WARNING: This story contains mature themes and strong language that may not be suitable for some readers
GABRIEL
A well-read man is a powerful man.
My grandfather taught me this when I was five. His guidance and love in all things are my most enduring and beautiful memories in a life otherwise filled with darkness.
We would sit in this very garden, flanked by palm trees and tropical foliage, the faint scent of jasmine and briny bay water in the humid tropical air. The imposing, Mediterranean-style stucco mansion cast much-needed shade on us while we waited for his private chef to make breakfast.
He'd drink coffee from Italy; I'd have fresh-squeezed orange juice from one of the many groves our family owned here in Florida. Those were my grandfather's legitimate businesses, ones that I now run. I also have inherited his not-so-legal ones, and in turn, have assumed all his influence and power.
Some would say more power than my grandfather would have dared to dream.
Back then, twenty-five years ago, the butler would emerge, carrying four newspapers, and place them on the table. My grandfather would sort through the stack and find the local paper with the comics for me, fold it just so for my small hands, and hand it to me without a word. He'd dive into the New York Times, then the Wall Street Journal and the Miami Herald. After, he'd reach for the news sections of the Tampa Tribune.
He was a fast reader, something I eventually learned to emulate.
"Nonno," I'd ask, "why do you read so many newspapers?"
He would take a thoughtful sip of coffee and consider me with those hazel eyes, another thing I've inherited from him.
"Gabriel, a man needs to be informed about the world. He needs to know where the power lies, and where it's headed. It's important to know who is killing whom. A man needs to know the direction of the stock market and the follies of the unwashed masses. And above all, a man like me —men like us, Gabriel—needs to know if anyone's in our business or threatening our way of life. Knowledge is power, my boy. And don't forget books, either. They teach you much about the world. News in the morning to prepare for your day." He would hold up a section of the newspaper. "And a fiction novel to tease your subconscious at night. A well-read man is a powerful man."
I think about this almost every day, as I sit in the same garden, drinking Italian espresso and reading the same four newspapers he once did.
Usually I start with the New York Times—I enjoy their international coverage—but today I'm selecting the Tampa Tribune first. My eyes scan the bold, black headline above the fold.
"City Councilman Missing; Links To Organized Crime Revealed In Exclusive Jailhouse Interview."
Hmm.
Before I can read a word, I hear footsteps crunching on the crushed shell walkway. Setting the paper aside, I spot my lawyer, Michael Malka, coming toward me. This isn't much of a surprise, because we meet every Thursday morning in my garden.
"You're early today," I call out. Today is hot and sticky, with a blue sky overhead. The birds chirp and the wind blows through the palm trees. It's the kind of scene poets describe, but you know the darkness has already begun to squirm beneath the surface.
"There's a lot going on this week." He eases his large, suit-clad frame into the chair opposite me, and removes his sunglasses. He knows I hate talking to people whose eyes are obscured by dark lenses. "So, you've seen the article."
"Haven't read it yet." I pour him a small cup of espresso from the pot that's always on the table in the mornings. This looks like it's going to be a four-espresso kind of morning, from the look on Mike's fleshy face.
He reaches for the sugar. "I'll wait while you do."
I turn back to the paper and read the first paragraphs.
A popular Tampa politician and nightclub owner has gone missing in the wake of his recent indictment on bribery charges. James Doyle, forty-two, was last seen leaving his Davis Islands condominium on Saturday morning, and his wife told authorities that he was going to the gym—but he never made it, and hasn't been heard from since.
Tampa Police say they are investigating the disappearance of Doyle, who also owns the Mansion nightclub in Tampa. Spokesman Joe Durkin says there are no suspects or persons of interest, but points out that "well-known members of the community don't just disappear on a sunny Saturday afternoon."
Authorities have also not ruled out suicide, given Doyle's recent trouble with the law.
"Oh, hell," I mutter.
"Read on," Michael says.
Doyle, who represents the wealthy neighborhoods of South Tampa on the city council, was indicted by federal prosecutors last month on bribery charges. Authorities allege he took money from developers in exchange for his vote on condominium projects.
The Tribune has learned that Doyle has ties to organized crime. In a jailhouse interview with a convicted mobster awaiting sentencing, Doyle reportedly has taken money from an array of business owners, including the city's wealthiest man, Gabriel Greco, in exchange for political favors.
Greco is the grandson of Angelo Greco, who was once the most powerful mafia boss in all of Florida, if not the United States. Angelo Greco died five years ago at the age of ninety-two. His entire fortune and business holdings that include vast citrus farms, hedge funds and housing portfolios, went to his grandson, Gabriel.
Calls and emails to Gabriel Greco and his attorney weren't returned by press time.
Greco was Doyle's largest campaign donor in the city's most recent election. Doyle won his seat with 58 percent of the vote...
I lower the paper. "Mike, what the fuck is this? Why didn't we comment for this story?"
My attorney clears his throat and fidgets with his empty espresso cup. "You told my assistant to alert us if it's a 'good news' story." He makes little air quotes, which I loathe. "She said you only want to comment on charities and community events. Positive things. Nothing negative."
"That I did." I sigh. "Dammit. Still. She should have told you about it. I would've liked to have known this was coming out. I hate being ambushed."
He nods, but his forehead collapses like a house of cards in a hurricane.
