"Shit,"
Allbright
muttered.
Rosales looked at him. "Who could be doing this? Who could be creating this havoc?"
Allbright
shook his head. He had no idea.
W
illiams was with Bass and the other two D.E.A. men, Benton and Ferguson, trying to come up with an answer to a question that was bothering him. "So it looks like the Cubans double-crossed the Colombians, right?"
"Right," Ferguson said. "Or it appears that way. There are a lot of problems with that theory."
"Could Stone have been involved in it?"
"I don't see how," Bass said. "Not if that really was Stone in the white car the police were chasing."
"It was Stone," Benton told them. "The local cops are sure of it. They got close enough at one time to see the men and the woman who was driving. There's not much doubt of who it was."
"And all the coke and all the money were still there after the fighting was over?"
"That's right," Ferguson said.
"It doesn't make sense." Williams rubbed his hand over his face. "Why would anyone leave the money and the dope?"
No one had an answer.
S
tone had not slept for more than twenty-four hours, and he had hardly eaten. Hog and Loughlin were not much better off. There are times in every action when something has to give. If Stone and his team kept pushing themselves, they would be weakened. They might fail in their mission as surely as if they had set out to fail deliberately.
And it was a mission. Jack
Wofford
, Stone now knew, was as much a prisoner of war as anyone had ever been, facing some of the same dangers. He didn't yet know why Crazy Charlie wanted
Wofford
, but he knew that his friend would face torture roughly similar to what he had once faced in Vietnam.
Stone didn't want that to happen again.
Wofford
was a good man, and he deserved a chance. Stone wanted him to have it.
But they had to have rest and food. They would crash for an hour at the safe house, then mount an assault on Crazy Charlie's place.
Stone leaned his head back on the seat as Carol drove them through the dark streets.
W
offord
was uncomfortably cold. Two thugs had come in about thirty minutes before and stripped off his clothes before turning the thermostat on the air conditioner all the way down. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. The cold, his nakedness, both were attempts to weaken him.
The door to the room opened and a large man walked in. He was carrying a black medical bag.
Jack didn't think this was a normal house call. He didn't think that real doctors made house calls anymore.
The man put the bag down on the bedside table. "My name is Dr. Fox. I'm going to be working with you for a while."
He opened the bag and took out the leather gloves, putting them on and smoothing them over his hands. He hummed something from the movies as he smoothed the gloves.
Wofford
thought it was "Moon River."
The door opened again. Crazy Charlie came in, but he did not introduce himself. He sat in a chair, crossed his legs, and got comfortable.
Fox smiled at
Wofford
. Then he began to methodically slap him across the face, forehand and backhand, time and again. Not hard, but hard enough to pop
Wofford's
head from side to side and to cause him to bounce lightly in his bonds.
"In a moment, Mr.
Lucci
will have some questions to ask you," Fox crooned. "I do hope that you will do your best to answer him honestly and completely. It's the best way, believe me."
"You bastards,"
Wofford
spat at him. "I've had this done to me by real experts. And I didn't tell them a thing."
Fox didn't bother to reply. He just began to slap him harder, keeping up his methodical rhythm.
Wofford's
lips were smashed against his teeth, and drops of blood flew from beneath Fox's gloves with each slap.
Crazy Charlie sat and watched the bright droplets stain the bedspread and the walls. He didn't seem to mind.
When he judged that the beating had gone on long enough, Fox drew off his gloves and placed them beside the bag. He reached in and took out a hypodermic and the Sodium
Amytal
. "I'll just inject this into the femoral artery. Then you can ask your questions. I think he'll give you all the answers that you want, but if he doesn't we can try something more."
He slipped the needle into the artery and pushed the plunger of the hypodermic.
Wofford
seemed not to feel it. Fox prided himself on giving painless injections.
W
hen the refugees who arrived in Florida on the Mariel Harbor boat lift were checked out, it was discovered that Fidel Castro had delivered to the United States a number of decent men and women.
He had also delivered a number of the criminally insane and not a few rapists, murderers, thieves, arsonists, perverts, swindlers, burglars, and other assorted evildoers.
Enrique
Feliz
had hired as many of the real hard cases as he could find before the U.S. managed to ferret them out and ship them back to Cuba. He had needed men like that to help him in the drug wars that he was fighting with the
Lucci
family, and they had helped him to win. They were men who had lived lives of such hardship that any kind of alternative to going back seemed preferable, and
Feliz
offered them a good deal indeed.
They could put their criminal skills to good use for him, make a decent living, and use his organization to avoid the clutches of the U.S. law.
It worked out fine for all concerned.
There was one other
Marielito
that
Feliz
had hired, a man that he almost actually trusted.
