Cash Landing (8 page)

S
avannah wanted lunch, but with $400,000 in the trunk of the car, Ruban refused to stop. He dropped her at the dry cleaners and drove straight home. Jeffrey's stash fit inside the leftover PVC pipe. He sealed it up, gave the liquid cement a minute to dry, and buried it in a foot of sand beneath the patio tiles in the backyard.

Under the mattress?
He gathered up his tools and shook the sand from his shoes.
You gotta be kidding me, Jeffrey.

Ruban put away the tools in the garage and went to the locked cabinet in the TV room. His gun collection was short one Makarov semi-automatic revolver, the Soviet Union's standard military and police sidearm for forty years, which Pinky had brandished at the airport warehouse, and which now lay at the bottom of the Miami River, never to be seen again. Ruban had other Russian weapons, but if he was going to “lay low,” it was best never to leave the house again with anything Russian made: it seemed likely that at least one of those security guards had managed a good enough look at Pinky's Makarov to peg its origins. Plenty of non-Russian choices remained. He grabbed a Glock and one clip of standard 9-millimeter ammunition and another clip of military-issue tracer ammo. It was overkill, but he was suddenly feeling the need to be prepared for anything.

It was time to visit
El Padrino
.

Finding an address for Carlos Vazquez proved much easier than expected. Facebook apparently had no problem with Santería priests, at least not the ones who had 18,000 “likes” and posted no photographs of animal sacrifice. Vazquez had no physical church. Services were held at his personal residence in Hialeah, and the Facebook comments and photos pointed Ruban to the exact house. It was less than fifteen minutes away.

Ruban left the crappy old car in his driveway and instead pulled the dusty tarp off of his motorcycle in the garage. The Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14R was a precision machine that, in the eyes of most drivers, was nothing but a blur shooting by on the expressway. Long rides to nowhere had been a therapy of sorts. Until the accident.

He hadn't ridden since.

The ignition fired, but the engine didn't respond. Disuse and neglect beneath a dusty tarp had taken a toll. He tried again, and this time it answered with a roar. He rolled out of the garage and onto the street with a measure of caution, like a cowboy back on the horse that had thrown him. He observed the speed limit on the shady neighborhood streets, but as he approached the expressway, he felt the tug of the past, the need for speed. Halfway up the entrance ramp, he gunned it.

Traffic was always heavy on the Palmetto Expressway, but he threaded his way between cars and around trucks as if they were mere cones on a test track, cutting the fifteen-minute ride in half. The power was addictive, and part of him wanted to keep going. But he forced himself to focus. He took the second Hialeah exit, worked the side streets east toward his destination, and parked in front of the ranch-style house. His heart was pounding as he climbed off the Kawasaki.

The Vazquez residence was like thousands of other sixties-vintage houses in Hialeah—a concrete shoebox with four cars parked in the front yard for the three families who shared 1,800 square feet of living space: three bedrooms, and two baths. Ruban
removed his helmet and started up the sidewalk. His escorts to the front door were a couple of chickens, clucking and blissfully unaware of their starring role in an upcoming Santería ritual.

Ruban rang the bell. An old man opened the door just far enough for the chain to catch. Ruban wasn't sure how to address a Santería priest. “Father Carlos Vazquez?”

“Babalawo
Vazquez,” he replied.

“I'm Jeffrey Beauchamp's brother-in-law.”

The door slammed in his face. Ruban knocked again but got no answer. He walked toward the driveway and stopped. Parked alongside the house was a brand-new Cadillac Eldorado. The temporary tag was still in the window. Ruban felt his anger rising. He went back to the front door and pounded hard enough to conjure up a host of Santería spirits. Finally, Vazquez answered.

“Did you take Jeffrey's money?” It was a demand, not a question.

“No,
señor
. It was a gift to the church.”

“Yeah, I see the church needed a new Cadillac.”

“I pray every day for Jeffrey.”

“He needs his money back. He's in trouble.”

“Money doesn't solve trouble. Money makes trouble.”

“Then you'll be very happy to give it back.”

He chuckled and wagged his finger as he spoke. “Not
to-
day,
señor
.”

