Fatal Odds Read online

  “When she was in the gate for that race, she was like a jitterbug. She never had all four feet on the ground. When the starter sprung ’em, she was off balance. That’s why she was stumbling those first few jumps. When Victor’s horse bore in on her, it was enough to make her tumble.”

  I replayed that scene in my mind. He was right.

  Rick dismounted and led his horse as we walked back toward the stables.

  “Did you hear, Rick? They’re charging Victor with causing Roberto’s death. They’re calling it felony murder.”

  He stopped short. “The hell you say. They think Victor murdered his brother?”

  “Not exactly. They say Roberto died in the course of Victor’s involvement in a felony.”

  “What felony?”

  I knew this would not sit well. “They say the race was fixed.”

  I fully expected the resulting explosion of blistering curses that Rick probably picked up as a boy around the rodeo bucking chutes in Montana. I knew better than to interrupt the flow until he got it all out. He was looking me in the eye when he finished with a steamy, “That boy never rode a crooked race in his life. You can take that to the damned bank.”

  I’ve left out a few words, but that was the gist.

  “And that’s what I’ve got to get across to a jury.”

  He was still overheated and ten decibels higher than I wanted since we were approaching other people. “Hell, don’t we have something like innocent till they prove him guilty?”

  I said it in a low tone, hoping to establish a mood. “Yeah, I know. But sometimes it doesn’t work out that way, especially if the prosecutor has good circumstantial evidence.”

  “I don’t know what the hell all that means.”

  “Anyway, that’s my problem. And not the most pressing one at the moment. Victor’s disappeared. Very bad timing. Any ideas?”

  I could see him thinking as he just shook his head. “You talk to any of the other jockeys? You speak Spanish. I don’t. That could give you an edge.”

  I was thinking of the direction I was heading next and wondering if that edge could get me fitted for a box. I didn’t dwell on it.

  “Think back to that race, Rick. Other than the starting gate, anything different about it? Roberto was riding Dante’s Pride for you. Victor was riding Summer Breeze for another stable. I know that Victor kept on riding after Roberto’s spill. His horse actually came in first.”

  “There’s no blame there. Victor didn’t see what had happened to his brother. That was behind him. Victor was on the second fastest horse in the race after Dante’s Pride. No surprise that he beat the rest of them.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Hell, it doesn’t even make sense. If it was fixed for Victor’s horse, it didn’t do ’em any good. The stewards disqualified Victor’s horse for interference with Dante’s Pride. The win went to the second finisher, Cat’s Tale.”

  “What stable was Victor riding for?”

  “Circle A. Tony Lucas is the trainer. His barn’s just around the bend there. I’ll put my money on Tony, too. He’s straight as they come.”

  As long as I was there, I walked around the bend to Tony Lucas’ barn. I’d known Tony from the time some years ago when he’d asked me to sit in with him on his subpoenaed testimony before a state senate committee investigating organized crime involvement in race fixing. My impression at the time, contrary to Mr. Devlin’s constant reminder never to trust a client’s protestation of innocence, was that Rick was right. Tony was, as they say, clean as a hound’s tooth. The investigation had been just a political showpiece anyway. The boys on the senate committee, and they were all boys of the club at the time, were running every horseman with an Italian last name through the committee’s witness stand for the main, if not sole, purpose of nightly publicity in the Record American. They got their publicity, but there were no irregularities to be found in Tony’s barn.

  “Hey, Tony, what’s up?”

  He turned back from the group of exercise riders he was debriefing. When our eyes met, I noticed a degree more surprise, bordering on shock, than I expected.

  “Hi, Mike.”

  That was it. He broke off with his group and walked into one of the stalls. He seemed to busy himself with the ankle of the resident mare. I walked to the door of the stall.

  “That was too bad about the disqualification of your horse the other day.”

  “Those things happen. I’m kind of busy, Mike.”

  “So I see. You got time for one question?”

  That brought what I could only read as a distressed look. “I don’t know. What?”

  I was getting jumpier by the minute. It seemed a good time to fly direct. “I saw in the program you had a change of equipment on Summer Breeze. You took blinkers off for the first time since her first race. Mind telling me why?”

  It was a simple question. For a track horseman, it was like asking if it was Tuesday. He seemed to me to take it like a question about his marital fidelity. There was a noticeable pause, followed by more attitude than the question called for.

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “Curiosity. It’s not like the formula for Coca-Cola. Any reason not to tell me?”

  “Yeah. You questioning my judgment?”

  “Tony. I said it’s a curiosity. The usual change is ‘blinkers on.’ Once on, they usually stay on. Why the huff?”

  He noticeably relaxed, but I had the nagging feeling it was forced.

  “Sorry, Mike. That whole thing with Roberto has me off.”

  I was thinking, Maybe, but Roberto never rode for you. You didn’t know him that well.

  “So, what about the blinkers?”

  “I didn’t think she needed them anymore. No need carrying extra baggage.”

  Since he seemed more settled, I thought I’d go for the big one. I moved into the stall beside him. “Has Victor been in touch with you since the race?”

  “No. I really am busy, Mike. Let’s get together some other time.”

