To The Lions - 02 (11 page)

“I
just keep coming back to you saying that this year something changed.”

“I
promise, nothing happened to me.
 
I’m
just tired of living a miserable life.”

Gage
pulled his hands from the water, wetting his face.
 
He eyed her for a bit, imagining the image of
their mutual electricity rebounding in sharp bolts between them.
 

“Happier
now?” she asked.

“Only
if you’ve told me the truth.”

“Starting
seven or eight years ago, I could have made my life much easier by selling
myself.”
 
Her face was stony, showing the
type of tension he’d not yet seen from her.
 
“But I have never done that.
 
I
don’t judge those who do but, for me, that’s never going to be option.
 
And that is the truth.”

Gage
found her hand under water, clasping it.
 
“If I can support you, would you be willing to stay with me for a
while?”

“I
don’t mind earning my way.”

“I
didn’t say you couldn’t work.
 
But, for
now, until you find something, will you let me help you?”

“You
mean this?”

“It
would make me happy.”

Justina
leapt to him, again locking her legs around him and kissing him.
 
It was an emphatic, and pleasant, answer.

* * *

Swimming
in the ocean just a short distance away was Xavier Zambrano.
 
He’d actually taken notice of the nearby
couple, recognizing the tall, wholesome blonde from somewhere, but unable to
make the connection.
 
Her friend, a
rugged looking hombre with a few curious scars, was well-built and probably
about Xavier’s age.
 
There was something
cold and knowing about the man and Xavier noticed him looking over more than
once, measuring him.
 
Xavier instantly hated
him, half tempted to walk up to his own towel and retrieve his pistol.
 
He could conceal the pistol with the towel,
walk back down and gun the muscled asshole down right here in the surf.

But
even Xavier had good sense.
 
He was soon
distracted by a clutch of topless post-teens frolicking in the waves.
 
Eavesdropping on their conversation, Xavier
learned that they were from the Netherlands.
 
After his first swim, he boldly approached the young ladies and invited
them to his villa for drinks after sunset.
 
Surpassing his boldness, one of the young women asked him if he might
have any cocaine at his villa.
 

“And
if I do?”

“I’ll
be your slave,” the woman answered, giggling but gnawing on her lower lip as
she eyed him hungrily.

Xavier
explained where they should rendezvous at the prescribed time.
 
“My associate will meet you there and bring
you to my villa.”

“We
can just walk,” another of the young women said.

“I
won’t hear of it,” he replied, winking before walking back to the water,
feeling their eyes undressing him as he descended the mild slope of sand.

This
was his second day at the sea.
 
Terminally
bored with his past two months in Barcelona, and being a man who liked to roam,
Xavier had come north to Lloret, a seedy resort in the eyes of many Europeans,
but a place where someone like Xavier could find innumerable distractions of
the female variety—especially of the type who enjoyed some of his more peculiar
proclivities.

He
used a powerful free-style stroke to swim to the orange buoy that existed a
kilometer out to sea.
 
The chop was
significant, making his progress difficult at times.
 
Xavier welcomed it.
 
A strong swimmer, he preferred to be in the
water year-round, always swimming outside despite the cold.
 
It was but another mark of his manhood.
 

After
rounding the buoy, he found that the return stroke was a bit easier, making the
swim back to the beach pass more quickly.
 
He paused at the sandbar on his way back, and that’s when he noticed the
couple again.
 
After appraising the tall
blonde, he focused on her rugged date, cursing him by muttering the derogatory
insult, “
Gilipolas
.”

Xavier
completed his swim and exited the water, his muscles expanded by the spread of
blood through their fibers.
 
The group of
Netherlanders were still sunning, all but one lying flat on their towels.
 
The only one sitting up was the one who’d
asked about cocaine.
 
She’d been watching
him and gave him a little wave, as if she wanted to make sure he’d made it back
safely.

“I
bet she’s got a nose like a vacuum cleaner,” Xavier said to Fausto, his
longtime helper who awaited him at the edge of the surf with a thick towel.