Ruban leaned into the door before Vazquez could shut it, and he wedged his knee into the crack to make sure it stayed open. “Jeffrey needs his money.”

The two men locked eyes through the opening, the taut chain between them. The old man made a strange guttural sound that welled up from his belly and shook in his throat. Slowly, it grew louder, but it had a rhythm to it, like some kind of chant.

“Go-o-o-o,” he said.

“I'm not leaving until I get Jeffrey's money.”

“G-o-o-o. Or feel the wrath of the Orisha.”

“I'm not—oww!” Ruban shouted, pulling his leg from between the door and frame.

“Orisha very angry now.”

“Bull-
shit
, Orisha. You just jabbed me with a fucking pen!”

“Go-o-o-o-o. Or I call the police. I'm dialing,” Vazquez said as he showed Ruban his cell phone. Then the door slammed. Ruban pounded on it.

“Open the damn door!”

“Police are coming!” Vazquez shouted from inside the house.

Lay low.
It was getting harder and harder to follow his own rule, but hanging around for the police to arrive would have made him even stupider than Jeffrey. He gave the door one good kick, letting Vazquez know that this wasn't over. Then he went to his motorcycle, put on his helmet, and rode away.

Vazquez was a piece of shit, but he wasn't the problem. Jeffrey was the problem, and the four hundred thousand dollars that Ruban had found under his mattress was well short of the solution. Ruban needed answers that didn't involve a Santería priest who had the police on speed dial.

He stopped for gas before getting back on the expressway. Half a tank would do it. He stepped away from the pumps to make a phone call before getting back on the bike. The last time he'd spoken to Savannah's uncle, Pinky had said he was getting out of town. Ruban took a shot and dialed his number. Pinky answered, and Ruban got right to the point.

“Jeffrey's been kidnapped.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah. He called me at four o'clock this morning to ask for money. He begged me to help him out. I told him, ‘I'm your uncle, not your bank. Call your sister.'”

“Pinky, the kidnappers want a ransom. This is serious.”

“Not my problem. Jeffrey got into this trouble. He can get out. If you and Savannah want to help him, be my guests.”

“I need Marco's share to pay the ransom.”

Pinky laughed.

“What's so funny?” asked Ruban.

“Now I get it. You think I'm stupid? This has scam written all over it.”

“Scam? Pinky, you're making no sense.”

“Jeffrey gets kidnapped, and the first person he calls to pay a million-dollar ransom is his Uncle Pinky? Give me a break. He ain't kidnapped. This is
you
trying to scam me out of Marco's cut.”

“That's not true. He called you first because he knew I'd kill him for getting into this mess.”

“Bullshit, Ruban. A million dollars was exactly Marco's share. Like that's a coincidence. I'm outta here. You got that? I'm keeping Marco's money, and I'm gone. Fuck all of you.”

He hung up before Ruban could say another word.

Ruban should have headed south, but he wasn't going home. He rode north toward I-75, a toll road that cut across the Everglades. He'd taken it all the way to Tampa before, one of many long rides on his motorcycle. This time, he wasn't going nearly that far.

The day had started out badly and was only getting worse. Vazquez was scum. Pinky was no better. Ramsey was an idiot. Jeffrey was a problem with no solution. A million-dollar ransom would be a Band-Aid, at best. Times like these were all about self-preservation.

Midday traffic on I-75 was nothing compared to south Florida's busiest thruways. Ruban was sharing five lanes with just a handful of cars, and he was feeling the tug of the past again, the need for speed. Not because he wanted to go back. He wanted to put it behind him—for good. The accident that had landed his motorcycle under a tarp in the garage had left him, and his Kawasaki, without a scratch. Savannah was another story.

Ruban had buried the needle on his Kawasaki many times, but always while riding alone. Savannah was okay riding with him around town, but never on the expressway. He bought her a bodysuit of leather and Kevlar, protective boots and gloves, and a state-of-the-art helmet, but still she refused to hop on the seat behind him and flirt with death on the virtually deserted I-75 after midnight. Until it was time to leave their house. The night the bank came.

“Ruban, they're taking the car!”

The house was empty, and they'd been ordered out by midnight. The front door was wide open, and Savannah was watching the men in the driveway. The repo team moved quickly.