Ramón Flores looked like a retired pug who had gone into the tank for years for better fighters and never been a contender. The thickened cartilage in his ears, the broken nose, the puffy face—all seemed to indicate his past.
The indications were almost correct. Flores had been a fighter, but he had never gone in the tank. He had won his share of bouts and then gotten out of the game. He was an intelligent man who wanted to put his brain to work instead of his fists.
He found his niche in Havana's underworld. While he was personally honest, he was able to figure elaborate scams, plan complicated crimes, most of which were carried off without a hitch. He was never involved himself, but he collected his cut from those who were.
When he arrived in Florida, he began at once to put his skills to use in the land of the free. Enrique
Feliz
heard of him, located him, and hired him. All on the same day. He was the smartest man
Feliz
had ever met, and whenever
Feliz
had a real problem he called on Flores to find him the answer.
They were discussing the matter of the ambush.
"And you say that no one took the money or the product?" Flores asked.
"That is what I say,"
Feliz
told him. "Of course, I have only the words of two worthless
cobardes
who fled the scene, but I at least believe that they stayed until almost the end and that they have no reason to lie to me about what they think happened."
"And
both
sides were fired upon."
"That is also what they tell me."
"Why would the Colombians want to betray us?"
Feliz
shook his head. "I can think of no reason."
"I can think of one," Flores told him. "They might have the idea of going into business for themselves."
"Ha!"
Feliz
barked shortly. "They know well that if they tried to do such a thing, my
Marielitos
would destroy them. It is an impossibility."
Flores knew that nothing was impossible in the drug world, but he did not say so. "Are there any of your men who would betray you?"
"Of course there are, but none of them would dare to take such a risk and leave behind the money and the product."
Flores smiled inwardly.
Feliz
could never bring himself to say the word
dope
. Out of respect, Flores followed the same habit. "So that leaves us with only one possibility," he said.
"'And what is that?"
Feliz
asked, though he thought he knew. He had already worked it out for himself, but he had wanted to bring in Flores to confirm his idea.
"A third party," Flores said.
"Exactly what I thought,"
Feliz
agreed. "And who do you think it might be? Who would dare such a thing?"
"You know as well as I."
"I would like to hear you say it, nevertheless."
"The Organization. The Mob. Don Vito
Lucci
."
Feliz
did not entirely agree with this assessment. "Not Don Vito."
"No, I suppose that you are correct, though he must know of it. It must have been his son, the one they call
El Loco
."
"That is the one,"
Feliz
said. "Crazy Charlie."
"And what do you intend to do about him?"
"Kill him. Smash him and his Organization. They have left me alone for years, but I beat them once and I can beat them again. Perhaps they are in need of a lesson. I shall give them one."
"Not for revenge?"
"I do not deal in revenge. I deal in lessons. Besides, there is more."
"More?" Flores looked puzzled. What more could there be?
"There is a rumor on the street that a D.E.A. man has disappeared. I believe him to be in the hands of Crazy Charlie."
"How do you know this?"
"It is an unpleasant story,"
Feliz
said, almost sorrowfully. "It involves another lesson I had to teach earlier tonight."
"Another lesson?" Flores was beginning to wonder just how much Enrique really trusted him. He had heard nothing of another lesson.
"Several of my own men have gone over to the other side, tying in with Don Vito. It was not as if they did it in secret. No, they did it quite openly, almost as if they were defying me to do anything about it. Perhaps they thought the don would protect them. They should have known that he would not. Not if I wanted to teach them a lesson."
"Rodriguez and Castillo," Flores said
"Ah, so you have heard about that."
Flores nodded. He had heard earlier in the evening about the carnage at the Black Pussy Cat. No one had known the exact reasons for what had happened, but Flores knew Rodriguez and Castillo had been in the club. Now he knew the whole story.
"I knew you would figure it out,"
Feliz
congratulated him. "There is more to the story, however."
"I am always eager to learn," Flores assured him.
"The D.E.A. man. I am sure that Rodriguez had a hand in setting him up. I believe that they sold him to the don."
"For what purpose?"
"No doubt they want to find out just how much the D.E.A. knows about our operation. If Crazy Charlie is planning to move in on us, then he would most likely want all the intelligence he can get. Who would know more than the D.E.A.?"
"It seems logical," Flores said. "Yet something about it does not appear quite right."
"It is right,"
Feliz
said confidently. "I am sure of it."
"And so you have taught one lesson. Does Don Vito know of it?"
"I am sure that he has heard."
"Who will be the object of the next lesson? The don or
El Loco
?"
"Crazy Charlie will be the one. I believe that he is the one to be the motivating force behind the attack tonight. He is young and ambitious, probably not content, as his father is, to live off the huge profits they derive from their other sources of income. The young are like that, always wanting more."
Feliz
shook his head philosophically.