TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Read online

  Longstreet was confident that his pride and joy, grandly named the Shalimar II, was a break- even proposition even if he was only half-right. But he was counting on doubling his money. Not that he planned to pay the Boudreaus anything. They didn’t care about him anymore. After all, they thought one of their own had turned state’s evidence against them. What was the fall guy’s name? Longstreet had trouble remembering. Some sleazebag Dago hood who was their right-hand man. Oh, yeah. Tucci. Mario Tucci. Supposedly a real psychopath and no great loss.

  The evidence he supplied that was planted in Tucci’s home and on his cell phone made it look as if Tucci had kept track of the Boudreau clan’s offshore money and was planning to steal some of it. Innocent of something for perhaps the first time in his sordid life, Tucci nevertheless knew that, despite his many years of loyal service, the vindictive Boudreaus, who saw conspiracy at every turn, would never believe him. He was a dead man. So, when the prosecutor offered to tuck him safely away in witness protection somewhere for his bogus testimony, he had no choice but to go along.

  Lorillard Boudreau took the fall, and the family was now headed by his obese and obtuse son, Beauregard, who never knew what hit him. Longstreet was quite certain that he was in the clear. It had all worked out perfectly. In fact, he’d just read that the former prosecutor had announced for the United States Senate.

  “What a corrupt system,” Longstreet said aloud.

  “Sorry, sir?”

  The waiter placed the fresh mojito on the table next to the lounge.

  “Oh, nothing, Henry. It is Henry, isn’t it?”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” the man replied wearily.

  CHAPTER 3 – SANDBAGGER

  The banter and bickering in a country club men’s locker room before a round is scatological, predictable and often amusing. Matthew Turner’s attempts to talk his golfing partners into giving him one more stroke a side filled all three requirements. An amused Cole Sudden had watched the same negotiations play out in the same place at the same time for most of the week.

  Turner, at 63, was a glib, handsome fellow with an expanding paunch as a testament to his fondness to stone crabs, marbled steaks and top-shelf scotch. Golf, tennis and fishing contributed to a deep tan – no surprise considering his gene pool – that masked an otherwise unhealthy lifestyle. His lounge-lizard looks and smooth charm would have set off alarms in a normal community. Not here. Here being Naples, the one in Florida. Among the lonely and desperate ladies he romanced, Matt Turner would be considered a good catch: thanks to Viagra still vigorous in the sack, as any number of satisfied women of a certain age could attest, but hopefully living on borrowed time. Sudden had watched him in action, cutting a swath among the widows and divorcees in Naples, which is an elephant graveyard for Midwest retirees.

  Sudden had filed away the local joke told to him by a barfly during his reconnaissance of Turner:

  A woman sipping a Cosmo at her favorite watering hole chats up a man she hasn’t seen before.

  “Just moved here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where from?”

  “Up North.”

  “Where up North?”

  Embarrassed, he says, “I’ve been in prison.”

  “My God! What did you do?”

  “Killed my wife.”

  “Oh,” she says, turning her full gaze on him. “So, you’re single.”

  Once a widow is tragic, Sudden believed. Twice a widow is usually a windfall for a con artist. If the women Turner was relentlessly romancing only knew what they were dealing with, he thought, they’d run for the hills. Well, perhaps, hobble.

  At the moment, Turner’s slick allure was being wasted on his three buddies as they all drank coffee and munched stale bagels and donuts at a table in the crowded Stonebrook Country Club locker room lounge. The deals cut in the world Turner came from were hard, cruel and unforgiving, but couldn’t hold a candle to the haggling over $10 Nassaus among golfers in one of Florida’s retirement communities.

  The men sitting with Turner certainly weren’t buying his malarkey, which included frequent references to his bad back, tennis elbow and trick knee. By the time he finished lamenting all his ailments, it was a wonder no one started CPR on him. But that wasn’t going to happen. The general consensus, voiced aloud, was that he was a “fucking sandbagger.” That’s a term used to describe someone who often plays a stronger game than his stroke handicap and alleged infirmities would seem to indicate. There are many ways to artificially inflate one’s handicap, which is supposed to level the playing field among golfers of disparate ability, ranging from purposely missing putts on holes already lost in a match to entering entire bogus scores in the club computer.

