Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

“Don’t throw the bag in the bed back there, okay?” Torres said.

Ortega huffed. “What do you think I am—an idiot?”

“I don’t know about you sometimes.”

Torres turned the ignition as the El Camino roared to life. He smiled and laughed. “It’s good to be home again.”

“Where to first?” Ortega asked.

“First, we give Louie what we owe him—then we head over to Sharkie’s for his long-standing card game.”

“Are you crazy? You want to give him a chance to win his boat back?”

Torres shook his head. “No. I want to take his car, too.”

Ortega peeked inside the bag. “Why don’t you buy a new one with all this cash? It’s far more easier than pissing off Sharkie again.”

“But not nearly as much fun.”

Ortega reached into the bag and started grabbing fistfuls of hundred dollar bill stacks.

Torres glanced at him and wagged his finger. “No, sir. Put that back. We’ll count it up at the apartment after we pay off Louie. No skimming off the top.”

Ortega put it all back, except for one stack in his right hand.

Torres looked at him. “The one in your other hand, too.”

“How do you do that?” Ortega asked as he put it back.

Torres smiled and winked at Ortega. “Black magic.” He paused. “Better not try anything like that again. I might actually punish you for it.”

Ortega sneered and leaned back in his seat, muttering under his breath.

“If you don’t like my rules, you can always get your own car,” Torres said.

“I just might do that once we divide the loot.”

Torres adjusted his sunglasses and stared straight ahead. “Wouldn’t bother me one bit. Besides, I’d much rather you get a car so I’m not chauffeuring you around all the time, especially when you’re not drunk.”

Ortega growled and folded his arms.

“Cheer up, my friend. We’re about to see your favorite person in the world—Louie Goretti.”

A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway leading to Goretti’s home. At least a half-dozen cars lined both sides, leaving just enough room for Torres to drive between and park his car at the front of what looked like a frozen procession.

Ortega grabbed the bag of money, but didn’t move more than a foot before Torres snatched it back with two hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Torres said. “If we go in there with all this money, he’s going to try and bilk us for more. Neither of us wants that.”

Ortega let go of the bag and helped Torres count out $250,000. They shoved the rest of the stacks under the seat and on the floorboard, covering it with a jacket.

“After we give him the money, we go home and divide it up. Got it?”

Ortega nodded.

Torres unlatched his door and put one foot on the ground before he stopped and turned around. “Just don’t say anything stupid, okay?”

Ortega sneered and got out, falling in line behind Torres.

They were greeted at the door by a pair of men with skin-tight shirts to show off their thick biceps and wide chests.

“Well if it isn’t Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber,” one of the guards quipped. The guard next to him chuckled. “I hope you’re here to pay off your debt, because otherwise boss said I could make a piñata out of you.” He grinned.

“I hate to be the one to disappoint you, but it’s all in here,” Torres said, patting the bag. He struggled to refrain from punching the guy in the face, though he knew he’d lose if he provoked him physically. And lose badly.

The guard opened the door. “The boss is expecting you.”

Torres and Ortega entered Goretti’s Spanish-style house, complete with an atrium and water fountain. The natural lighting felt warm, though it was far less humid between the walls of this complex.

Torres stepped lightly on the marble floor as he went up a small set of steps leading to Goretti’s main hangout spot.

In the Miami underworld, Goretti barely registered a pulse. His primary method of generating income was by granting high-dollar loans with high interest. He also helped fugitives get new government issued IDs or passports. When it came to harassment from law enforcement, Goretti received his share, but he never appeared at the center of an investigation. It was just how he liked it—sly enough to make money, but not enough to attract the watchful eye of the feds.

Goretti took a long draw on his Cuban cigar before puffing into the air and taking another swig of his gin and tonic.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my two favorite lowlifes,” he said as soon as he saw Torres and Ortega.

“That’s because we always pay,” Ortega said.

Goretti held his index finger up and walked toward them. He put his hand on Ortega’s shoulder. “You see, this is why you’re not the brains of this farcical operation. You don’t even know why you’re my favorites.” He leaned in close to Ortega. “Because everyone pays one way or another.”

Torres shot Ortega a look, urging him to be quiet, though Torres wasn’t sure if Ortega understood.

Goretti paced around them and continued. “No, the reason you’re my favorites is because you’re my most consistent. You always seem to need me for something, like you just can’t ever get ahead. And thanks to you, I get further ahead.” He stopped and looked at both of them with a wide grin. “You guys are special to me.”

Ortega couldn’t help himself. “That might be changing now since we—“

Torres slapped Ortega in the chest. “Keep your mouth shut, man.”

Leaning in on Ortega, Goretti said, “Since we—what?”

“It’s not important,” Torres said. “What’s important is that we have your money—all two hundred and fifty thousand of it.” He threw the bag on the ground.

“Impressive,” Goretti said as he puffed on his cigar again. “I thought for sure I’d made a poor choice in lending this money to you at a twenty percent discount.” He lowered his voice and whispered to them with his hand at the side of his mouth, as if the vacant room were full of curious ears.