Cash Landing by James Grippando Page B

of chant.
    â€œGo-o-o-o,” he said.
    â€œI’m not leaving until I get Jeffrey’s money.”
    â€œG-o-o-o. Or feel the wrath of the Orisha.”
    â€œI’m not—oww!” Ruban shouted, pulling his leg from between the door and frame.
    â€œOrisha very angry now.”
    â€œBull- shit , Orisha. You just jabbed me with a fucking pen!”
    â€œGo-o-o-o-o. Or I call the police. I’m dialing,” Vazquez said as he showed Ruban his cell phone. Then the door slammed. Ruban pounded on it.
    â€œOpen the damn door!”
    â€œPolice are coming!” Vazquez shouted from inside the house.
    Lay low. It was getting harder and harder to follow his own rule, but hanging around for the police to arrive would have made him even stupider than Jeffrey. He gave the door one good kick, letting Vazquez know that this wasn’t over. Then he went to his motorcycle, put on his helmet, and rode away.
    Vazquez was a piece of shit, but he wasn’t the problem. Jeffrey was the problem, and the four hundred thousand dollars that Ruban had found under his mattress was well short of the solution. Ruban needed answers that didn’t involve a Santería priest who had the police on speed dial.
    He stopped for gas before getting back on the expressway. Half a tank would do it. He stepped away from the pumps to make a phone call before getting back on the bike. The last time he’d spoken to Savannah’s uncle, Pinky had said he was getting out of town. Ruban took a shot and dialed his number. Pinky answered, and Ruban got right to the point.
    â€œJeffrey’s been kidnapped.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou know?”
    â€œYeah. He called me at four o’clock this morning to ask for money. He begged me to help him out. I told him, ‘I’m your uncle, not your bank. Call your sister.’”
    â€œPinky, the kidnappers want a ransom. This is serious.”
    â€œNot my problem. Jeffrey got into this trouble. He can get out. If you and Savannah want to help him, be my guests.”
    â€œI need Marco’s share to pay the ransom.”
    Pinky laughed.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” asked Ruban.
    â€œNow I get it. You think I’m stupid? This has scam written all over it.”
    â€œScam? Pinky, you’re making no sense.”
    â€œJeffrey gets kidnapped, and the first person he calls to pay a million-dollar ransom is his Uncle Pinky? Give me a break. He ain’t kidnapped. This is you trying to scam me out of Marco’s cut.”
    â€œThat’s not true. He called you first because he knew I’d kill him for getting into this mess.”
    â€œBullshit, Ruban. A million dollars was exactly Marco’s share. Like that’s a coincidence. I’m outta here. You got that? I’m keeping Marco’s money, and I’m gone. Fuck all of you.”
    He hung up before Ruban could say another word.
    Ruban should have headed south, but he wasn’t going home. He rode north toward I-75, a toll road that cut across the Everglades. He’d taken it all the way to Tampa before, one of many long rides on his motorcycle. This time, he wasn’t going nearly that far.
    The day had started out badly and was only getting worse. Vazquez was scum. Pinky was no better. Ramsey was an idiot. Jeffrey was a problem with no solution. A million-dollar ransom would be a Band-Aid, at best. Times like these were all about self-preservation.
    Midday traffic on I-75 was nothing compared to south Florida’s busiest thruways. Ruban was sharing five lanes with just a handful of cars, and he was feeling the tug of the past again, the need for speed. Not because he wanted to go back. He wanted to put it behind him—for good. The accident that had landed his motorcycle under a tarp in the garage had left him, and his Kawasaki, without a scratch. Savannah was another story.
    Ruban had buried the needle on his Kawasaki many times, but always while riding