  It may have been my super sensitivity, but now I was wondering why he wasn’t curious about why I was asking about Victor. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, that well had apparently run dry.

  There were at least two propelling motives for my next move. The first was to find Victor. But the second, right up there with it, was to find out who was behind the killing of Paco and the ambush of me, personally. That last part could well recur with more successful results.

  My only lead was what Paco had said with his last breath. “El Rey de Lechón.” At first, it made no sense. “The king of suckling pig.” On a hunch, I fed it into the computer and came up with a restaurant off Roslindale Square in the western part of Boston. An iffy lead at best, but when a straw is all you have, you grasp at it.

  * * *

  El Rey de Lechón was a stand-alone café on a busy street. It was not Beacon Hill, but I had no qualms about parking the Corvette in the attached lot. The décor inside was my idea of a country restaurant in a village in Puerto Rico. The sign boasted the best Puerto Rican cooking outside of San Juan.

  My first effort was to blend. At eleven forty-five a.m., there were half a dozen men scattered in groups at the tables. The tone of the voices was exclusively casual Spanish. The next thing I noticed caught me by surprise. I had not quaffed that aroma de cocina casera—aroma of home cooking—since my last dinner at my mother’s about a week previous, and it practically reduced my taste buds to groveling supplicants.

  I slid into one of the booths. The waitress set the tone with a warm, “Buenos días, Señor. Agua frio?”

  My acceptance of the offer of ice water was as gracious as the offer, and in Spanish. There was business to do, but I was beginning to believe the boast of the sign outside. If I hadn’t come with an appetite, I had one now. I ordered the lechón—suckling pig, arroz con gandules—yellow rice with peas, and to put the chef to the real test, the chicharrón—fried pig skin.

  An hour later, I ma
de a vow that if I had, by chance, walked into the national headquarters of both the Nyetas and the insectos, and they had united for the sole purpose of terminating my life, I would nevertheless return for the lechón. The chicharrón were so worth every artery-clogging drop of cholesterol that, if I were to tell the truth, this Puerto Rican chef had moved my mother’s cocina to a close second place. May she never hear it.

  I was wading into the budin de pan—bread pudding, when the waitress, Maria, according to her name tag, dropped by to check on my needs. It reminded me of the “need” that brought me there. Since we had become easy with each other in Spanish, I kept it that way. I remembered the warning in Paco’s last words.

  “Is Benito here?”

  She smiled. “You should know. You’ve been enjoying his cooking.”

  “Any chance I could talk to him. He deserves my compliments in person.”

  She left me with a mug of rich Spanish coffee. In about thirty seconds, there was a chef’s apron on a tall, well-proportioned, red-haired man somewhere in his late twenties standing beside me. I held out a hand. He took it and slid into the opposite bench.

  “First time?” He said it in English with no trace of an accent.

  He caught my hesitation and filled the gap. “I don’t speak Spanish. How’s your English?”

  “I can get by. I was asking for Benito. Are you . . .”

  “Yes and no. I’m Benjamin. Ben Capone. It’s Italian. They like to call me Benito around here. Good for business.”

  “I don’t believe it. You cooked this?”

  He had a pleasant, genuine laugh. “My grandmother, my mother’s side. She was direct from Puerto Rico. She lived with us in the North End when I was a kid. She taught me everything she could about cooking her style.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  He laughed again. “Actually, you could take every drop of Puerto Rican blood in my body and put it in a shot glass. But I love doing the food. What brings you in?”

  After what I had just heard about this Benito’s ancestry, I was thinking, a dead end. I had one last hope. I said it softly. “Is there another Benito who’s a regular around here?”

  “Yeah. About four of them. It’s a common name.”

  Now I was at a dead end, until he looked around and leaned closer. “I get the notion you didn’t drop in just for the lechón. You look like you want to do some business. Yes?”

  “And if that were true, could you sort out the Benitos for me?”

  He had that same easy grin. “Understand, my only interest in this place, these people, whatever else goes on here, is the cooking. I mean, where else can you get paid to cook Puerto Rican? But I notice things. I think maybe you want to tap into a more serious group that hangs around here.”

  I knew I was on something between thin and no ice. But I had nowhere else to go.

  “I need some information. I’m a lawyer. I represent a client, Victor Mendosa. I need to locate him. Have you heard the name around here?”

  “I told you. I don’t speak Spanish. And those . . .” He nodded to the customers across the room. “They don’t speak English. So there’s not much communication.”

  I opened my billfold and took out the hundred-dollar bill I keep folded for moments like this. I put it under the bread plate and slid it halfway across the table. I could see his grin broaden. He reached over and plucked the bill from the plate. He just looked at me for about five seconds before he gave that warm Italian laugh. He reached over and tucked the hundred-dollar bill into my suit coat pocket.

  “Like I said. I’m only here for the cooking.”

  He must have seen my spirits drop. He laughed again. “But I’ll give you this. One of those four Benitos. He comes in here every afternoon about three. They all just about kiss his ring. I don’t know what he’s into. I don’t want to, as long as it doesn’t get this place closed. Let me have your card. I’ll tell him you want to do business.” He held up his hand. “And don’t tell me what business.”

