Foolproof

By Jonathan Stein

Some frightening things have been happening to Jim Salvino. Certain people, very bad people, are interested in his help. It’s 1985. Steel is dying and Jim, who brokers the foreign variety, is visiting Miami. Recovering from a rough divorce, full of confusion about himself and with a hot Italian temper, he just may be ready to play. But as he becomes more and more deeply involved and starts to resolve his own ambivalence he begins to unravel the many layers of deceit enmeshing him. A ship from South America is moving closer and his options are getting fewer—and scarier.
The action moves between the Brazilian jungle, Rust Belt snow and a cooking Miami sun, and it’s propelled by real characters: smart guys, tough guys and beautiful women, all full of complexity and hidden motives—and capable of anything when the stakes are high enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462039456

Jonathan Stein

After service in Vietnam, Jonathan Stein graduated from the University of Massachusetts in Boston and pursued a career in the scrap iron business in Northeast Ohio. Upon retirement he attended the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference in Middlebury, Vermont. He lives on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

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Copyright © 2011 by Jonathan Stein.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-3944-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3945-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 09/06/2016

CONTENTS

1985

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

For

Irvin Stock

and for

Paula

The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,

Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,

And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,

I, too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!

Goethe, Faust I iv (Tr. Bayard Taylor)

1985

PROLOGUE

A bead of sweat glistened on her upper lip and swelled from the trickles draining her face. Would it arc? Would it rest on her light down, distend, then plunge into her pursing lips? She was squinting, slowly rising in the lounge chair when another drop rolled along her cheek and they combined, but it was all so fast, the wet union, the tremble, the reflexive drag of her hand.

What are you looking at? she asked, moist fingers blocking the morning sun, knees up, muscles taut.

Nothing. Just you.

She wiped her eyes with her palm, smiled and lay back, exhaling. Her hand fell to the towel crumpled on the deck.

Slowly my eyes filled with color. I began to hear the waves out beyond the pool.

One night and I was fascinated. Never during my engagement or even my divorce had I been so on edge, so excited, so loaded and cocked to the touch. Yet never even during my marriage had I felt so easy and comfortable. The whole thing had been thrilling but perfectly natural, the tension without the risk. Who was this woman who acted as if she had been waiting for me all her life, who gave and took so easily? How could she be so reserved, so exclusive, yet suddenly mine?

I felt like some kind of teenage girl, excited, infatuated, goddam atwitter. Dare I consider last night anything it wasn’t? And who the hell was I, that she had accepted me so fully? She seemed so right with it, so settled. Now I looked at the hint of paler skin above her long legs, and where her top drooped between her small, round breasts. I looked at her thick auburn hair, her fine nose, her cheekbones, her lips, all so perfectly defined. She was long, elegant, Irish, perspiration and lotion smelling of sweet lemon, golden freckles even on the curve of her bottom, a trail to auburn hair, to auburn hair… I damn well better not think too much about last night or my trunks would betray me more.

I had come down on a three-day trip to check out Mr. Ferrahan and his crazy proposition once and for all, and to visit my son. Christ, I hadn’t even met her till last night in the coffee shop. There was some kind of medical conference at the hotel. So we smiled, talked, realized we were both without plans, and decided on a strictly Dutch, strictly fun night out. And with all those doctors around. I was flattered.

But this was no pickup. She had something, an intelligence, I don’t know, a concern for me. We had made love, and now I wanted the rest of her. I had done all the talking because she made it so easy. Now I wanted her story, I wanted to find her other private places and touch them, too, and have them. She lay still, bathing in the sun. Maybe she could come with me to see Tommy this afternoon. Maybe I could see her tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I wanted more.

Suddenly the loudspeaker asked for a Dr. Cottrell present? and she stood up. Dr. Cottrell? I started to rise. A tall, skinny guy in a black business suit walked up to her. She grabbed her bag, stepped into her sandals and swung on a robe, starting to walk. She stopped to lean over and slip the straps around her heels. Her bikini emerged, her calves hardened. The tall guy was hustling her out. She was almost to the veranda when she looked back and said, Jim, I’ll call you, and she was gone.

I was half way to her, in a hot little puddle on the concrete, and I really had no chance to say anything, just nod. I looked back to see if she had left anything. Even the towel was gone, in the poolboy’s bin as he worked his way toward the deep end.

