Two things both roiled inside of Thorn’s mind, turning his mood sour.
The first was the complete lack of any progress the night before. Despite his placing the cameras just after dark and leaving them there until morning, not one thing appeared to be out of order. Even with Kelley never giving him more than a few feet of space, he was able to sneak off several times, checking his phone, making sure that everything was clear.
As best he could tell, not one thing moved the entire night.
While that fact did give him some information, it also left a lot blank.
The second thing that had him fighting to maintain a straight face was the lecture Billy Turner had seemed intent on giving him since the moment his Duesenberg picked Thorn up outside the docks. Focused entirely on proper dinner etiquette, he had gone through everything from the correct silverware to use to the way a napkin was to be placed in his lap, all in excruciating detail. At the end of each mini-lesson, he again pointed out that Thorn was not only representing himself but the entire Irish conglomerate.
If he noticed the grated teeth or eye rolls Thorn responded with beside him, he did nothing to show it.
Fighting to hold his tongue, Thorn stared out the passenger window, thankful that thin evening traffic cut their journey to just twelve minutes. Pulling up in front of La Rosa Negra, the big car idled as they climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, not pulling away until they were headed for the door.
A slight tinge of agitation seemed to roll off Turner as they walked, Thorn making a point to say as little as possible.
The front entrance of La Rosa Negra opened into a small buffer room with warm woods and heavy fabrics hanging from the wall, the sound of muted music in the air. Moving forward, they passed through a veil and were greeted by an explosion of colors and sounds that was everything Thorn imagined Cuba to be.
Bold and vibrant hues adorned the floors and walls. Attractive waitresses with dark hair and large smiles shuffled food back and forth as a brass band played upbeat music. Rich smells hung thick in the air and great bursts of laughter could be heard around the room.
“Guy doesn’t mess around, does he?” Turner asked, half-smiling at the genuine astonishment on Thorn’s face.
“No, he does not,” Thorn agreed, already wondering how he had not heard about the place before.
Interrupting the thought, a young lady in a red and yellow dress that hung off the shoulder and ended in a spinning skirt approached, a smile on her face. “Mr. Turner, Mr. Myers, my name is Maria and I’ll be waiting on you gentlemen this evening. If you will please follow me, Mr. Cardoza has arranged for a private room in the back.”
Spinning around, the hem of her skirt twirling about her, she led them to another veiled doorway along the back wall. There she pulled back the fabric and stepped aside for them to enter, dropping it in their wake as the sounds from the main hall receded to muted tones.
The room was a smaller version of the one before, the same color scheme and atmosphere filling the space. It looked as if it could hold ten or more tables, though only a single one sat in the center of the open floor. It was not more than five feet across with four chairs placed around it, elegant flatware already in place.
Cardoza rose as they entered and shook Turner’s hand. “Thank you so much for honoring me with your presence.”
“The honor is ours,” Turner said. “Thank you very much for inviting us. This is the young man you asked to see, Robert Myers.”
Thorn stepped around the table and accepted Cardoza’s outstretched hand. The grip was strong and Thorn returned it with equal, but not overbearing, strength.
“I like that,” Cardoza said, glancing at the shake and smiling. “A man that is comfortable enough with who he is to have a firm shake, but comfortable enough with where he is to know not to overdo it.”
A small smile crossed Thorn’s lips. “Thank you very much for having us here this evening. A fine reputation precedes you and is well deserved.”
A second man with dark hair combed straight back rose from the chair beside Cardoza and extended his hand to Thorn. “Marc Tallo. You did us all a service at the docks two nights ago.”
“Mr. Tallo, it is a pleasure,” Thorn responded, shaking his hand as well, the man’s skin feeling chalky, his grasp weak.
“Please, let’s be seated,” Cardoza said, extending a hand toward the table. As one, all four settled into their chairs as Maria circled, pouring red wine for each of them.
A moment later, she brought out a platter of appetizers.
Cardoza watched as she did so, leaning back and looping his left arm over his chair. “Tonight, we shall be served a simple meal that I believe you will find quite tasty. Some of our dishes tend to appeal to more discerning palates, but this particular meal should entice without offending any stomachs. Before us are chicken empanadas; please help yourself.”