  * * *

  I was in my office on Franklin Street that afternoon. Julie, my secretary through every phase of my life since law school, buzzed my line.

  “Michael, you better take this one.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I think it’s Mr. Universe. Could this man possibly be as charming as he sounds?”

  “Give me a hint, Julie.”

  “He says it’s Ben Capone. He could be Leonardo DiCapro.”

  My taste buds instantly recalled the lechón. “He has his ways. Put him on.”

  I waited for Julie to click off. “What have you got, Ben?”

  “A message. And then I’m out of it. Be in front of your office at nine tonight.”

  “For what? Did he say?”

  “End of message.”

  “I understand. Many thanks, Ben.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “Don’t thank me yet. This may not be a favor. I could be reading your name in tomorrow’s Globe. And I don’t mean the society page. I’ve seen this dude.”

  “And?”

  There was no smile in the voice this time. “Better you than me.”

  SIX

  THE AFTERNOON GAVE me some much needed time for an inventory of goals. Top of the list was finding and bringing in our client, Victor Mendosa. The longer he stayed out, the deeper the hole he was digging. The second goal was keeping intact and functioning the concept that “The lawyer always goes home.”

  At exactly 9:00 p.m., I was standing in front of our office building on the corner of Franklin and Arch Streets. At 9:01, a black Lincoln with clouded windows glided to the curb. The back door swung open. A low voice from the driver’s seat said “Sube al caro, Señor”—“Get in the car.” My inner voice was screaming in two languages, “NO sube al caro!” When you have no choice, you have no choice.

  As the sole passenger, I watched familiar safe environs flash by the window. We headed south on Tremont Street, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the South End of Boston. When we passed Dartmouth Street, I’d have bet what little value my life had at that moment that I could guess the destination. If the rumors of gang violence at the predominantly Puerto Rican housing project I had in mind were factual by half, it would be an interesting evening. I could see flashes of recent newspaper articles condemning the lethal clashes between the resident gang there and the one at Mission Hill.

  We finally pulled to the curb outside of the very place I had in mind. The car door opened. There were two escorts the size of Patriots linebackers on either side. Between them stood one tall, slender dude with facial scars that bespoke a violent rise through the ranks of whatever gang was playing host. He made a finger motion that said in any language, “Out of the car—follow me.” The word, “please,” was not implied.

  An ominous silence reigned as we marched to a door at the side of the old stone-and-stucco building. Slim took the lead, I occupied the middle, and the two linebackers kept the ranks closed from behind.

  We passed through small clusters of onlookers. Each one hit the mute button as we approached. It was like the palace guard conducting a foreign visitor to the presence of Caesar. I read the stony stares we passed as either honoring Caesar’s guest or praying thankfully, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

  We entered the building by a side door that was flanked by two males with bulges where chest muscles don’t grow. It reemphasized the idea that if this lawyer were to go home, it would be with the permission of Caesar.

  We passed down a long corridor as dark and foreboding as my thoughts. When we reached the door at the end, my guide, Slim, knocked softly. The order to enter came in Spanish.

  Before touching the door, Slim turned and patted down every area of my rigid body that could conceal a weapon or microphone. I’ve been through less thorough medical examinations. Needless to say, I raised no objections.

  Slim knocked softly again. The door opened from the inside. A solid nudge from one of the linebackers ended any hesitation I
might have entertained about entering.

  I found myself standing in a bare-walled room behind a plain wooden chair in front of an ancient, oversized desk. The man sitting behind the desk was heavy in build, dark-complected, and probably within ten years of the age of Mr. Devlin. The other thing they had in common was an unmistakable aura that said that you were in the presence of one who could command your respect by sheer weight of character. I was taken by surprise, because only two men I had met in a lifetime had so affected me on first meeting—Mr. Devlin, and my surrogate father, Miles O’Connor.

  He rose and extended a hand toward the chair. It seemed more an invitation to sit than a command. His voice was deep and low, and seemed to lack the need to instill fear.

  “Mr. Knight, please.”

  I sat, and when I had done so, he also sat. He gave one nod in the direction of Slim, the linebackers, and one resembling Slim who had apparently opened the door. They took the signal and left us alone.

  I was further surprised that he spoke to me in English.

  “I understand that your Spanish is excellent, Mr. Knight. Nevertheless, I think it would be easier for you if we converse in English. It’s important that we clearly understand each other. Yes?”

  “If you say so.”

  My tone may still have been tense, but it was not hostile. He smiled, perhaps pleased.

  “Good. My name is Ramon Garcia. I assure you, that’s my real name. Some choose to call me Benito. It was a childhood nickname. Long story. I say this because, regardless of what you might have heard or anticipated, I want your trust. Not your fear.”

  The smile that appeared on his face seemed completely genuine. I continued to be surprised at the impression he was making on me with every word. He had not asked a question, so I just nodded.

  “I hope my people who conducted you here have done nothing to discourage that trust. Certain precautions are . . . perhaps you understand.”

  “I do.”

  I didn’t, but it seemed the thing to say.

  “Good. Then we start fresh. I’m sure you’ll have questions.”

  I managed a small smile. “The first would be what in the world I’m doing here.”