“Pardon,
señor?”

“The
one in the middle,” Xavier replied, pointing.
 
The young Dutch woman fluffed her towel as she joined her friends,
supine in their collective sun worship.
 
“She wants coke, and a lot of it.
 
How much do we have?”

“I
stashed it when we arrived, señor.
 
There
is plenty.”

“Good,
good.”
 
Xavier looked at his Breitling,
then up at the sun as it was halfway down the western sky.
 
In another hour it would fall behind the
high-rises along the beachfront.

“I’m
hungry,” Xavier abruptly stated.
 
“I will
eat this evening as I listen to the monthly reports.”

“What
would you prefer, señor?”

Scowling
at the thought, Xavier ran his hands back through his wet hair, as if such a
decision was of momentous importance.
 
Finally, resolutely, he said, “Hearty salad, lobster, drawn butter,
broccoli, and some more of that bread I had last night.”

“Excellent,
señor.
 
I will see to it.”
 
Fausto snapped a phone open and walked to
Xavier’s bag, slipping it over his shoulder.

Xavier
walked back to the group of young women, five of them, noting their omnipresent
bikini line tattoos and belly button rings.
 
“So, I will see all of you at eleven?”

The
young women propped themselves up on their elbows and the one on the end, the
only one with dark hair, hesitantly asked, “Should we bring anyone else?”

“You
mean
other
men?”

“Yes.”

“That
won’t be necessary,” Xavier said, noting that, while cute, she was the least attractive
of the bunch.
 
She was probably fearful
of being left out.
 
“And just know,
ladies, that I can assure
each
one of
you an evening of wonderful drink, atmosphere and intense pleasure.”

A
few of them smiled.
 
All of them seemed
intrigued by this handsome, lean and muscular man with his designer trunks, his
bejeweled watch, and his air of superiority.

“What’s
with the neck tattoo?” another one asked.

Xavier
showed his best smile, kneeling in front of the girl and tracing his finger up
and down her oiled lower leg.
 
“It’s my
trademark…one of them anyway.”

“What
are the others?” she asked.

“I’ll
see to it that you find out first,” he replied with a wink.

Another
round of giggles passed through the fivesome.

“Until
then,” Xavier pronounced.
 
He stood and
walked to Fausto who was awaiting him at the stairway to the boardwalk.
 

Knowing
the women were watching, Xavier accepted the keys from Fausto.
 
He clicked the fob, chirping the alarm of the
gleaming black Mercedes.
 
At the car, Xavier
said, “In my bathroom, in the medicine cabinet, I want two small shots of
ephedrine and my bottle of pills.”

“Indeed,
señor,” Fausto said, opening the door for his master.

Xavier
drove—he always drove—and whipped the Mercedes E63 AMG into a 180-turn as both
rear Pirelli tires, 22 inches in diameter, boiled under white smoke.
 
The crowds on both sides of the boardwalk,
most of them young, raised their hands and yelled their approval.

As
the tires finally gripped the hot asphalt, Xavier roared past, hanging the
right turn away from the beach as if the Mercedes was mounted on rails.
 
Standing from the commotion, the five young
ladies, having just finished their first year at the lowest level of higher
education in the Netherlands, known as MBO, watched his Formula One-style exit,
speaking excitedly afterward about their wealthy new friend.

It
promised to be a lively evening.

For
some of them.

* * *

Following
their fun on the beach, as Justina lounged in the lobby with an English
magazine, Gage steamed a black cotton shirt and his pants as he showered.
 
When he came downstairs, he sent Justina up
to do the same, asking her to put her things in his bag when she was
finished.
 
Then he walked to the nearest
Sixt auto rental center, renting an Audi A3 coupe and driving it back to the
hotel.
 
He found Justina looking tan and
fresh but wearing her clothes from the night before.

“Don’t
worry,” he said, sliding the suitcase into an alcove and moving both pistols to
the front pocket of the bag.
 
“We’re
going to get you some new duds in Tossa.”

“Duds?”

