Vacant Shore

by Jack Hardin

  He smiled. “Do think you’ll ever want to do something like the DEA again?”

  “Jet, why do I have the feeling that you want to ask me something?” When he grinned, she said, “For you, I’m all ears.”

  He took another pull on his beer, said, “With the understanding that you’re coming off a fair amount of craziness, I wanted to see what your level of interest might be in joining me in a new venture.”

  “A new venture? I thought you were retiring.”

  “Retirement is a relative term, don’t you think? I’m going to be opening a PI practice. Think about joining me.”

  “You? A PI? Jet, that’s great.”

  “I put in my time with the agency. I know me, and I won’t be able to sit still for long. I’ll drive my wife crazy, and well, you get the picture.”

  “So, join you?”

  “I don’t have all the kinks worked out yet. But, if you’re so inclined.”

  Garrett was across the room motioning for Ellie to come over. “I’m not sure,” she said to Jet. “But, let’s talk down the road.”

  “Sure thing. Go on.”

  When Ellie approached Garrett, he turned and walked toward his office at the front of the house. She followed him through the French doors. The room had a small desk set near the window. Bookshelves abounded with titles representing subjects as diverse as foreign policy, history of the drug war, and modern fashion. “What’s up?” she asked.

  Garrett took something off a shelf and handed it to her. It was a cube the size of her hand and was wrapped in red metallic paper. “All of us at the office got this for you. I didn’t want to take away from Jet’s spotlight, but we all want you to know how much we appreciate you.”

  Ellie set her drink on a shelf and peeled away the wrapping to reveal a white cardboard box. She worked her finger into a slit on the top and pulled it back. It was a white mug. She pulled it out, turned it, and started to laugh. “You guys are nuts.”

  “It was Mark’s idea.”

  On one side of the mug was an image of a black pompadour hairstyle, like Elvis would have worn. It was just the hair, no head or face. On the other side of the mug were the words “Thanks for all your help, Julie Jangle.”

  More than any other time over the last few weeks, Ellie wished she was back with the DEA. “Thanks, Garrett. This means a lot.” The back wall of the office was covered in picture frames. She stepped over and surveyed them. Most were of DEA agents in desert uniform. Some were portraits of professional men or women behind desks or in front of flags. “Angela hates how I’ve laid these out. ‘Not enough breathing room,’ she says.”

  “So who are all these people?” she asked.

  “Most of them are good memories or people who have influenced me in some way.”

  Ellie pointed to a picture of two men in a dark bar, clutching half-empty beer glasses. “What’s this?”

  Just a couple old friends. “That was right after field training ended. Before we went to Afghanistan.”

  She moved her fingers to one of a middle-aged man in a gray suit. “This?”

  He smiled. “That one is just there to make me angry.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Robert Higgins got rich selling dope to Al-Qaeda. Got caught and was pinned with forty years before getting pardoned by the president on his way out of office. Today he’s back living in the Hamptons. There has yet to be any solid regulation overseas so corruption abounds.”

  Ellie went back to the shelf and picked up her glass. She took a sip. “So what’s your next move?” she asked. “Are you going to keep moving up the ladder?”

  “That’s the plan. I haven’t had this position long and I’m young. So, we’ll see.” He finished what was left of his beer and said, “Come on, I’ve got a speech I need to give.”

  ____________________

  Andrés hurled the phone with such force that its plastic casing shattered against the wall on impact.

  “What did she say?” Chewy asked.

  “Someone did a standard check of the crates before loading them onto the truck.” Andrés rubbed at the space between his eyes. “She said it wasn’t the regular product. It was pills.”

  “Pills? That truck was supposed to leave last night. She’s just now telling us?”

  “She sent them off to a street lab. You want to guess what they are?”

  “No. I don’t,” Chewy said.

  “Our product mixed with an opioid. I forget the word. Fet—feti—”

  “Fentanyl?”

  “Yes. That.”

  Chewy ran both hands through his beard, took a deep breath. He started to mumble something Andrés couldn’t make out. But he knew Chewy was trying to be positive. Andrés didn’t want to try and be positive. He wanted to crack some heads. One in particular.

  “Quinton is a good man,” Chewy finally said. “A very good man. What’s happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought he would do this. Especially without telling us first.”

  “Ringo was right. Something isn’t right with him.”

  “We need to tell Ringo about this.” Andrés said.

  “No. He’s not available. And if he was we still don’t need to tell him. He’s stepping out. He shouldn’t be bothered with this. It’s our problem.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We need to call Aldrich. This will affect him too.”

  “You know he won’t talk on the phone. Besides, I think he’s not available the next few hours.”

  Chewy said, “Doesn’t matter. This is his problem too. Call him.”