CHAPTER 1

Getting lost a couple of times and making a circle or two confirmed it. Any fool would have seen the car following me, a red Jeepster convertible with a blond, beachboy driver. When I first noticed I figured the guy must be headed for a house on the way to mine, but those odds were getting longer and longer as we twisted through phony subdivision curves and crossed canal after canal.

Among weeds and construction debris sat finished houses, the dirty sand around them smeared with broad, tough grass. Back yards faced concrete troughs stained brown with mangrove water and brine. Along the edges, between screened-in pools and porches on both sides, lifts and davits suspended family treasure like a Monday wash of French lingerie: Edna II, The Golden Molar, Whither? Yon—each name begged to tell a story not worth hearing. Empty husks grew pastel skins, fake roof tiles and pulp inside. Every block, every blade and every bug was greased up hot with sunlight and ripening fast: Florida hadn’t missed me one bit.

What should I do about this guy? Jam the creep’s car and go over and demand answers? Who says I’d get the truth? I figured the kid was nowhere near my own six-foot size and didn’t look too rugged. I could intimidate, I guess: I was still cultivating my old appearance, hands, arms and shoulders too much for the bargain sport coat, chino pants too short, black hair combed uncertainly. Jim Salvino, all-American: Diana had told me I had the blank face of an ex-juvenile delinquent still searching for a style and the clear brown eyes of an ex-small college quarterback still searching for a receiver. Wow. The incongruity must have been unsettling, I guess. It could be frightening. That’s what she said, anyway.

We were playing tag: I could see two or three streets across the empty lots as the Jeepster disappeared and then reappeared, often seeming to pause behind houses. What the hell was going on? Why would anybody follow me? When the kid got close, he looked almost girlish behind his round shades. Was he armed? Maybe I should just let him follow. But that would let the guy know where my son lived—if that’s what he was after. At least the creep wouldn’t know I had made him. That could come in handy later. Come on, what later? Or should I lose him? He was getting closer now. Who says he was following me anyway, maybe just out for a spin… .

Suddenly I hit the gas and jerked the wheel left, kicking gravel and throwing the car into a 180. I gunned it harder and nearly hit the Jeepster, its driver giving a wild look. I slammed on the brakes, threw it into park and got out. The cars were pinned together, their noses touching. I strode across the hot pavement behind my car and into the wedge the two cars made, slowing down as I went up to the driver’s side of the Jeepster, buttoning my jacket and tucking in my tie.

May I ask you who you are, I said, trying to be sarcastic, I guess, but instantly regretting my pleasantness, "and what the fuck you think you’re doing?" I braced my knee against the door. The window was down and my thumbs wrapped over the edge as if I was getting ready to snap the whole thing off. I had liked the wild look on the kid’s face. I figured then I had it won.

The kid stared straight ahead and rocked the shift lever through the slop in neutral, pulsing his fingers. His left hand gripped the wheel. Nothin’, he said, nothin’. I’m drivin’ around, O.K.? His eyes were hidden. His chin was thrust and his thin lips were parted with a sullen vacancy. His sunburned ears peeked out from yellow chunks of curl.

Look, asshole, I sneered, bending over, tilting my head and drawing my right arm across for a back-hand, I wanna know why you’re following me. Now who the fuck are you? Who sent you? NOW! I hauled my arm further back, leaning in.

Nobody, nobody! the kid said quickly, turning slightly toward me. Honest, I was just drivin’ around, I’m tellin’ ya. So I followed you a little bit, no place to go, you know, just drivin’. Really, ’ey, no shit, really… .

I put my hand back onto the door. He took his right hand off the shift knob and put it onto the steering wheel. He was holding tight to it, now with both hands.

Whaddaya mean, you didn’t mean to be following me—then what the fuck you been doin’ for the last six miles?

He turned closer to me. Look, I just got off work, and I was—

All right then, so where do you work? I said, rubbing my thumb on the chrome.

Given’s. It’s a lawn service. I had a job back there. Left early. O.K., sir? Ya know, we’re blockin’ traffic. If somebody comes… He turned and faced ahead. It was like he wanted to do something but wouldn’t. I think I wanted him to.

I straightened up. I’m getting tired of your bullshit, you little jerk-off. Now, again: why were you following me?

’Ey, man, the kid said, winding his head back toward me, I wasn’t, O.K.? His light eyebrows rose above the sunglass frames. I’m tellin’ ya: I was just hangin’ out.