“Clothes.”

They
exited the hotel and drove to Tossa de Mar with the windows down.
 
The warm afternoon was quite dry and felt
wonderful compared to the heat and humidity Gage had endured in Mexico.
 
Justina turned the radio up as Gage carved
the curvy road between Lloret and Tossa.
 
He felt her hand behind his head, toying with his hair as he drove.
 
It was her habit and he liked it very much.
 
The drive took only fifteen minutes and Gage
found a hotel on the outskirts of the inner city, near the main road and up on
a hill, paying cash for a room with a sea view, even though the view was from a
distance.

Gage
gave Justina 200 euro for shopping.

“I
feel bad.”

“You
agreed down on the beach to let me help you,” he said.
 
“We’re not going to keep having this
argument.”

“When
will you be back?” she asked after kissing him.

He
glanced at his Timex, knowing the drive to the rendezvous point would take at
least an hour each way.
 
“I’ll try to be
back by eleven,” he replied.
 
“Don’t be
worried if I’m late.”

She
waved the four bills in the air.
 
“Thanks
to you, I will be waiting on you in new
duds
that don’t stink.”

Chapter Seven

Ten
kilometers away, in the exclusive hillside community known as Serrabrava,
Xavier Zambrano held court over the heads of Los Leones’ four divisions.
 
The monthly summit meeting was not unlike a
corporate board meeting, until things sometimes turned ugly.
 
Los Leones, as usual, was cash-starved, and
Xavier wasn’t above violent fiscal corrections.
  

Earlier,
after arriving from the beach and washing in the outdoor shower, Xavier sported
only a terry robe as he enjoyed a tart glass of Verdejo with his salad.
 
Feeling ravenous, he finished two portions of
the fresh garden salad while watching a recap of the week’s top soccer matches
from around the world.
 
Then, silencing
the television, he’d yelled to Fausto for his main course to be brought in,
along with his retinue of lieutenants.

As
two large red lobsters were placed before Xavier, the men filed in, quite used
to giving their monthly briefings as their superior dined.
 
Sitting around the table in the same order as
always, the four lieutenants each stared at their notes.
 
Though they probably wanted to, none of them
made eye contact with one another prior to Xavier opening the meeting.

Off
to the side, eyeing the four lieutenants from behind his dark-rimmed glasses,
was a persnickety little man named Theo Garcia.
 
Garcia, an accountant who’d wound up on the Leones’ payroll due to two
ex-wives and a horrible gambling problem, was one of the few people on earth
that didn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by Xavier.
 
His favored phrase, the phrase that Xavier
hated, was “The numbers don’t lie.”

To
Garcia, it was always about the numbers.

Once
he had wrenched a claw from one of the lobsters, Xavier situated the lobster
cracker in the correct spot, crunching down and liberating a large piece of
meat from the shell.
 
He dipped the meat
into the drawn butter, holding it in front of his mouth and saying, “Proceed.”

Each
of the lieutenants started with a simple briefing, lasting no more than a
minute unless something significant had taken place.
 
There were four divisional business concerns
represented at the table, and they were always addressed in the exact same
order.
 
First was the smallest concern,
known in Los Leones as
Legítimo
.
 
Run by a former attorney, the oldest of the
lieutenants and a refined gentleman who preferred tailored suits, Legítimo
consisted primarily of legal business transactions running the gambit from
property sales to interest on standard investments.
 
Other illegal activity, mostly white-collar
crime, fell under Legítimo’s watch, including crimes such as union and
political vote rigging and some aspects of high interest loans.
 
Xavier expected Legítimo’s division to create
no less than a five percent monthly return, which, by civilian standards, was
preposterously high—but Legítimo almost always managed.
 
When the attorney, a trustworthy man who
Xavier had greater plans for, announced an April return of nearly seven
percent, Xavier had not reacted but simply flicked his eyes to the next man.

The
second lieutenant represented a number of enterprises consisting of human
interests.
 
Included were street-level
loan sharking, prostitution, human trade, protection, and for-hire
contracts.
 
