Cash Landing by James Grippando Page A

and one clip of standard 9-millimeter ammunition and another clip of military-issue tracer ammo. It was overkill, but he was suddenly feeling the need to be prepared for anything.
    It was time to visit El Padrino .
    Finding an address for Carlos Vazquez proved much easier than expected. Facebook apparently had no problem with Santería priests, at least not the ones who had 18,000 “likes” and posted no photographs of animal sacrifice. Vazquez had no physical church. Services were held at his personal residence in Hialeah, and the Facebook comments and photos pointed Ruban to the exact house. It was less than fifteen minutes away.
    Ruban left the crappy old car in his driveway and instead pulled the dusty tarp off of his motorcycle in the garage. The Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14R was a precision machine that, in the eyes of most drivers, was nothing but a blur shooting by on the expressway. Long rides to nowhere had been a therapy of sorts. Until the accident.
    He hadn’t ridden since.
    The ignition fired, but the engine didn’t respond. Disuse and neglect beneath a dusty tarp had taken a toll. He tried again, and this time it answered with a roar. He rolled out of the garage and onto the street with a measure of caution, like a cowboy back on the horse that had thrown him. He observed the speed limit on the shady neighborhood streets, but as he approached the expressway, he felt the tug of the past, the need for speed. Halfway up the entrance ramp, he gunned it.
    Traffic was always heavy on the Palmetto Expressway, but he threaded his way between cars and around trucks as if they were mere cones on a test track, cutting the fifteen-minute ride in half. The power was addictive, and part of him wanted to keep going. But he forced himself to focus. He took the second Hialeah exit, worked the side streets east toward his destination, and parked in front of the ranch-style house. His heart was pounding as he climbed off the Kawasaki.
    The Vazquez residence was like thousands of other sixties-vintage houses in Hialeah—a concrete shoebox with four cars parked in the front yard for the three families who shared 1,800 square feet of living space: three bedrooms, and two baths. Rubanremoved his helmet and started up the sidewalk. His escorts to the front door were a couple of chickens, clucking and blissfully unaware of their starring role in an upcoming Santería ritual.
    Ruban rang the bell. An old man opened the door just far enough for the chain to catch. Ruban wasn’t sure how to address a Santería priest. “Father Carlos Vazquez?”
    â€œBabalawo Vazquez,” he replied.
    â€œI’m Jeffrey Beauchamp’s brother-in-law.”
    The door slammed in his face. Ruban knocked again but got no answer. He walked toward the driveway and stopped. Parked alongside the house was a brand-new Cadillac Eldorado. The temporary tag was still in the window. Ruban felt his anger rising. He went back to the front door and pounded hard enough to conjure up a host of Santería spirits. Finally, Vazquez answered.
    â€œDid you take Jeffrey’s money?” It was a demand, not a question.
    â€œNo, señor . It was a gift to the church.”
    â€œYeah, I see the church needed a new Cadillac.”
    â€œI pray every day for Jeffrey.”
    â€œHe needs his money back. He’s in trouble.”
    â€œMoney doesn’t solve trouble. Money makes trouble.”
    â€œThen you’ll be very happy to give it back.”
    He chuckled and wagged his finger as he spoke. “Not to- day, señor .”
    Ruban leaned into the door before Vazquez could shut it, and he wedged his knee into the crack to make sure it stayed open. “Jeffrey needs his money.”
    The two men locked eyes through the opening, the taut chain between them. The old man made a strange guttural sound that welled up from his belly and shook in his throat. Slowly, it grew louder, but it had a rhythm to it, like some kind