Ruban went to the gym bag on the floor. In it was his pistol collection, and he would go down shooting before turning
that
over to the bank. He zipped it open and grabbed a Glock. “They're not taking another fucking thing.”

“Stop!” she shouted.

“They can't have it!”

“It's a stupid car!”

Ruban gripped his pistol. He'd been pushed too far, but there was a reasoning part of him that understood she was right.

“It's not worth going to jail over this,” she said.

No. She was definitely right. If he was going to risk jail, it would be for something big—big enough to make the bank regret the day they'd messed with Ruban Betancourt.

He stood in the doorway and watched the repo men back their car out the driveway, then the orange taillights disappearing into the night.

“Let's go,” he said.

The car was gone, but they still had wheels. Ruban had already lost ownership of his restaurant, and Savannah had offered up her jewelry before letting him cash out his beloved motorcycle
in their losing battle to stay afloat. The Kawasaki was next door in the garage. Their neighbors had been foreclosed on the month before, the thirteenth in the neighborhood, and the house was empty.

They waited in the garage until one a.m. to make sure the repo men were out of the neighborhood, no one watching. Savannah's girlfriend in Broward had said they could stay with her for a few nights. Ruban strapped their bags to the motorcycle. Helmets on, they were off.

The expressway was theirs for the taking, but Ruban watched his speed. This was Savannah's first time on the interstate. He hadn't invested in microphones for the helmets, so they'd worked out a system: a tug at his right elbow if she needed him to slow down. Twenty minutes of smooth riding, just below the speed limit. No signal from Savannah. He bumped it up to seventy. Still good.

Then something took over him. Ruban couldn't get the repo men out of his mind, the feeling of powerlessness as he'd watched them drive away in his car. He needed to grab back the power.

Steadily, he increased velocity. The g-forces mounted. So did his anger. Savannah tightened her hold around his waist, but he felt no tug at his elbow. He checked the speedometer. Ninety-five and rising. At this speed, with each upward tick, the increase in vibration, wind, and engine roar was on an order of magnitude. He was beginning to feel like a man again, not that poor, impotent bastard whose financial carcass could be picked clean by some vulture in a pinstripe suit. At ninety-eight, he felt it: Savannah tugged his elbow. They were so close. He had to break a hundred. She tugged harder. Just another second was all he needed. She jerked his arm so hard that she nearly sent them into a spin.

Her doctor would later explain the phenomenon to Ruban. It was the same sensation some people get when they walk too close to the edge of a balcony and feel like they're going to jump. Savannah had felt that terrifying sensation and couldn't control it.

She'd tugged and pulled at his arm and had to get off that bike. Ruban cut the speed from ninety, to seventy, to sixty, but she tugged even harder. They were down to fifty or so when she just couldn't stand it anymore. She let go.

Savannah!

Ruban felt the vibration of the engine, felt in control of the beast, as the motorcycle sped down the expressway in the afternoon sun.

The leather-and-Kevlar suit had saved Savannah's skin, literally, and the full-face helmet had prevented catastrophe. Had she managed to stay in a smooth slide, like the professional racers, she might have been unhurt. But she'd extended her arm, trying to stop herself, which only sent her body into a tumble—over and over again. She spent weeks in the hospital. Left arm broken in three places. A fractured pelvis that lacerated her appendix. The appendix turned out to be the real disaster. The resulting infection had spread to places it should never have spread. The pain lasted for months, but the real loss was something Ruban could never make up to her, though he would try.

Whatever Savannah wants, Savannah gets.
Except for the one thing she could never have: a child.

Ruban exited the expressway and drove toward one of the huge landscape nurseries that sprouted from the fertile soil along the Everglades border. The pavement gave way to a gravel road, and dust kicked up behind him. Fifty acres of mature palm trees lay before him. He was less than a mile from I-75, but it was legitimately the middle of nowhere. Here, even the most inept insurance fraudsters avoided detection, flocking to irrigation canals in broad daylight, dumping an overpriced vehicle in eight feet of opaque water, and then reporting it stolen. Ruban parked his motorcycle in the grass at the edge of the canal, opened the storage compartment, and removed his Glock.