The untested, p.1
THE UNTESTED, page 1
THE
UNTESTED
A special THANK YOU to the reader for spending your hard-earned dollars on my book. I hope you enjoy my story…
REVIEWS
“An ENGAGING Mafia story spiked with some SURPRISES… Courtroom scenes read AUTHENTICALLY… A courtroom reveal, and an UNEXPECTED ending are more than SATISFYING.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A legal THRILLER with an EDGE.”
—Palm Beach Book Festival
“Move over John Grisham! The rich, authentic dialogue creates a real PAGE-TURNER. THE UNTESTED is cross between The Rainmaker and The Godfather. SPECTACULAR!”
—Amy Morse, Esq.
“A FUN ride! The fast-paced writing and INTERESTING characters made THE UNTESTED a riveting story that kept me on the edge of my seat!”
—Susan Sherwin
“The Mafia subplot stands on its own! Finally, an ICONIC Mafia story for a new generation! BRAVO!”
—David Morse
“HOOKED from the first page! I happily took a break from reading my favorite author, James Patterson to read THE UNTESTED!
—Tiffany Noble
THE
UNTESTED
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
THE UNTESTED
Copyright © 2021 Greg Morse.
All rights reserved.
Cover illustration by: Blokosky
Published by: G-JAM PUBLISHING HOUSE, LLC.
Contact at: greg@gjampublishing.com
Website: gjampublishing.com
Social Media: @gjampublishing
Published on: March 2, 2022
Hardback ISBN: 979-8-9855375-0-5
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9855375-1-2
eBook ISBN: 979-8-9855375-2-9
Audiobook ISBN: 979-8-9855375-3-6
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Acknowledgements
-1-
PRESENT DAY . . .
THE INSIDE of Jason Noble’s head felt like a marching band was performing at the Rose Bowl. He shook it, which only made it worse. The sea breeze blowing through his open balcony door increased his urge to vomit.
His iPhone was on the edge of the sink, blinking, lighting the bathroom in a bluish glow. His trusted assistant was reminding him of a vet appointment: Caesar, Thursday, January 22, 8 am. “fifteen minutes,” he said out loud, sighing, shaking his head again, trying to get the marching band to take a break. Jason flipped on the light switch, reached for the Listerine and took a swig. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he instinctively recoiled. He spit out the burning liquid and took a closer look. The person who looked back was almost unrecognizable. Jason’s thick, dark brown hair now had streaks of gray showing through and lines had formed around the creases of his now sunken eyes. Damn, I look like hell for twenty-nine. I’ve aged twenty years in the past few months!
Jason grabbed the soap in hope of washing away his weariness when his attention was suddenly diverted to a screeching sound coming from outside. He turned from the mirror, steadied himself on the sink, and made his way to the bedroom balcony, wearing only his boxer briefs. Squinting from the blinding Florida sun, he leaned over the railing and saw a black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of the guard booth. The driver’s side door started to open. Jason quickly ducked down, his heart racing. He didn't need to see the driver to know who owned the Lincoln. What’s Vinnie “The Bag” Respi doing here? Jason crouched behind the balcony wall, hiding like a rat.
Vinnie began honking the horn as he stepped out of the car, his thousand-dollar Italian loafers hitting the ground—HONK! HOOOOONK! Vinnie looked up at the façade of small balconies and replaced the honking with his baritone voice. “Yo! Jason! Let’s go! Hurry up, we gots plans!”
The guard booth door opened, and an old man in a perfectly starched uniform shuffled out toward Vinnie. “You can’t park there . . . and keep quiet!” Captain Tom scolded, pointing a rolled-up magazine at Vinnie. He wasn’t a real captain, but he took his job so seriously that the residents added the “captain” a few years earlier. “Move your car. Now!”
Vinnie leaned into the car and laid on the horn again as the front passenger door opened and a gorilla sized man stepped out. “Eh, old man, get back in ya fuckin’ shoebox before I shove ya back in,” Chrissie “Meatloaf” Stephini said in a tone that would frighten a professional boxer. “I’ll shove dat magazine up ya ass.” Captain Tom backed away, trembling.
Jason took a deep breath, pushed aside the fear welling up inside his chest, and stood back up. He rubbed his eyes hoping the hangover was causing his mind to play tricks on him. No such luck, he thought. Jason stared at the scene below, using all his energy to focus on what was unfolding and, more importantly, trying to figure out why in the hell are two mob enforcers at my condo? Didn’t I give La Cosa Nostra enough? . . . What else could they want from me?
“Quiet! I have neighbors!” Jason finally shouted.
“Yo! Jason, my friend! . . . Come on down.” Vinnie said, looking up with a smile.
Jason thought his expression looked more like an evil smirk. “I’ll uh . . . uh . . . be right down.”