I looked at him full in the face. What’s your name? A car came up behind us and eased past, forced into the wrong lane.

Aw, Jesus, com’on, man, gimme a break, will ya? Fred, O.K.? Now listen, sir, we’re blockin’ traffic, I haven’t lied to ya, and I’m leavin’, O.K.? He turned to put the car into reverse and then looked back at me. ’Ey, and thanks for scarin’ the shit out of me.

He began to shift again, but paused, like he wanted permission. He didn’t look as scared to me. The sun bounced off both cars into our faces. There was no breeze. The engines idled. I drew one hand back again, but just growled and pushed off the Jeepster with the other. Beat it, I said. Get outta here. But then I leaned in and smacked the side of his face with the back of my hand, knocking his sunglasses off. Just beat it, I said louder. Now! I pushed away and walked toward where the cars met in front so when the asshole backed out he wouldn’t run over me.

The kid picked up his sunglasses and held them, staring at me for a moment. His eyes were so pale and his lashes so light there was almost nothing there. Without the glasses he didn’t look so young. He tossed them onto the dash and tore backwards, throwing up stones, cutting sharply, slamming the Jeepster into first and taking off the way we had come.

I was an impulsive bastard in those days, I’ll have to admit, but then, that’s what this is about. I got into my Tempo as a car came from up ahead. It waited in the road while I backed up and got all straightened out. I passed it, trying to ignore the driver, a tall skinny guy in a black business suit.

So just what makes you think you can come down here and see him any time you want? There she stood against the pink front of our old house, a washed-out-looking blonde, hollow eyes, no ass, no boobs, but some goddam thing still making her one of the sexiest women on earth to me. Her voice was as thin and percussive as ever. She had brought her dish towel out with her, the brave emblem of her postmarital domesticity.

Evelyn, I called, I set it up, I flew down here for Chrissakes—

Sure, at your convenience, when it pleased you. Well he had to see his grandparents last night and he had practice this morning—

I—

—and we’re having people over tonight. It was planned long before your little last minute jaunt down here. She began to fold the dish towel neatly.

Evelyn, I know. No problem. Look, I’ll take him this afternoon, bring him back, then pick him up again after dinner, O.K.?

Hi, Dad. Tommy appeared inside the screen.

Hey, Tommy, how are ya, kid?

O.K., Dad. Sorry I couldn’t do anything this morning.

No problem, guy. Come on, let’s take a ride… . O.K., Evelyn?

Just get the hell out of here, she said, shaking the folds out of the towel.

Hey, what’s your problem, anyway?

"What do you think’s my problem? Just leave. Goodbye, Tommy. Goodbye, Tommy."

Oh. ’Bye, Mom. Tommy pushed the screen door open and walked past me half way down the lawn and waited to kiss me hello.

Evelyn, . . .

She turned and walked in, closing the door behind her. The screen door hissed a couple of times, sighed, and snapped shut.

So where’s Ben? We had crossed back over all the canals and were driving out through a huge table of grass staked and flagged for development. It was like the middle of a vast parade ground after review, empty now save for litter and the back ranks of orange groves marching off into the horizon. How’re you two getting along?

Uh, O.K. He had to go away for a couple days.

I see your mother’s as friendly to me as ever. Are you two fighting?

No. We’re fine.

No problems?

Not really. Tommy looked out his side window.

Are they getting along, your mom and Ben?

I guess, yeah. Fine.

I waited a minute. Are you doing O.K. with them?

Yas.

What’s a matter, Tommy?

Everything’s fine.

You’re not supposed to talk to me about it, right?

No… .

Well, do you think you should?

Why don’t you just leave me alone? O.K.?

I’m not concerned with them, I’m concerned with you.

Well I’m fine.

Since the divorce it had been like that—and maybe before. And since my steel brokering had specialized on imports and taken me to New York I had seen him less and less. His innocence was draining away from me, given over to Evelyn along with the house and the car. He was already twelve, going from fine and tow-headed to the beginning of darker and ungainly, the man struggling out. Whatever real influence I could have had, whatever real moments we could have shared were disappearing with the purity of his voice and face. I tried never to think about it when I was away, and certainly never when I was down there. I tousled his hair, wondering how to begin getting close in forty-eight hours.

