Orzibel flicked his head. In the span of a breath Morales had grabbed Amili and taken her to the couch, pressing her small body deep into the cushions.
“What … is … this?” Amili choked, the big man weighing her down. “You are … sealing your doom.”
Orzibel grabbed Amili’s leg and pulled off a shoe. His knife flashed and parted the fabric of her hose without nicking skin. He tore the nylon from her foot and held it to the light.
“What is this crust between your pretty toes, Amili? Punctures and scabs. And on the other foot as well, I expect. You have the feet of a hidden addict, a housewife junkie. El Jefé has no problems with drugs for the product, but will not tolerate it in his employees. When he discovers his bookkeeper is a junkie you will be gone within seconds.” Orzibel grinned. “Maybe he’ll ask me to hide you, Amili. Would you like that?”
Morales removed himself from Amili and left the office, closing the door at his back. Amili sat upright and straightened her hair as if it would restore normalcy to her life.
“What is it you want, Orlando?”
“Miguel Tolandoro has sent us twenty-three products. I told Jefé we were getting nineteen, and you will record nineteen in your precious books. El Jefé has no way to discover we are diverting workers to rent or sell on our own. This will occur with every future shipment, and will start with tonight’s erasure of Leala Rosales from all records. Her erasure is your second task.”
Amili frowned. “Second? What do you wish first?”
“I have been denied your comfort for too long, my little junk princess. That will change, starting now.”
Orzibel grinned and unzipped his pants.
With all governmental offices closed, there was nothing to be done tonight. We needed an early start in the morning so we went to Gershwin’s digs, a 1940s-era apartment building on the southern edge of Little Havana.
“Price is right,” he said, opening the door. “The building’s owned by my uncle Saul and he’s a generous sort. To relatives, at least.”
It was a two-bedroom unit, one for sleeping, the other Gershwin’s workout room, free weights, exercise ball and so forth. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one long space with a couch and chairs and television at one end, stove and fridge and sink at the other. The front window was filled with potted plants. Poster art was on the white walls, bright representations of local festivals and events. It was a comfortable space.
“Want me to see if a unit’s available?” Gershwin asked. “You gotta get gone from your little wilderness real soon, nu?”
My soon-to-disappear paradise. I sighed. “I don’t wanna discuss it now, but yeah … ask Uncle Saul.”
My cell rang in my pocket. I checked the caller: Deb Clayton. “Just had to check that tag, right?” I said.
“Seems we’re both a bit obsessive. The tag’s from something made by the Maschinot Crane Works in Newark. There’s an ID number and a date, 1977. All I could get.”
“It might be enough,” I said.
Gershwin was pacing one end of the apartment to the other, wired on adrenalin. But I’d been in this position more often than he had. “We’re gonna tear into Kazankis like a buzzsaw tomorrow,” I said, tilting back on the couch. “Sleep and get ready.”
“Tough day, Gramps?” he grinned. “Need me to fetch your slippers?”
“Get me a pillow and set the alarm for six a.m.,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “And don’t even think you’ll be able to keep up with me.”
42
Six in the morning rolled in fast. We showered and sucked down coffee and jammed leftover pastrami and tortillas in our mouths, chasing it with cold latkes. I wore yesterday’s pants, since Gershwin’s waist was two inches skinnier than mine, but I borrowed a blue button-down and socks. He had a fresh pack of bikini briefs, which I bought for ten bucks, a lot of money for so little cloth.
Freshly dressed and semi-rested, we booked for the office and I waited until seven before making the call. Luckily they started early at the Maschinot Crane Works. “We keep records of everything,” Candi Zefferelli told me after I summarized our situation. “Summa our cranes are decades old and still workin’ like champs.”
She sounded a bit like a character on Jersey Shore, but hey, it was Newark. I read the number deciphered by Clayton.
“Gimme couple minutes,” she said. “See what I can dofahya.”
It took less than one. “That tag you found? Musta fallen offa turret assembly for a fi’teen-ton crane. The turret got bought March a 1978, delivuhed in April to Olympia Equipment Rental in Florida. Got signed for by a man named Avram Kazankis.” She spelled it out. “Sorry, but that’s all I gahfuhya.”