Jason turned and went inside. Grabbing a pair of jeans and t-shirt from the bedroom floor, he quickly got dressed and walked into the living/dining room. His nerves began to explode, a sense of heat overwhelmed his body and sweat started streaming down his forehead. His mind raced out of control, mostly with thoughts that resulted in an untimely and painful death. Why can’t I just be left alone to run my small law practice in Palm Beach? Maybe that’s frickin’ impossible now.
“Everything okay?” came a soft, female voice from the couch, startling Jason.
He stopped as he was about to open the front door and spun around. Now it was starting to come back—Inaya! I forgot she came home with me, but I’m glad she did. He smiled at her. Wow! She’s gorgeous even when she first wakes-up “Uh, everything’s fine. Are we okay? Um, I’m sorry you had to sleep on the couch . . . why are you on the couch?”
Inaya sat up. She rubbed her large, brown, doe eyes and ran her fingers through her straight, black hair. “We’re good. Your bed was full . . . besides, I’m a respectable girl. I’m not going to hop in the sack on the first night,” she smiled.
“Great. I’ll be right back and we’ll get breakfast.” Jason turned and headed out the front door. He quickly tried to clear his head as he thought about going back and getting his gun . . . but decided it wasn’t necessary—he hoped.
* * *
“Mornin’, Capitan Tom. Sorry about this,” Jason said.
“Are they g-gone, Jason?” Tom mumbled, peeking his head out from under his small desk.
“Just stay here. You’ll be fine.” Jason didn’t really know if that were entirely true. He walked toward Vinnie and Chrissie with an air of false confidence, his chest puffed out, and said, “What do you guys want?” He was suddenly mad at himself for not bringing his gun.
“Boss wants ta see ya,” Vinnie said.
“Bout what?”
“How da hell should I know? I’m jus’ da messenger. Get dressed and let’s go.”
“I am dressed.” Jason took a step back, putting more distance between himself and Chrissie.
“You’re not wearing dat garbage ta see da boss . . . and shave for Christ’s sake. Show some respect.
“Put on sumptin’ ya’d wanna be buried in,” Chrissie added.
“What if I say no?”
“Dat’s why Chrissie’s here.” Chrissie stepped toward Jason clenching his big fists. Jason’s chest deflated. “You can put a nice suit on and get in the damn car or Chrissie can dress ya and shove ya in da trunk. Your choice . . . eider way, you’re comin’ wit us.”
-2-
A FEW MONTHS AGO . . .
THE CONSTANT THUNK sound that came every few seconds was maddening—THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . .
Alfonso clenched his thinning, greasy black hair that was wet from the spray off the ten-foot waves. “Enough!” he yelled to no one in particular, as he bent down and unhooked the harpoon gun on the deck next to a shipping container. This’ll stop that goddamn noise once and for all, he thought, as he lifted the big gun—the razor-sharp harpoon tip sticking out of the barrel.
The shipping freighter began its voyage in Shenzhen, China on June 1, but Alphonso boarded in Panama on July 2 for the seven-day journey to The Port of Palm Beach. His “special cargo” was already on board when the ship docked in Panama—six days late. Although, he didn’t really mind the delay; the prostitutes and heroin had been good company.
Alfonso quickly got used to the loud, whining engines and diesel smell that permeated his nostrils on each trip—this was his fifth. He gently swayed back against the shipping container, his feet stationary, as the freighter rolled over another ten-foot wave. His sea legs were good because of his low center of gravity. At five feet, four inches, and three hundred twenty pounds, Alfonso stuck to the deck like an anchor. But the constant noise coming from the shipping container made him crazy. He had nightmares for days after each trip, and they were lasting longer and longer.
Alfonso bitched to the crew every chance he got, even though most of them couldn’t understand a word he said: If it wasn’t fo’ da economy goin’ in da shitta, I wouldn’t have ta do dis nasty work. Earnin’s gettin’ harder and harder dese days. Years afta dat Great Recession ding and it’s still a struggle ta earn good enough for da Boss—greedy bastard.
Only Alfonso could hear it over the deafening engines and crashing waves that constantly rocked the freighter and swallowed any other sounds—THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . . He wiped the saltwater spray from his face and placed his hand on the rusty handle of the forty-foot by eight-foot container. It wouldn’t budge.
The deck was full of red, blue, and yellow containers stacked five high. From the shadows of the containers appeared a hard-looking Latin guy—probably from some savage hellhole in Central America. The Central Americans built a lucrative, niche industry, thanks in large part to pirates on the high seas, of escorting illegal cargo across the world’s oceans. Their paramilitary training made them perfect for the task and they came cheap, which is what Alfonso liked. “What de hell you doin’, gringo? It ten-foot seas, they gonna slide out if you open de damn door . . . Whale.”
“Don’t call me that . . . only friends-of-mine can call me ‘The Whale’ you two-bit wetback.”