The division, and its
lieutenant, was simply known as
Contratos
,
meaning contracts.
 
A wily man of sixty,
with twin cavernous facial scars courtesy of a rival’s clasp knife, Contratos
recited his briefing from memory, announcing monthly revenues that were higher
than expected.
 
His thin lips crept
upward after he finished his oratory.
 
Xavier
was emotionless, turning his eyes to Number Three.

The
third lieutenant represented gambling and guns, known colloquially within Los Leones
as
Balas y Dados
.
 
Having spent over half of his life in various
Spanish prisons, this lieutenant was probably the rawest of the bunch, and
still enjoyed going out on routine collection runs as a way to stay in touch
with his street roots.
 
A muscular man
who made no effort to hide his anabolic steroid abuse, his appearance was made
all the more comical by his small head.
 
The larger he grew, the smaller his head appeared, making him the
private butt of many jokes within Los Leones.
 
His division was typically thought of as Los Leones’ most tightly-run
division, despite the multitude of hours its top lieutenant spent pumping iron.
 
And steroids.

According
to its lieutenant, Balas y Dados had a lackluster month.
 
Since his numbers were typically good, Xavier
gave him a pass and moved on.

The
fourth lieutenant was charged with
Narcóticos
,
as it was unofficially named within Los Leones.
 
From warehouses teeming with snow-pure heroin to sniveling street
dealers addicted to their own stepped-on product, Los Leones’ narcotics
division created more money than all the other divisions combined.
 
Its leader, though the newest of the
lieutenants, matched his aggressive business nature with advanced degrees from
two Spanish universities.
 
Having been
pinched in a drug-dealing arrest twelve years before, he’d created a prison
smuggling system so ingenious and so hard to trace that, upon his parole for “good”
behavior, he’d rocketed through Los Leones’ fourth division in less than two
years’ time, earning Xavier’s trust through sheer revenue.
 

The
fourth lieutenant was a handsome man, if a tad rat-like due to his large and
pointy nose.
 
With a lean body and a
tight mat of sleek black hair, he was blessed with green eyes, a striking
contrast with his dark hair and deep olive skin.
 
Wearing his trademark tailored clothes from
Hardy Amies in London, the fourth lieutenant clicked his manicured nails on the
table as he recited his numbers.
 
He finished
and, although the numbers were low, turned his unapologetic jade eyes at his
superior, eyeing him levelly.

“You’re
short,” Xavier said monotone.

The
fourth lieutenant, his birth name Camilo, shrugged.
 
“With the restrictions you’ve placed on me,
and considering the lack of help you’re getting me from the government, you
should be throwing a damned party at those numbers.”
 
He surveyed the table, not catching anyone
else’s eye, before coming back to Xavier.
 
“And unless something changes,
tout
de suite
, those numbers will continue to trend downward.”
 
The tone dripped condescension and could be
described as nothing other than accusatory.

Only
Theo Garcia, sitting behind the fourth lieutenant, reacted.
 
His expression was one of horror.

Xavier
took the insults without emotion. He finished the second lobster claw, sucking
the butter audibly before eating the last chunk of flesh and going to work on
the tail.
 
An uncomfortable amount of
time passed as he feasted.
 
No one
spoke.
 
Halfway through his devouring of
the lobster’s tail, a clock chimed in the sitting room.
 
Xavier glanced at it, making a mental note to
have Legítimo inquire as to the villa’s owner’s taste for selling the
property.
 
In just two days’ time, Xavier
had grown to love it.

When
he finished with the tail, he ate three large broccoli florets, taking a sip of
wine and chasing it back with a large swig of water.
 
Xavier pushed back from the table, crossing
his leg over his knee and toying with the hairs of his lower leg as he sucked
on his teeth.
 
Finally, almost fifteen
minutes after the last spoken word, he continued the conversation as if there
had been no gulf in the conversation.

“I’ve
noted your objections, Camilo.”

“Very
well.”

