Where There's Smoke by Mel McKinney Page B

Raul Salazar. Where is he?”
    Paulo was grateful he had something to answer honestly. He was certain there would be more to come that would require all the guile he could manage.
    â€œSeñor Salazar is out of the country. Away on a short vacation—with a lovely señorita, I think.” Paulo smiled and winked.
    â€œWell, that’s good for him, bad for us. Sorry to have missed him. I brought Mr. Romelli and our associates all the way down here to meet him and have a smoke together. I hear he still has some really fine Cubans, even some pre-Castros. I was hoping to add to my collection.”
    Paulo smoothed his sleeve, a pretext to rub his arm and restore the circulation cut off by Romelli’s clasp. He set the menus and wine list back on the shelf, hoping to discourage Bonafaccio from staying.
    â€œAs I said, he is not here, Señor.”
    â€œNo,” said Bonafaccio, his voice now thick and malevolent. “But you are. Tell you what. In light of our past relationship, I’m sure your boss would want us to see his cigar collection. Suppose you just take us to it.” He poked his head around the draped entrance into the sparsely populated dining room and shook his head. “Not much for you to do in there anyway.”
    The grip again, gentler this time, more a guide than a threat. “Bet we’re going downstairs, right?” Romelli asked softly.

TWENTY
    OFFSHORE CLOUDS, DARK with the promise of storm, muscled themselves into a ragged, low formation all along the coast. Cornelius Gessleman watched the brooding sky build through the chauffeured sedan’s rear window.
    â€œTakes something pretty damned important to get me up here this time of year,” he said to his son-in-law, seated next to him. The congressman had tried to beg off, claiming important business back home in his district. Gessleman wouldn’t hear of it. “You wanted these cigars so bad, you can goddamn well help me pick them up,” he had said. “Who knows what that Cuban extortionist might have cooked up. Better there are two of us.”
    Gessleman winced as lightning flashed in the distance. “I suppose these cigars are worth it, in some crazy, historical kind of way,” he said. “Now that you got the president killed over them, it would be a waste to just leave them for Salazar. Don’t kid yourself though. That one hundred thousand dollars is just the beginning.”

    Gessleman paused, reflecting on his conversation with Dominick Romelli. That there would be no further payments to Raul Salazar he was now certain. And the other task he had discussed with Romelli …
    â€œWhat the hell, my boy, it’s an adventure.” He laughed, slapping Wesley’s leg. Hell , Cornelius thought, it’s easy to be nice to him now. I’ll almost miss him—almost.
    The sandy hillocks of Barnstable County rolled by as they bore down the expressway toward South Yarmouth.
    Â 
    â€œWake up, Luther. Company’s coming.” Hiram Thorpe nudged the sleeping deputy and set the half-smoked Muniemaker in the ashtray of his Dodge Dart. For this evening’s work, Hiram had filled the tank of his personal car, leaving the cruiser at the office.
    Luther roused and the two of them watched, shielded by the forested slope behind the Gem o’ the Sea.
    A red Bonneville stopped at the office and two men stepped out. The driver stretched his legs as the passenger went into the office.
    Come on now , Nestor, Hiram thought. Don’t go getting babbly on me. Just give him the key.
    A few seconds later, the passenger emerged from the office, looked around, and walked toward the cottage. He motioned over his shoulder and the Pontiac crept along behind him, its tires lightly crunching along the carpet of dead leaves. It stopped in front of the cottage, and the driver again appeared. He opened the trunk and stood talking a moment with the other.
    Through his binoculars, Hiram