Turner cast a glance to Thorn and reached out toward the platter, sliding one of the flaky pastries over onto his plate. Opposite him, Tallo did the same.
From across the table Cardoza watched, a shadow of concern passing over his face. “Do you not like empanadas, Mr. Myers?”
“Oh, very much,” Thorn replied. “But where I come from, it is impolite to eat before the host.”
Cardoza boomed with laughter. “Please, tonight do not think of me as your host. You have done me a service and I am here to thank you for it. Please, eat freely.”
Thorn did as instructed, eating with aplomb as the conversation around him was light, non-abrasive. For the most part he remained on the periphery of it, answering a few direct questions, but using the meal as his source of preoccupation. The main course of bistec de palomilla and tostones was nothing short of incredible, as were the beans and rice piled high on the side.
By the time flan and cafecito were served for dessert, his core ached from being overfilled, only his pride willing him to finish.
Once the meal was completed and the dishes cleared away Maria melted from the room, the faces around the table turning somber. Leaning forward against the table, Cardoza laced his fingers together, glancing at each of the men in turn before settling his gaze on Thorn.
“I understand you were the one that went into the water the other night,” he opened, his expression so solemn Thorn couldn’t tell if he should affirm or deny. For a moment he met the gaze before dipping the top of his head in a nod, no sound crossing his lips.
Matching the nod, Cardoza said, “You saved many of my people, risked your life in the process. I am indebted.”
Again Thorn nodded, choosing to remain silent. In his periphery he could sense Turner and Tallo both staring at him, their gazes hot on his skin.
“I am indebted, and I am curious,” Cardoza said. “You don’t know these people and at the time you didn’t know me.”
He left the statement intentionally vague, allowing Thorn to answer from any angle he chose.
The truth was, every action Thorn had employed was based on muscle memory, a conditioned response from his time in the service. His training had honed his body to always err on the side of aggression, to choose fight over flight every time.
Not one word of that could be shared with the people before him, though. As far as Turner knew, he was a guy from upstate New York, fresh off the farm. He doubted the others knew even that much.
Putting the huckster routine back on, he exhaled slowly and said, “Truth is, it was the voices. I got there just as the container was being lifted into the air and the sound of those people, the fear they felt...”
Much like Cardoza, he left his statement open-ended, allowing the men before him to extrapolate what they might.
On his right, Turner continued to stare at him, though Thorn forced himself to remain focused forward. To his left, Tallo nodded, glancing between the two sides.
Across from him Cardoza matched his look, his forehead dipping just a fraction of an inch. “You seem to have a sense of almost sadness about you as you say this.”
Raising his eyebrows in concession, Thorn nodded. “Had I not gone in, more people would have died. Had I stayed on the pier, perhaps my partner would be alive.”
Silence fell around the table, each of the men chewing on what had just been shared.
To the left, Tallo sipped at his cafecito, his slurps audible over the sound in the adjacent room. “I had no idea your men have continued to be under attack, Billy. How many is this now?”
“All told?” Turner said, his voice low, even. “Half a dozen.”
“Not to offend you,” Cardoza asked, “but do you need help on the docks?”
Thorn cast a sideways glance to see Turner’s face solidify a tiny bit, the skin around his eyes drawing tight. “No, but thank you. We have upped personnel and implemented extra measures.”
Approving of the answer, Cardoza nodded, looking from Turner to Thorn and back again. “Tomorrow night I have a very important shipment arriving. I cannot afford to have anything happen to it.”
“We’ll see to it everything is in order,” Turner said.
“Associates of some very well connected people are on board this shipment,” Cardoza said, again passing a look between the two men across from.
“I understand,” Turner said, matching the gaze.
“Also,” Cardoza said, lifting his cafecito and raising it to Thorn, “I know it is far too soon for me to be requesting favors, but I would appreciate it if you were there.”
Before Thorn could respond, Turner said, “He’ll be there. I haven’t checked the schedule, but I have a feeling he’s on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight