it right: twenty-five, seventy-five?” Cornelius asked to confirm the percentages of the shares.

“You got it right.”

“And how much stuff is there?”

“A suitcaseful,” Mastrangelo said, and almost burst out laughing at seeing the look of astonishment on their faces.

When Saro's mind had cleared sufficiently, he realized he was in a blind alley off Lafayette Street, quite a distance from where the Blue Lemon was located in Chelsea. How had he gotten here? Who had brought him here? Was it possible he couldn't remember anything about what had happened? Disordered thoughts raced through his mind along with sudden flashes of horrible images of blood and battered faces. Lost in his nightmares, he heard water gushing from a hose behind him. In the alley, a waiter was hosing the pavement near the back door of a restaurant. When he had finished, he dropped the rubber hose and went back in, leaving the door ajar. Saro waited a few seconds before picking up the hose, turning on the spigot, and sticking his head under the jet of cold water, hoping to clear it that way. He washed his blood-smeared hands, took off his jacket and used it to dry himself, and then threw it into a bin: it was too tattered to wear anymore; people would take him for a beggar.

He started walking, going up Broadway to make his way back to the Blue Lemon. The last clear image he had in his mind were the iron steps in the club's inner courtyard. Marta had entered the apartment with that crude show-off, and the man had followed her in. He remembered perfectly having seen the two of them joking, laughing. Saro also recalled having had a few drinks too many, and he remembered being furious at having let that guy make off with the girl. It aggravated an old wound; it was too much like the memory of Isabel with Dixie.

When he reached the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Nineteenth Street, near the alley that led to the back of the Blue Lemon, he found two police cars blocking the way. There was the usual cluster of curious onlookers and police officers coming and going. Saro approached the crowd and tried to see what was going on in the alley. Inside the courtyard stood a black van from the morgue.

“What happened?” he casually asked a guy next to him.

“They killed two people,” he replied, trying to stretch his neck to catch a glimpse of some exciting image.

“They slaughtered them,” an angry woman corrected him.

“Who was it?” an old man asked naively.

“They'll never catch them; it's the Mafia,” the usual know-it-all concluded.

“Who was killed?” This time it was Saro who asked the question.

“A girl from the club, poor thing,” a young woman the same age as Marta replied.

“Poor thing, my ass,” a man retorted. “She was a whore. She got what she deserved.”

“The cops said her john was killed too. A great big guy,” the know-it-all said.

“And how would you know?” the girl asked.

“A cop told a reporter,” the man snapped.

Saro felt his head spin. He suddenly felt nauseous. He stepped back from the group of people and moved off to avoid arousing suspicion.

But a policeman noticed him and came over.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” he asked him.

“I'm okay, I just have a slight fever.”

“Naturally, walking around in shirtsleeves like that. Go on home!” the policeman barked.

“I will, thanks.” Saro took a few steps and disappeared around the first street corner, hiding behind it. He leaned back against the wall and started crying. He began to remember.

He had flung open the door, entered the room, and saw the tough guy undressing Marta. As soon as she saw him, she went over to him, shouting something. He remembered clearly that she wasn't wearing a bra, but still had her skirt on. Then Saro hit her. At that point, the memory became patchy. Her face was swollen from being punched. The guy had tried to stop him but was struck full in the face by a heavy bronze horse head. A stream of blood began gushing from his broken nose. The woman rushed at Saro digging her nails into his chest. Saro instinctively fingered the right side of his chest, which was still sore. He unbuttoned his shirt and saw three scratches, still bloody, scoring the skin. Marta was punched again and collapsed on the floor; her screams immediately faded and became a death rattle. From behind, the john tried to lift Saro by circling his waist with both arms, but this time a whack bashed his head in. He sagged at Saro's feet like an empty sack. Saro stared at the bloody poker. He looked at his hands: they were covered in blood. He rubbed them on his jacket to try to wipe away the traces of that madness. Then everything suddenly went black, and he sank into a troubled sleep in which he persistently relived those moments that would forever change his life.