  Knowing Turner’s proclivities, Sudden was sure the 14 handicap listed by his name in the computer was as solid as a new car’s sticker price. Giving him extra strokes would be like giving a loaded gun to a toddler. That didn’t stop Turner from trying. He even appealed to Sudden for support, although he didn’t know him from a hole in the wall. But he had no reason to be suspicious. Sudden had so ingratiated himself to the locker room attendants and some of the members that he was often greeted by name, although it wasn’t his real one.

  “Can you believe these guys,” Turner said, looking over to the guest locker where Sudden sat lacing his golf shoes. “They’re bitching over a measly two strokes!”

  “Probably wouldn’t concede a putt to their grandmothers,” Sudden replied, getting a laugh from the group.

  ***

  Stonebrook (or “Stonehenge,” as Sudden mentally referred to it) was a private club where the majority of resident owners, unlike Matt Turner, were elderly snowbirds. Sudden was considerably younger than most members, but everyone assumed he was a guest or visiting family. He had no problem fitting in. Everyone in Florida seemed to be from somewhere else and any story he told would fly. Besides, in a pinch any impromptu non-golf conversation could be steered to football, college or pro, and that was that.

  Sudden knew that it also helped that the vigilance of the security staff at Stonebrook was on par with that of the S.E.C.’s enforcement division. Which is to say, it was basically nonexistent. Most golf communities in Collier County – where Naples is located – are private, members-only gated developments. Gaining access to a gated community can be tricky, but it depends on the club. Some exclusive clubs, with homes running into the millions, with separate golf memberships costing six figures, require guests to show a photo I.D. at the gate, usually a driver’s license. The guards may write down the I.D. number (and a camera may take a picture of your license plate) even if a resident has told them to expect you. No one wants a Picasso or Richard Prince stolen from a home on their watch.

  The guards at such anal clubs tend to be serious types, and may even be moonlighting cops or military, with excellent memories and dreams of catching an Al-Quaida terrorist trying to sneak in with a dozen plutonium golf balls. Lower-end golf communities are more lax about security, especially when a guest shows up only to play a round. Then, all that’s needed at the gatehouse is a name, a smile and dress that is appropriate for the occasion. The guards at the laid-back clubs are usually older than dirt and the main danger is that they might want to show you pictures of the grandkids and you’ll miss your tee time.

  Stonebrook, a “bundled” community, which meant residents automatically received a golf membership with the purchase price of their house or condo, fell into the latter camp. Sudden knew that Grandpa would be at the gate.

  On his first day in town, Sudden called the Stonebrook pro shop around 8 A.M., when he knew the staff would be harried. He told an assistant he was scheduled to play as a guest of a member (he mumbled a name) and had a tee time “just after 10, not sure exactly.” Informed that the nearest tee time was 10:08 with Mr. Smaltz, Sudden said, “That’s it, good old Smaltzy came through. By the way, who else are we playing with?”

  The assistant gave Sudden a couple of other names. Later, when he g
ot to the gate, the guard, who must have been on the walls of Troy in his youth, pulled out a clipboard and barely listened to the names Sudden rattled off. Once in, he headed to the golf shop, bought some gloves and balls, and grabbed the business cards of the golf pro and his assistants that were stacked by the register. He then ambled over to the administration building and got some more staff cards. He memorized them all back in his hotel room that night, and for the rest of the week, alternated dropping a half dozen names at the gate. He soon had the run of the place and even managed to play a couple of rounds. He actually liked the course, although he had some trouble putting on the greens, which were a little faster than he was used to up north.

  Sudden assumed that if he stuck around long enough, he’d probably be asked to vouch for a real member.