“Eh, holmes, tranquilo. Don’t want to lose any de merchandise. Last trip we lose good one—mucho dinero. Mi jefe not happy,” Raul said, clinging his skinny frame to the side of another shipping container close to the one Alfonso was trying to open.
“Screw your boss. He’ll get his dinero. I always pay transport, based on what we left Panama with. I gotta stop this banging. I can’t take it!” Alfonso lifted the harpoon gun and shook it in Raul’s direction.
Raul adjusted his weight from leg to leg to account for the rocking freighter. “Stand over there so you no hear dem bang around.” Raul pointed to a black void about thirty feet away.
“I’ll stand by my product until we dock. I don’t trust any of you greaseballs.”
“Whatever . . . Whale. You explain to mi jefe if lose more. Bad ratin’ if don’t arrive with full cargo. Had thirty units when left Panama. Better arrive with thirty.”
“Ratin’? What ratin’? I pay per unit. I ain’t payin’ for no damn ratin’.” Alfonso awkwardly shifted his weight as the ship dove over a sharp wave much bigger than the previous few.
“People that need me boss ‘special’ transport want know if what they shipping arrive in one piece. Right now we best, but mucho competition today. Just make sure none damaged . . . Bastardo,” Raul turned and walked toward the bow. Within seconds he was lost in the shadows of the stacked containers.
“The hell with his el jefe. He’ll get his money. Almost every trip we lose one or two anyway . . . one more won’t matter,” Alfonso muttered. THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . .
He turned back to the container handle, put the harpoon gun down, and tried to open it again. “Damn it!” His hands slipped and his fat body smashed into the container with a thud. “What the fu—!” Alfonso yelled, as his legs went out from under him. The freighter quickly pitched to what felt like a ninety-degree angle. Alfonso fell hard on the wet deck. He rolled backwards, crashing into another stack of containers a few feet away. Water splashed all over.
The boat finally settled, and Alfonso rolled his body around and got to his knees. He was gasping for air. Raul reappeared, laughing, pointing with another Latin guy who had a machine gun clenched in one hand, holding on tight to a container railing with the other.
The harpoon gun came sliding down the deck, smashing into Alfonso’s knees causing him to fall forward on his belly.
“He really look like whale,” Raul said, pointing and howling.
Alfonso finally got to his feet, coughing, shaking his head, trying to get his bearings. “What the hell! Sonofabitch!”
A stout, chiseled man, in a Panamanian military uniform, silently came up behind Raul and commanded, “Vamońos!” Raul and his compańero quickly disappeared back into the shadows.
The man looked at Alfonso in disgust and said, without a hint of an accent, “Get off your fat ass and prepare to move your cargo. All of it. We’re docking in five.” The man turned around and left.
Alfonso slowly made his way over to the container, grabbing onto anything he could for balance along the way. At least the noise stopped. Finally, something good happened today.
The engines made a thunderous roar as the Captain put the throttle in reverse. The ship slowed surprisingly fast given its size. A blaring horn sounded three times as it approached the Port of Palm Beach located at the boarder of West Palm Beach and Riviera Beach. Alfonso had a guy that worked security at the Port, so it was easy to unload the “special cargo.” No one would miss one empty container among fifteen hundred full of knitted blankets from China. Alfonso’s ship easily got lost among the thousands of Zombie Ships, as they were called, roaming the earth with no cargo. Less than one percent of all shipping freighters coming into the U.S. were searched. Great odds for smuggling illegal cargo.
Alfonso grabbed the metal handle on the shipping container and put all of his weight behind it, but it still wouldn’t budge. “Jesus Christ. Eh, amigo. Get over here. Rapido!” Alfonso demanded, as he motioned with his hand to a guy standing by the edge of the ship. The deck was now busy with people preparing the ship to dock.
“Estás loco, gringo,” the skinny deckhand said, as he pushed Alfonso out of the way. He took a metal hook about eight inches long from the pocket of his dirty vest and placed it under the handle, and, with little effort, the latch popped open.
Alfonso was responsible for unloading his one container, the most valuable by far on the ship. Thirty units on this load. Twenty-five to one hundred thousand dollars each. The small ones were the most expensive, if they arrived in one piece. Alfonso pulled open the heavy container door—it creaked loudly from the rusty hinges. . . . He recoiled from the rush of putrid air. That smell got him every time. He covered his nose and mouth and looked in—only darkness, but he could hear muted sounds coming from the back of the container.
He turned on his flashlight. The beam cut through the thick, moldy air, sweeping side to side. . . . Then it stopped on a young, Asian girl’s face, perhaps twelve years old. The innocence of youth gone from her eyes. She was covered in filth, wearing rags for clothing, holding her hand over an elderly Asian woman’s mouth, who had tears streaming down her face. The old lady was clutching a small boy, who was lifeless in her arms. The little girl removed her hand and sank back as far as she could, which wasn’t very far because of the twenty-seven other Asian people pressed against each other behind her. The old lady began sobbing, the noise echoing around the container.
