Kapak had started out as a driver for the car thieves, then realized that the Mexican distributor who sold the cars southward was the only irreplaceable person, and made a separate deal with him. Kapak built a second healthy business of his own based on the observation that the one car bringing his four drivers back to the United States was otherwise empty of cargo.
He never got caught for smuggling or car theft or anything else he’d done. He got caught in a tax audit. One day there was a letter from the government telling him to come to a meeting, and a few weeks later there were treasury agents with guns strapped to them tearing his house apart looking for money and evidence of secret bank accounts. He lost everything to them.
To this day, he was sure that some of the cash he had hidden in his house had probably ended up in the pockets of treasury agents. Why should government agents suddenly behave differently than they had for five thousand years just because they were in a new country? He had never counted all the money he had been stuffing behind the insulation in the attic. The agents had taken it to their office to count it and had given him a receipt to sign with a number on it. Of course he had signed. Government agents were all the same, no matter where they lived. If you didn’t sign, more of them came the next time.
So he had lost all his money, his house, his cars. Going to jail for thirteen months had also lost him Marija and the children, John and Sara. Marija had used the time while he was in prison to take up with their neighbor the periodontist, and to write letters to everyone back in Hungary and Romania to tell them he was a criminal and in jail. It was accurate enough and had not startled anybody on his side of the family, but a cousin of hers had written to him to say it had been a shock to some of the people who didn’t know him well.
He had been in love with Marija, a beautiful woman who had put up with quite a bit in private, but who could not stand public embarrassment. He was lucky that he wasn’t deported to Hungary, or Spain, his last stop before America, or even all the way back to his birthplace, Bucharest. He probably would have been, except that the hard-line Communists in charge in those days would have made some kind of political point about the people who left home being degenerates. The American authorities didn’t want that.
Since then he had paid his taxes, tried to comply with all of the small laws, and reserved his risks for the big, profitable infractions. It had worked for a long time, and he didn’t miss the money he had paid for taxes, permits, licenses, and assessments. A government that left people alone most of the time was worth a lot of money.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he stepped into the back hallway outside the office to answer it. “Yes?”
“Mr. Kapak?” It was the voice of Morgan, the manager at Siren. “I thought I should let you know that one of Mr. Rogoso’s people called a minute ago. They said he’s coming here.”
“To Siren?”
“That’s what the guy said. He was conveying the message that Rogoso was on the way.”
“Thanks, Morgan. He probably just wants somebody to know he’s coming so they’ll pay attention to him. I’ll drive over and meet him.”
“Should I get one of the girls to keep him distracted until you’re here? Maybe give him a lap dance and so on?”
“No. Give him what he pays for and nothing else. Which of my guys is there right now?”
“Jerry Gaffney. Guzman and Corona.”
“Good. Can you reach any of them?”
“Jerry’s right in the office.”
“Put him on.”
After a bit of shuffling, Kapak heard Jerry Gaffney come on. “Mr. Kapak.”
“Jerry, I want you to handle Rogoso until I get there. He’s apparently coming to deliver the cash himself.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep a gun on you, and maybe a second one he won’t see. Meet him outside the door. Smile and be friendly, and take him right into the back office. Make him feel important, but get him out of sight so we don’t have him drinking and scaring people and attracting attention.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I hear Guzman and Corona are there.”
“They’re out in the club.”
“Tell them to stick close to you. Rogoso hardly ever goes anywhere without Alvin and Chuy, and they talk to each other in Spanish. Corona and Guzman will pick it up first if what they’re saying isn’t good. Rogoso will give you some cash. He’ll tell you how much it is, but count it. Then get him out of the club. Be friendly, but don’t show any weakness. He’s always looking for it.”
“Are you coming?”
“I’m leaving Temptress now. I should be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. You’d better get ready for him.”
“Right. See you.”
Manuel Rogoso arrived at the door of Siren a few minutes later in a black four-door Maserati. The driver sat in front of the entrance for a few seconds, goading the engine into a grumble a couple of times while the three men in the car studied the building and the parking lot. Then the car glided forward and made a wide turn into a space in the middle of the lot. Two men got out of the front seat and stepped to the right rear door. They were both big men who had obviously lifted a great deal of iron to get that way. Both wore lightly tinted glasses, leather jackets, boots, and black jeans. One of them opened the door and Manuel Rogoso swung his legs out and stood.
Rogoso was only five feet seven, but he too was a body builder. The impression he gave was not of a small man: with his wide shoulders and thick limbs he seemed to be a creature designed for fighting. As the three men walked away from the car, they moved stiffly, listing a bit from side to side.
Jerry Gaffney was leaning against the front of the building smoking a cigarette a few feet from the door. As Rogoso and his men approached the door, he pushed off the wall and stepped in front of them as he flicked his cigarette away. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, “Mr. Rogoso. I’m Jerry Gaffney. Mr. Kapak asked me to welcome you to Siren.”
Rogoso’s eyebrows pinched together in a scowl. “Where is he?”
“He’ll be here in a few minutes. He was over at Temptress when he got the call that you were coming here. Come with me, and we’ll go inside where we’ll be comfortable.”
Jerry Gaffney stepped in and nodded to the bouncer, who stepped back to let the four men pass him. Gaffney led them along the front of the bar past the gaggle of customers three-deep waiting for drinks.
Rogoso stopped for a second. “How about getting us a drink?”
“I’ll have drinks sent in, so we can hear ourselves talk.”
Rogoso didn’t look happy. He glanced up at the face of his driver and bodyguard, Alvin, then at Chuy and conveyed irritation, but he went with Jerry Gaffney to the hallway that led to the back room.
Gaffney stopped, reached out to detain a passing waitress, and said, “Honey, we’d like some drinks in the office, please. Gentlemen, what would you like?”
“Three zombies,” Rogoso said. “With 151 rum.”
“Got it,” the woman said, and walked off toward the bar.
Gaffney opened the office door and the three men entered. Sitting in chairs on either side of the door were Guzman and Corona. It was not lost on Rogoso that there were now three men from each side in this one relatively small room, all of them armed.
Rogoso spoke to Guzman and Corona in Spanish. “I remember you two. If you want to make some real money you can come work for me.”