Saro was desolate over what had happened. But how could he go back in time and change his future and that of those two poor people? It was too late now. He had crossed the fine line that separates the few decent men from the majority of evildoers. Saro cursed his fate and the day he was born.

P
ier 97 on the Hudson River was the first dock for passenger vessels after the enclosed piers. Gabriel parked the Ford on Twelfth Avenue facing south and left the keys under the dashboard panel, as Mastrangelo had advised him to do. He said that in the heat of escape you might lose them, so it was better to leave them there.

The first shadows of dusk had already fallen. Darkness worked to their advantage. Circles of light from the few electric streetlamps barely illuminated the area, leaving vast dark pools all around. Cornelius and Abraham got out of the car first and went to get the guns in the trunk. Gabriel joined them, grabbing his violin case and heading toward the pier.

Several cars and vans were parked in front of the dock, while to either side the transport companies' sheds were lit up, with people still inside, since shifts at the port often went until ten o'clock at night.

The freighter was moored head in, with its right side to the dock. Two gangplanks extended from it. They would use the forward one for their escape. The three friends casually headed for the end of the dock, near the stern. They looked out over the water and spotted the rowboat tied up not far from the freighter. Cornelius, the most agile of the three, climbed down first. He held the boat steady for Gabriel and then Abraham, each of whom held a violin case. Once they were in, Cornelius began rowing.

All they could hear around them was water lapping nearby against the sides of the vessel and the distant sounds of ship maintenance. Cornelius rowed around to the stern of the
Paraguay Star
. Abraham was the first to spot the rope ladder in the darkness.

Cornelius rowed toward it with slow strokes. Everything was going along perfectly, just as Mastrangelo had said. Gabriel grabbed one of the wooden rungs of the rope ladder, and Cornelius slung his violin case over his shoulder and began to climb. They had decided that Abraham would be second, and Gabriel would go up last. All three made their way up, painstakingly hoisting themselves up at each rung. They were strong and athletic, with solid shoulders and arm muscles as brawny as those of wrestlers, but climbing a rope ladder is extremely difficult unless you have the training of a trapeze artist.

Cornelius was breathing hard when he reached the railing. He looked around and didn't see anyone on deck. The
Paraguay Star
was a cargo ship, with its enclosed areas grouped around a central smokestack. It belonged to a British company and had come to New York expressly to be examined by a government commission in charge of an expansion program for the US Merchant Marine fleet. The upper deck was illuminated by a row of lights, and the central tower was lit as well.

Abraham was struggling to make it up, with Gabriel, below him, urging him to move it.

Meanwhile, Cornelius had climbed over the railing and was crouching in the shadows. Just in time, because a sailor came up from below deck, lighting a cigarette. He passed a few feet away from Cornelius, but didn't notice anything. Cornelius waited until the crewman was out of sight, and then ran and hid behind a huge wooden crate.

Several minutes later, Abraham's silhouette appeared and immediately behind him, Gabriel's.

Cornelius poked his head out from behind the crate and waved to get their attention. The two men tiptoed over to join him. Everything was going according to plan.

A few minutes before eight, the Stokers made their way on board. They came up the forward gangplank. Old Brian Stoker wasn't with them, and Fryderyk Marek was also absent, having pleaded sick due to a bad toothache. Except for them, the gang was complete: there were the inseparable Hugh and Kevin, Roy Foster, the boxer-bagman with his usual dark crew-neck sweater, and Lee Edward and Tony Russo, two brawny young men. Bringing up the rear was Damien Stoker, carrying a leather bag. That night, he was extremely uneasy. Damien had brought only partial payment—a truly ridiculous sum. The Puerto Ricans certainly wouldn't give up the cocaine. Brian, his father, had advised him to play a certain ace up his sleeve if push came to shove. His father's idea didn't really appeal to Damien, but he would do as he was told.

The ship's captain went to meet the group and invited everyone into the
Paraguay Star
's mess room, the only indoor space that could hold two dozen people.