The rest happened so fast I never could get it right for Lieutenant Rodriquez no matter how often I replayed it in my mind. I thought I saw the tall, skinny guy in a car up ahead, and suddenly the red Jeepster swung up behind me into my mirror and they both blared their horns and slammed on their brakes, so I had to, and the two guys were both on my car at the side windows with .45s, one in my face—OUT the skinny one screamed, and I looked for Tommy only just with my eyes. The beachboy had him walking away and he looked back and said Dad? really scared. DOWN Skinny screamed and gun at head I went down. I could taste the sand. I couldn’t see up. I heard the keys jangle out of the ignition and thrown away and the soft double click of the hammer recocked—was there one in the chamber? STAY THERE Skinny shouted as they backed off and slammed doors and left with Tommy.

CHAPTER 2

I looked through a glass wall back into the room I had just crossed. It was not at all what I had expected: no typewriters, no phones ringing, just the dry clicking of terminal keyboards and a soft electronic chirp now and then, muffled by carpet and acoustical ceiling tile, lost in indirect lighting, answered quietly. Sergeant Crandell, the big, slovenly man who had met me at the elevator, stood at the far corner with his back to another cop and lined up a shot of crumpled paper into a wastebasket. They were joking casually, and at something the other cop said Crandell held his shot and turned around to listen. He drew his lower jaw down into his neck, raised his eyebrows and gave a little nod of recognition. While answering he turned and made his basket.

I looked back at Lieutenant Rodriquez and tried again to remember the question. Rodriquez stood on the raised platform that held his desk and still he was barely taller than I. He was carefully dressed, in a tight brown suit with no cuffs and a brown-on-brown tie. A close horseshoe of silver ringed the back of his delicate head. Surely his grandfathers’ Spain lay north of Arabian influence: his fair skin, blue eyes, high cheekbones and quaint gold bridgework gave him the look of a foreign aristocrat fallen to honest work in America.

I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Ask me again.

Mr. Salvino, I know this is difficul’. You have given me a sta’men’, you have tol’ me, but I don’ understan’. You have to escuse me. Like I tell these people here, I ang no’ Cuban, I ang only a Puerto Rican, so please speak slowly and tell me. Now who is this Diana Cottrell? Where can we fin’ her?

I started again, trying to draw it all together. The lieutenant sat back down and began to write, his fountain pen trailing a fine black Spanish thread onto his yellow legal pad. There was no carpet in Rodriguez’ office. I paced the sea green-and-foam linoleum squares as I talked, pushing off grey Steelcase government furniture as I passed by. Even the coat rack was made of square, grey tubing. It was bare except for Rodriguez’ brown seersucker porkpie hat nesting near the top. My legs ached from pacing, from the long walk to the first house I had found, from tension and fear for Tommy.

How could I describe Diana without revealing how I felt about her? After one night? Rogriguez would ask, wincing. Yes. The phone lit and he answered. We both stared out through the glass into the main room as he listened. Are you sure? he finally asked. O.K., than’ you, he said, hanging up carefully. He looked at me, cocked his head, and drew the corners of his mouth up toward his squinting eyes in that sweet smile of disbelief I had already come to expect. "There is no recor’ of a Diana Cottrell at your hotel, or at any hotel in the area. We can’ fin’ a Mr. Bernar’ Ferrahan anywhere in Miami and the number you gave us doesn’ work. No red Jeepsters have been reported suspicious, or missin’ or anythin’ else, and you can’ remember the sedan to describe it to us. Your wife is on line four.

I flushed a little, clarified ex-wife and stepped onto the platform to pick up the phone. Rodriguez turned the tablet over and waited. I pressed the #4 button and said Hello?

Oh, Jim. What have you done now? Where is he? I want to know what’s happened to him. Is he all right?

Evelyn, I’m sorry. I just don’t know. He was O.K. when they took him.

What happened? When who took him? Where is he?

Evelyn, I just don’t know. Didn’t the police tell you what happened?

The police told me you got him taken somewhere. Do you mind telling me why a goddam cop has to call me instead of you having the courtesy to notify me? Just what is going on, Jim? Where is he?

Evelyn, I don’t know what to tell you that they didn’t. We got pulled over by some guys with guns and they took Tom. He seemed O.K. when they took him. The police are working on it.

That’s just great. Your own son, for God’s sake. Who was it, your gumbahs from one of those big deals you pay us shit from? You really are an asshole, you know that? Well he’s my son, and I want him back now! My God, don’t you even care at all?

"Of course I care. Jesus. Evelyn, I told you, I don’t know who they were, I don’t know where they took him.