  CHAPTER 4 – THE PRICE IS RIGHT

  Turner was still whining about the unfairness of it all when his foursome left the lounge to hit some balls on the practice range before teeing off. Sudden grabbed a cup of coffee from the convenience bar by the lounge entrance and casually went out after them.

  In his week of scouting, Sudden had picked up plenty of useful information. Turner’s foursome was part of a larger men’s club that played every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. The men’s club ran various tournaments for its 60-odd members. The club alternated games. Sometimes the teams played best ball. Sometimes a scramble. Today, Friday, it was a Modified Stableford, where total scores didn’t count, and points were assigned based on how many pars and birdies one made in 18 holes.

  To anyone unfamiliar with golf, the games and strategies involved would appear bizarre. In fact, they were designed to give everyone a sporting chance, so that poor players with high handicaps could compete with their betters. However, given the competitive nature of most middle-aged men and the larcenous leanings of not a few of them, the same teams usually won the money. Handicaps were inflated, ringers were brought in as guests and on-the-course rules bent. The fact that Matt Turner prospered in this sea of sharks did not surprise Sudden. You can take a boy out of New Orleans, he knew, but you can’t take New Orleans out of the boy.

  Everybody contributed $10 to the daily prize fund, with $1 per player going to a local Pentecostal church dear to the heart of the man running the men’s club. Nobody objected to the donation since the guy had to tally all the scores and divvy up the prize money (closest to the pin, longest drive, longest putt and the tournament winners), all the while putting up with the gripes of several dozen retired guys with nothing better to do. And, of course, the miniscule donation eased some guilty consciences.

  Most foursomes also bet among themselves, just to make things more interesting. Despite his agonized protestations, Turner usually wound up winning money from his partners. On Wednesday, he’d made a good score, taking $60 from his pals, which is why they gave him such a hard time in the locker room.

  In addition to doctoring his handicap, Turner also cheated more blatantly. A few days earlier Sudden actually got close enough to see one of his stunts. It was on the sixth hole, which parallels the seventh. Turner’s drive on the sixth had landed in the brush that separated the fairways. The foliage was thick enough to conceal a Panzer division. Sudden was just coming up the seventh and saw Turner look around to make sure his playing partners couldn’t see him, and then kicked his ball from under a bush into an open area.

  The ploy insured that Turner would win the $60 from his “friends.” Sudden, who abhorred golf cheats, was grimly consoled by the knowledge that the $60 was $99,940 less than he was being paid to kill Turner.

  ***

  Matthew Turner’s real name was Mario Tucci, and he was the former top enforcer of the Boudreau crime family in New Orleans. He had been sandbagged by the cops in New Orleans in the sting used to put Lorillard Boudreau behind bars. He still didn’t know how they did it, or where they got the information they planted in his house and on his cell. But he didn’t dwell on it. A pragmatist, he decided to make the best of his new life in witness protection. He had enough money. He lived well and enjoyed his golf. For the first time in his life he had some male buddies. And there were enough lonely women in Naples to satisfy his diminishing libido.

  He did miss the killing, though. Even in New Orleans, a city known for the brutality of its criminals, Tucci stood out. His weapon of choice was the ice pick, although he was also known to occasionally use a machete or garrote when trying to send a particular message.

  Tucci’s murders were notorious, among criminals and cops alike. He often liked to string up his victims and set them on fire. Some of them while still alive. He once decapitated an entire family and switched their heads around. The family had a dog and a cat, and he switched their heads, too. One of the police officers who responded to that particular crime scene left the force and went into therapy. The New Orleans underworld even coined a phrase in his honor. Any especially brutal killing was a called a “Tucci.”

  For all that, he was never convicted of anything. He was expert at not incriminating himself at crime scenes, no matter how bloody they were. (The brutality of some of the murders often worked in his favor; by the time all the pieces were collected and sorted, they was a forensic nightmare.) He always disposed his weapons right after his murders. The bayous were filled with his utensils, which he quickly replaced, usually at Home Depot, where he was a favored customer. The few times he was arrested, for some minor crimes, he was soon released. The police, understandably, couldn’t find anyone willing to testify against him.