Shortly afterward, the Puerto Ricans arrived in two black Dodges. Their leader was a certain Segundo, the right arm of Armando Diaz, the acknowledged boss of trafficking that originated in South America. Behind Segundo came Juan, the man carrying the suitcase containing ten kilograms of pure coke. They were accompanied by three mean-looking thugs.

The five men strode up the forward gangplank. A sailor led them directly into the mess room where Damien and his men were waiting for them. The captain of the ship had chosen to retire to his cabin.

Segundo entered the room and went over to Damien. “I kept my word, man. Ten kilos of first-rate cocaine. You can make fifty thousand doses by cutting it. Show him the goods, Juan.”

The man set the suitcase on the table and pulled out a packet; he opened it and placed it on the tabletop. Damien went over and tasted the white powder. He nodded, as if to say “Excellent” and then stepped back. The man put the packet back in the suitcase and closed it up, leaving it on the table.

Damien hesitated, and this did not go unnoticed by Segundo. Alarmed, he asked, “What's up, Damien?”

“Don't worry, Segundo, everything's okay.”

“The money?”

“I brought you an advance on the amount I'll earn from the sale of the stuff. All I'm asking for is twelve hours. It's a quick transaction, with only one buyer. A one-shot deal for all of us.” So saying he picked up the leather bag and handed it to him.

Segundo grabbed it but didn't open it. “How much is in it?”

“Five grand. That's all I could scrape together. But I assure you, you won't regret it.”

Juan looked at his boss and knew immediately what he had to do. He snatched the suitcase of cocaine off the table and got safely out of the way, standing behind the three gorillas who instantly drew their automatic weapons from their jackets, aiming them at Damien and his men. Damien motioned to his men not to react.

“What kind of fucking stunt is this, Damien? The terms were clear.”

“Calm down, Segundo. Tell your men to take it easy. I have no intention of creating trouble. The terms will be respected. But in twelve hours.”

“Man, you're soft in the head if you think I'm going to leave you my coke without payment in return.”

Segundo was adamant, and Damien knew he'd have to play the ace up his sleeve as his father had suggested. “Segundo, you have nothing to lose because I myself will be your insurance.”

“What are you talking about?” the Puerto Rican asked, pausing in the doorway of the mess room.

“I'll come with you . . . let's say as a hostage? We'll wait for the transaction together. Then when Roy Foster brings the rest of the money, we'll shake hands, and we'll all be happy and have lots of bucks in our wallets.”

Segundo carefully considered the offer—and in the end gave in. “Deal. I leave your men the stuff, and you come with us. But if your father is pulling a fast one, I'll send you back in pieces, in a suitcase.”

“You won't regret it, pal,” said Damien. And with that, he took the suitcase with the ten kilos of coke and handed it to Foster, the bagman. “You know what to do with it,” he said. At the same instant, the three Puerto Rican gorillas surrounded Damien and took him in custody.

“Let's go,” Segundo ordered, “this whole thing stinks of a scam.” He was about to leave the room when Cornelius's tommy gun shattered the glass of a porthole.

Gabriel, with the second tommy gun, was behind the door that opened directly onto the main deck. Abraham, meanwhile, was to open fire with a short-barrel .38 from the passageway leading from the upper deck to the mess room.

Suddenly the room was overwhelmed with rapid sprays of machine gun fire. Having learned his lesson, Cornelius fired in short bursts. Gabriel threw open the door, and there stood Segundo. He fired without aiming, but Segundo was faster than him and dropped quickly to the floor. The bullets flew over his head and struck two of his men who were right behind him. At the first volley of shots, Damien had the presence of mind to plunge through the frosted glass wall on the only side of the room that the three intruders had not been able to protect. Segundo followed him, but a bullet struck him in the thigh, and he fell back on a pile of rope. He saw Damien run and hide behind the cargo crates. Though limping and bleeding from the gunshot wound, he kept up his pursuit, while behind him the tommy guns spewed out their grim litany of death.