Free Deal with the Dead by Les Standiford Page B

Deal.
“This
man,” Padilla said as the new arrivals came toward them, “he is much more powerful.”
    ***
    “You look at me like you know me, Mr. Deal,” Anthony Gargano said.
    “Who doesn’t?” Deal said. Earlier that summer, the face before him had graced the front pages of most of the country’s newspapers, as well as the covers of half a dozen major newsmagazines. “Crime Boss Calls Summit.” “Feds Bust the Party.” Et cetera.
    Padilla winced, but Gargano seemed to find Deal’s comment amusing. “Maybe it’d bother you, working for someone such as myself?”
    Deal took a moment, watching a squadron of gulls whistle overhead, sail on toward the spot where the old guy was still working his fishing line in the dying light. Finally, he turned back to Gargano. “Do you pay your bills on time?”
    The two bodyguards stared impassively, but Gargano laughed outright. “Padilla told me you were all right.” He clapped Padilla on the shoulder and the little man had to shift his feet to keep his balance in the sand. “Ugo and I go back a ways, did he tell you?”
    Deal shook his head. He was wondering how many times Padilla had been cuffed on the shoulder while hosting occasions of state in Cuba. Maybe Ernest Hemingway would have gotten away with it, he thought. He couldn’t imagine anyone else.
    “President Padilla told me that he represented an important client, that’s all.”
    “Makes sense. Ugo is the soul of discretion.” Sweeping his arm around their surroundings, Gargano continued, “So what do you think?”
    That question again. “I thought I was going to meet some people, talk about an office building.”
    Gargano nodded. “Yeah, well, we got an office building or two in the pipeline, too. Right now this is what’s on my mind. I want to build a hotel, right on this very spot. Place is perfect for it. Makes me sleepy just standing here.”
    Deal glanced up the beach. “Right next to the Hilton?”
    “Right the fuck next to it,” Gargano said. “Competition is good for business, don’t you think?”
    “I’ve heard it said,” Deal told him.
    “Thing is, we had intended to purchase the site north of here,” Gargano continued, “but Mr. Hilton got wind of it somehow and managed to ace us out.”
    “The broker handling the acquisition,” Padilla interjected, shaking his head. “People get greedy.”
    “Don’t ask what else he got,” Gargano said, giving Deal a meaningful look. “Anyway, I went to Mr. Hilton himself, explained how this project was a union undertaking, we’re seeking to invest the pension contributions of thousands of little people all over the country. All they want is just to retire one day without going in the hole, et cetera.…You know what he told me?”
    “I can guess.”
    “So many words, he said go shit in your hat.”
    Deal thought he heard honest disbelief in Gargano’s voice. “So that’s when you bought up this tract?”
    Gargano nodded. “With Ugo’s help. And we’ve already got a set of drawings.” He nodded at one of the thugs, who went back to the limo, ducked inside, returned with a rolled-up sheet of blueprints.
    “We managed to get a look at the plans for the Hilton,” Gargano said. He smiled at Deal, tapping the fat roll against his palm as if he were holding a bat. “I had the architects work it out, angle of the sun, certain months of the year, all that.” He smiled. “Where we’re going to put our main tower, the shadow’s gonna fall in that direction, cover up Mr. Hilton’s entire swimming pool for about 95 percent of the tourist season.”
    “Like a permanent eclipse of the sun,” Deal said.
    Gargano stared at him for a minute, then his face lit up. “I like that,” he said, beginning to laugh. “I like that a lot.”
    “So why me?”
    Gargano’s laugh had segued into a rasping cough, and he held up a hand to Deal until he could get his breath. “What kind of question is that?”
    “Why bring this to me?” Deal