  ____________________

  Jet stood in the corner of the living room, Garrett standing next to him. The room had quieted and given their attention to their host. “I’ve never been one who liked giving speeches,” Garrett said. He had a fresh drink in his hand and he took a sip.

  Tyler leaned in toward Ellie and whispered, “I hope he’s not picturing all of us naked right now.” She sent an elbow into his ribs and bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “I did promise Jet that I wouldn’t make any old man jokes,” Garrett said. “All I’m going to say is that if you have any questions about what it was like living through the Industrial Revolution, just ask Jet. Because he was there.”

  The room broke into laughter, and Garrett spent the next several minutes retelling Jet’s achievements, mixing in a few anecdotes along the way. Wrapping up, he said, “In all seriousness, Jet has put in just under thirty-two years with the agency and was one of the very few who had the honor of being with the Search Bloc when Escobar was taken down. As an agency, we’ll be able to fill his position but will come up short on his experience and capabilities.” He raised his glass. “Jet. You’ll be missed.”

  The room raised their glasses and toasted one of their leaders. As they went back to their side chatter, Ellie heard a muffled buzz. Tyler reached into his jeans’ pocket and brought out his phone. When he glanced at the number, a nearly imperceptible frown crossed his face. He stepped aside and, walking to the back door, put the phone to his ear and stepped out.

  Ellie watched him through the back window as he slowly walked down a stone pathway towards Garrett’s private dock. A minute later he walked back toward the house and came back in. “Hey,” she said. “Everything all right?”

  He forced a smiled, something she had never seen him do. He looked distracted. “Yeah. Fine. Hey, I know this is lame, but would you mind seeing if you could get a ride back? I need to run on.”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  That false smile again. “I just need to go. I’ll...tell you later.”

  “Okay. Go on. I’ll get a ride with Mark.”

  He stepped away, acknowledging her with a meager nod, and she watched him leave through the front door. Mark came up to her. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine.” But she didn’t think he was.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Julip’s real name was Julius. Julius Jen
kins. But not many people knew that. When someone would ask Julip what his name was, the de facto reply would always begin with “J-J-Ju-Ju-…” Just like that. At some point in the distant past someone had made a joke about his lips not working right. “Julip,” as a moniker, followed soon after. Julip didn’t care enough to make the extended effort to correct them and tell them that his stuttering had nothing at all to do with his lips.

  Julip now sat in a metal folding chair in the center of Stacey Blume’s cluttered office. The man they called Ringo was standing over him. There was another folding chair leaning against the wall. Quinton grabbed it. He positioned it in front of Julip and sat backward on it. “Julip, do you know why so many people in the old West got killed?”

  “No-n-n-no.”

  “I didn’t think you would. It’s because they were cheaters. That’s the short of it. They were all a bunch of swindlers. See, here’s the thing. Last night, your very first night on the new job, and someone sees you swipe a wee bit of my cocaine. My cocaine, Julip.”

  “No-n—”

  “Now just hold your tongue a minute.” Quinton smiled at that. He reached into the pocket of his shorts. “Now, you didn’t take much, but then that’s not really the point.” He pulled his hand from his pocket. A small plastic baggie was dangling from his fingers. “This yours?”

  Unlike his mouth, Julip’s eyes did not stutter. They were filled with a wild sort of horror. “Y-y-yes.”

  Quinton put a hand on Julip’s shoulder and squeezed gently, the way a proud father would after his kid’s ball game. “Thank you for your honesty, Julip. It was the right thing for you to tell the truth. Why don’t you follow me? Just across the floor.”

  AJ opened the office door and stepped back, then waited for Quinton, Julip, and Stacey to exit before bringing up the rear.

  Julip wrapped his hands across his chest and stuffed them in his armpits so they wouldn’t see his hands shake. He followed the man that they called Ringo past the press machines and stopped near the hose, where a large blue drum sat. Quinton turned to face him, sliding his hand back and forth along the edge of the drum as he spoke. “Julip. You understand that for an organization to function properly it needs everyone to have respect for those who are running it, right?”

  Suddenly, to the surprise of all, Julip seemed to find his tongue. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to ask you to get into this barrel—just for a few hours.”

  Julip swallowed loudly.

  “Now yes, it will be uncomfortable, and yes, you might have to use the bathroom, but I need to know that you’re willing to learn your lesson. Are you willing to get in here or do I need to think of something more drastic?”

  Julip looked nervously at the barrel. “O-o-o-okay.”

  “Good, good. AJ, would you please help Julip the rest of the way out of his hazmat suit?”

  AJ nodded. When Julip was standing in his shorts and T-shirt, Quinton said, “Julip, why don’t you let AJ help you get in?”