My hand reaches for the paper again and I read the rest of the article. It's quite long, with Doyle's entire history in politics, and my own family's illustrious legacy in the city. It even mentions my grandfather's casinos in Havana and my father's conviction on murder charges.
Basically, the article is a fucking history of the local mafia, and my blood pressure rises with every word I take in. Remarkably, almost everything in the article is true. Usually, local reporters get a few major things wrong, but this... It's uncanny how accurate it is.
When I'm done, I slap the paper on the table and Mike winces. I can smell his fear: salty and as sluggish as the Gulf Stream.
"Some anonymous fuck in jail who's on his way to federal prison told the Tampa Tribune that I bribed Doyle, and now the paper's all but accusing me of making him disappear?" My voice is cold enough to turn the steamy air into snow.
"That's what it appears, yes."
I rake in a breath while I ponder my next move. For the record, I didn't do anything to Doyle. Okay, sure, I did finance his campaign and yeah, I am interested in buying his club. Admittedly, I also bribed him so I could develop a few condos. A bunch of people did. Doyle was as corrupt as they come in Florida, and that's saying something. Here, there's no such thing as good money or bad money.
There's only money.
But I didn't make him go missing. Hell, I wanted him to stick around so he could do my bidding. He was one of three council members who was in my corner, along with various judges, congressmen, and one senator. Money talks, bullshit walks.
Also, I don't kill anyone unless they deserve it. And Doyle didn't deserve it. Yet. I was waiting to see how much he'd say to the feds. That bribery charge had nothing to do with me.
"Here's our plan."
"I'm all ears," Mike says.
"First, I want our private detective to investigate Doyle's disappearance. Make sure our guy contacts that whore he's been fucking, the one who dances at the Pink Pony or whatever skanky club she works at these days. I want to know if he's just taken a little vacation, if he's fled the country, or if he's killed himself. It'll be a lot easier on everyone if it's the latter."
"Got it. What else?"
"Let's try to locate this jailhouse informant. I want to know who the fuck's ratting me out like this. Use all our sources on this. There has to be someone in jail who knows who talked to this reporter. And..." My voice trails off as I pick up the newspaper again. "Let's put out a strong statement to the newspaper."
"On it."
I scan the article again. "I want you to threaten the Tribune with a libel suit. They can't print shit like this."
Mike clears his throat. "You're a public figure, sir. And you donated a hundred thousand dollars to the Tribune's needy children fund last Christmas."
"All the more reason for us to put the screws to them. They can't just print whatever they want."
Mike laces his fingers together and stares at me. He's one of the few people who challenges me, and normally I appreciate it. Not today.
"Sir, as far as I can tell, nothing was false in that article. I'm sure you're aware that if we were to bring a libel suit, their defense is truth—"
"I'm aware," I interrupt. "I want them to think twice next time they mention my name in an article."
My demand is met with silence, and I'm aware that Mike isn't in favor of this idea. In all honesty, it's not a great plan of attack; it makes me look defensive and weak. I sip my coffee and notice the beads of sweat on Mike's forehead.
Funny, since I'm not sweating at all.
"Okay, scratch the libel threat. I've got a better idea."
"Yes?"
I tap the newspaper. "Who is this reporter? Riley Murphy? I've never heard of him."
"I know nothing about him either, sir. But then again, I don't keep tabs on the local journalists, except for that news anchor you were dating last year."
I smirk. Lexi Perkins was an amusing diversion for a few months. We parted as friends when she got a job in L.A.
"Maybe Lexi knows this Riley guy, so let's call her. Although, no, I doubt it. Lexi always said the newspaper reporters were a different breed than the TV journalists. Something about being poor and badly dressed." Mike and I grin at each other. Lexi was all about brand names, luxury labels, and the high life.
"I'll find out what I can about him."
"Good. Perhaps we can arrange an interview so I can try to see how much more he knows. Maybe it's time for me to do a little digging of my own. Let Mr. Murphy know that I'm willing to talk under certain conditions."
Mike scratches the back of his neck, looking uneasy. "I'm not sure that's wise, sitting down with a journalist."
"What? You don't think I can outwit a poorly paid newspaper reporter?"
I reach for my phone and swipe the screen. "Let's see what we can find out about Mr. Riley Murphy. Personal details. Is he married? Does he have kids? What are his vices?"
I type the name, along with the Tampa Tribune, into a search engine, and a photo of a beautiful blonde pops up on the screen, accompanied by a recent announcement that she's the newspaper's latest hire. "No fucking way," I mutter.
"What?"
I tap over to the first article linked to the photo, a story from a small-town newspaper. "It appears that Riley Murphy is a woman, and she received her master's degree in journalism from Boston University and is eager to start her career covering crime in Florida. She's also incredibly fucking gorgeous, don't you think? I believe we'll have much to discuss."
I flash the screen at my lawyer so he can see the photo of Riley. She's all ocean blue eyes and pink lips, rosy cheeks, and slightly messy hair.
"Not your usual, but she is attractive."
"Let's reach out to her. Perhaps cocktails? I'd like to impress Ms. Murphy who is from..." I scroll through the article. "Boston. She's only been here a couple of months. I'd like to congratulate her on being so well sourced and give her a warm Tampa welcome."
"Oh, you're planning on that method of attack?" My attorney lets out a guffaw.
"Mmm-hmm," I hum, reaching for my espresso.
Yes, I'm certain that I can press this sweet thing for information on her sources and convince her to never mention my name in her newspaper articles again.