“I’ve
also
noted your distractions, and our
perpetually short till.”

The
other lieutenants could be heard shifting in their seats.
 
For the first time since sitting, all eyes
were on Camilo, the fourth lieutenant.
 

“Distractions
and short till?” Camilo asked, pushing his own chair slightly back and turning
it to Xavier.

“Indeed.”

“I
don’t follow.”

“Your
receipts don’t add up to what came in from the street,” Theo Garcia
interjected.
 
“I audited them.”

“Maybe
you need a new calculator,” Camilo snapped.

“Shut
up, Camilo,” Xavier commanded.

Camilo’s
olive complexion grew splotchy.

“And
the distractions I mentioned have been of a
female
variety,” Xavier added.

Camilo
smiled, forcing a chuckle as he shook his head.
 
“All due respect, señor, but the totals from the street are notoriously
inaccurate.
 
Half of those men are
addicts.
 
And regarding women…I think we
all enjoy such distractions.”

Xavier
matched the smile, nodding as if he agreed.
 
“Indeed we do, Camilo.
 
Indeed we
do.”
 
Xavier’s mirth evaporated
dangerously.
 
“But these other men aren’t
stealing from me—” Xavier abruptly paused, “—
and
screwing my niece.”

The
clock that had chimed was the only sound in the villa, steadily ticking sixty
times per minute.
 
Fausto, hidden behind
the wall of the kitchen with a salad bowl in hand, was frozen, his head turned
so his right ear could hear the exchange.
 
He was hanging on every word.

Camilo
swallowed, struggling to do so.
  
“I have
never stolen money from—”

“Never
mind that,” Xavier snapped.
 
“I have
proof.
 
What about my niece?”

No
one breathed.

“Am
I restricted as to who I can interact with?” Camilo croaked.

Xavier
shook his head and spoke reasonably.
 
“Not at all, Camilo.
 
My
relatives, other than my sisters, are all within the sphere of people you might
become involved with.
 
I’m not an
unreasonable man.”

Camilo
visibly relaxed, smiling weakly.

“But,
Camilo, my niece
is
engaged to be
married.
 
And her fiancé is the son of an
influential People’s Party senator.”

Camilo’s
breathing had become audible, sounding similar to someone who’d just run wind
sprints.
 
“She…she seduced me.”

“You’re
completely innocent, aren’t you?” Xavier asked coldly.

“No,
señor, but I’m vulnerable to women, as I’m sure you are.”

Xavier
leaned forward, aiming his finger at Camilo.
 
“Do—not—
ever
—compare—yourself—to—me.”

If
a person were to take a snapshot of the three other lieutenants at that moment,
they would see three distinct expressions.
 
The first lieutenant, the cultured attorney, had his eyebrow cocked as
he stared curiously at Camilo, as if the trial lawyer inside him were trying to
determine how exactly this pseudo-deposition might play out.
 

The
second lieutenant, the wizened old mobster with the twin scars, pressed his
lips together, suppressing his grin, anxious for the violent finale to be on
its way.
 

The
third lieutenant, his trapezius muscles straining his silk shirt to the point
of bursting, adjusted himself in his chair, turning it to allow himself easy
access to Camilo.
 
In the event things
turned physical, he wanted to get his shots in before it was too late.
 

And
behind them all, Theo Garcia, the persnickety financial man, shook his head, a
disgusted expression on his face.
 
He’d
been the only one with the balls to object to Camilo’s promotion.
 
Narcóticos
was the goose that laid the golden eggs.
 
There were far too many risks in placing a dirty whiz kid in charge of
it.

Xavier,
el capitán
, gnawed on his lower lip
while his eyes burned Camilo to the ground.
 
Slight tremors passed through Xavier as he awaited a response, refusing
to say a thing as his narcotics lieutenant sat fidgeting in front of him.

“Señor,”
Camilo finally intoned, sounding more exasperated than sorry, “I didn’t realize
that my becoming involved with Juana would be a problem, but I will end it.”

“I
have a question,” Xavier stated.