  Tucci knew that one of the attractions for the police in using him in the Boudreau sting was the opportunity to get him out of their hair. One of the cops even told him that the authorities expected “the murder rate to go down” once Tucci went into witness protection. Tucci had recently checked the Big Easy’s homicide figures on the Internet and was proud to see that it had indeed dipped.

  Tucci’s new name reflected the natural tendency of people in witness protection to have an identity they can easily remember. Sudden believed it also reflected Tucci’s notorious cheapness. In New Orleans, the hit man maintained the front of being a building contractor, and deducted the cost of many of the “tools” he bought at Home Depot, which he seemed to lose regularly. Sudden, who had seen Tucci’s tax returns, was sure the assassin just didn’t want to change the monogramming on his cuffs, rocks glasses, ties and other symbols of his ill-gotten gains.

  ***

  Sudden’s golf clubs were on his cart. It was a set of pre-owned Cobras he’d purchased for $299 earlier in the week at a PGA Superstore on Tamiami Trail, a street name more exotic than it deserves, since it just means the road links Tampa to Miami. Sudden often traveled to places where he’d have the time to get in a round or two of golf, or ski. He owned his own top-of-the-line equipment for both avocations, but traveled light when on a job. The better to get out of town quickly.

  Sudden wasn’t playing this day. But he went to the range to hit a few balls to keep an eye on Turner/Tucci, who was only a few feet away, lashing drives. The former mobster had a decent swing, with an enviable stack-and-tilt hitch that produced a nice draw.

  The driving range was more of a driving lake. Golfers hit their practice balls over a wide expanse of water in which two large islands sat, each with flags denoting various distances. The practice balls were “floaters,” which allowed for easy retrieval and reuse. Sudden didn’t care for the setup. For one thing, the floater balls only had about 80 percent of the compression of regular golf balls and thus didn’t travel as far. For another, he was a low-ball hitter and liked to see how much “roll” he got on his ball once it hit the ground. It was hard to judge that when the ball splashed long or short of the islands he aimed at. And, psychologically, like most golfers, he had a visceral aversion to hitting his shots into a lake. His golf balls ended up in enough water hazards when he played for real.

  “Let’s go, guys,” one of Tucci’s companions said, “we’re next on the tee.”

 
; The group hopped into their two carts and headed to the first hole, which was on the other side of a practice putting green 30 yards away. The weather was magnificent, as it can be in Southwest Florida in June. Cloudless sky, temperature in the low 80’s, light breeze, perfect golf conditions. Sudden watched Tucci and his pals drive off down the first fairway five minutes later. If they stuck to their routine, they’d finish up in just over four hours, head in to the club for lunch and beers with the boys, settle up the private bets and check to see who made money in the group tournament. Tucci usually lingered for a couple of scotches in the grill and then headed home for a nap.

  At least Sudden presumed he took a nap. That’s what he would do after a round of golf, a big lunch and half a dozen drinks – and he wasn’t 63. Then Tucci would shower and shave, douse himself with cologne and head to one of the local bars to work his magic with the ladies.

  Confident that he had five or six hours to spend in Tucci’s condo undisturbed, Sudden drove his golf cart back to the bag drop, where an attendant cleaned them while he got his rental car from the lot. Ten minutes later, he drove up to the covered car port fronting the two-story building in Stonebrook’s “Briarwood” community where Tucci’s F.B.I.-financed condo was located. He pulled into one of the slots marked “GUEST.”

  Sudden had changed in his car and was now wearing generic workman’s garb and a brown UPS-like cap. In his left hand was a large toolbox containing a variety of low- and high-tech burglary instruments; a small wooden wedge, surgical gloves, a bottle of chloroform, a face cloth, a cork-tipped syringe full of a potassium; a Kindle e-reader, and a silenced .25 caliber Beretta, in case things didn’t go as planned.

  In his other hand was a clipboard, which gave anyone instant neighborhood credibility.