No Rules, Ridge King [the snowy day read aloud TXT] 📗

can’t go wrong with Julio Aponte!” Pozo rested his hands on his knees as he leaned down to get a closer to the customer. “And where are you from, my friend?”

The customer looked like a scared rabbit, glancing over his shoulder at Aponte.

“Havana,” he said tentatively.

Pozo said a few words to the customer in Spanish and then nodded.

“Can you spare a few minutes, Julio?”

“Of course, for you, of course, always.”

Aponte led him into his inner office and closed the door.

“No need to close the door, my friend,” said Pozo. “We’re going for a coffee.”

“But I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

“With that guy out there?”

“Yes.”

“Cancel it.”

“And I have another one in twenty minutes.”

“Cancel it, too,” Pozo ordered and went back out into reception.

Aponte told his secretary to call the client and reschedule the upcoming appointment, apologized to the customer with the bad teeth, and followed Pozo out of the office and around the corner where they picked up a couple of Cuban coffees at a stand-up window. They went to sit on a bench under a shade tree nearby.

“You disappoint me, Julio.”

“How so?” Aponte pretended to be shocked.

“You are, how shall I put it, straying from your mission.”

“But—”

The quizzical look on Aponte’s face led Pozo to sigh and go on.

“I know about your little side business, Julio.”

“But—”

“You’ve been knocking down $10,000 to $15,000 from guys like the one we just left in your office for fake Cuban birth certificates.” Aponte’s head fell to his chest. “I know these things, Julio. We have so much to do—tens of millions to make together—and you are wasting your time on this kind of shit that will get you caught.”

“I admit it, Fernando,” Aponte said, calling Pozo by his real name, “I was trying to make a little on the side.”

“If they catch you making a little on the side, I lose you. You go to prison and I lose you. What is the date? It’s eight days before Christmas, Julio, eight days! The prime time for us to file our phony tax returns begins January first. The first seven to eight weeks of the year are the time we make the most money. And you’ve been too busy to attend the planning sessions with the Oyebanjos. You are going to cost the Cuban government tens of millions of dollars, Julio. Is that what you want?” He leaned in, lowering his voice, almost to a growl. “I will not let this happen, Julio. I will not let you betray your country. I will kill you with my bare hands if that’s what it takes.”

Pozo straightened himself and smiled broadly, stretching out an arm that he draped over Aponte’s slumping shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Fernando,” said Aponte, his eyes welling with tears.

Pozo patted his shoulder.

“Now, now. I want you to focus on what we have to do, Julio. What we were sent here to do.”

“I will. I promise.

“If I hear of such transgressions again, you know I will deal with you severely.”

“Yes.”

“If you need more money, you let me know. Money, we have. If you don’t tell me the truth, I will know you are greedy.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .38 “You know me well enough, Julio, to know that I will not hesitate to use this if you fuck with me. If I smell the greed on you. Like I do the foul smell of those cheap cigars you smoke.”

“No, I am not greedy.”

“We shall see, my friend, we shall see. I am doubling your salary. When you need money, you reach out to me, not these losers on the street.” Pozo put the gun back into his pocket.  He stood up and stretched. “Such a fine day. I love Miami in December. More coffee, Julio?”

“No, no more coffee.” Pozo noticed a slight tremor in Aponte’s right hand, but it wasn’t from the coffee.

They returned to the office.

Pozo got into his Malibu and headed back to the cottage. He wanted to lie down for a while. He’d been up before dawn to make the rendezvous with Big Fish IV, and he was angry about the Coast Guard interdiction. He could blame no one else for this incident. It was completely his fault. He’d insisted on the go-fast boat as opposed to the usual slower fishing boat he used. It’s just that the fishing boat took twice as long to cover the distance as the smaller, faster one.

Aponte had hooked into an increasingly lucrative business in Miami for people with his skills in providing fake papers: putting together fake Cuban birth certificates.

As more and more illegal immigrants made their way into Miami from Latin American countries, a lot of them sought fake Cuban birth certificates because if they could show one, the American authorities would grant them green cards. So, the guy from Costa Rico they’d left behind in Aponte’s office, if he could get his hands on a Cuban birth certificate, could suddenly become a legal immigrant rather than an illegal one. The going rate was between $10,000 and $15,000 for one of these invaluable documents. Very tempting for someone like Aponte.

Pozo had big plans for Aponte. He had been grooming the low level operative to move him up into the big leagues where there was serious money to be made.

The Americans lost $5 billion to $7 billion every year to tax ID fraud. Pozo’s agents were responsible for only $1.5 billion of that. The rest of the money was stolen by a hodgepodge of other organized crime syndicates and small-time independent operators: people like ex-drug dealers who discovered tax fraud was easier than selling drugs, with the added benefit that almost no one got caught. Pozo was determined to double his take over the next couple of