  AJ came around Julip and awkwardly lifted him up. Julip positioned his feet over the top, and AJ lowered him down. “Now,” Quinton said, “if you’ll just have a seat. There’s a little cap on the lid that we’ll remove so you’ll be able to breathe.”

  Julip nodded. “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry, R-r-r-ringo.”

  “I know.” And with that Quinton grabbed up the lid that had been leaning against the wall. Julip was looking up with uncertain eyes, his knees in his face, when the lid slid over the top. Quinton twisted it around until it fit snuggly in place and then flipped over the metal lever, latching the lid.

  Stacey whispered. “Are you sure about this?”

  Quinton ignored her and unscrewed the small cap on the top. He leaned over and peered in, said, “You okay in here?”

  “Y-y-yes, R-r-r-ringo.”

  “Excellent.” Then, to the surprise of the other two standing there with him, Quinton walked over to the hose and unscrewed the hand nozzle. He tossed it to the side.

  “What are you doing?” Stacey asked.

  He didn’t answer. He came back to the barrel and slipped the tip of the hose through the drum lid.

  “What are you doing?” Stacey growled through clenched teeth. “You can’t do this.”

  Quinton leaned in, and when he spoke she knew that she had underestimated him. His breath tickled her ear, but it was his words that sent a chill tracking down her neck. “Would you like to join him?”

  She jerked back. “No,” she said quickly.

  From inside the barrel they could hear a heightened, “Wh-wh-wh-what…”

  Quinton drilled his eyes into Stacey’s. “Turn on the water,” he said.

  “No. I’m not that kind of person.”

  “You are tonight, sweet cheeks. Your product kills people every day on the street. You think this is any different? Grow a spine, woman, and turn on the damn faucet.”

  Stacey turned on the faucet. The hose bucked up as water started flowing through.

  Julip didn’t stutter when he screamed. It was muffled by the thickness of his plastic tomb.

  Quinton laughed. “He sure has some lungs on him, doesn’t he?”

  The three of them stood there, waiting for the drum to fill, Quinton tapping his foot to some beat in his head, Stacey nervously picking at her thumbs. The drum shook as Julip pounded against the sides. The lid bucked when he tried to stand into it. But the clamp held and the water continued flowing in. Just as the screams were turning to a methodical garble, Quinton went back to the spigot and turned off the water. He returned to the barrel and stared at it for a while, until there was nothing left to hear. Then he tossed the cap to AJ. “The honor is all yours, sir.”

  AJ, who looked as though he held no particular opinion about what he had just witnessed, screwed the cap back on and stepped back.

  “Let’s leave him right here for a day or so,” Quinton said. He turned his attention back to Stacey, who looked as if she had just stepped from a graveyard on Halloween. “Apparently, some people around here need a lesson in respect.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The valet drove the Suburban across the airstrip and slowed to a stop as it approached the Gulfstream. The aircraft’s clamshell door was open, and Scott Reardon watched from his backseat window as his team of lawyers hurried up the steps. He looked in the rearview mirror at his valet. “Take my bags up. I’m waiting on someone.”

  Reardon closed his eyes and ran his hands down his face. His little enterprise was beginning to crumble around him. Trigg Deneford had failed him. So had his team in Arizona. He had no other cleaners at his disposal; they had all bailed on him. Titus Clark, his personal assistant, had vanished. He didn't show up for work this morning, and his phone was turned off. This time, the local authorities down in Florida would not release Trigg. Reardon knew that it would be a matter of time before he talked, before he cut a deal and exposed his own connection with Reardon from the last few years.

  Two hours ago, Rita Simmons had gone live with affidavits that exposed Reardon’s dealings with Solaron Solutions. He had ensured their CEO that they would receive a specific number of federal contracts. He had come through, and they had paid Reardon well. This time there had been no courtesy call from Rita. RT Network had just thrown it on the airwaves. Someone had known to put the screws to Solaron’s CEO, and he had talked.

  A black BMW pulled up beside Reardon. His appointment stepped out and walked around the Suburban. He opened the back door and slid in across from Reardon, then shut the door.

  “You’re all over the news,” he said. “What went wrong?”

  “It seems that someone has my number,” Reardon said.

  “So what do you need from me? If you think I’m not going to distance myself from this, you’re wrong.”

  “I can’t locate Titus. He’s my cleaner.”

  Frank O’Conner looked out the window toward the plane. “And you want me to wipe everything down in his absence? That’s not what I do.”

&
nbsp; Reardon set his briefcase across his lap and snapped it open. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a key. He handed it to his associate. Then he removed a business card from the briefcase. He produced a pen, wrote hurriedly on the card, and held it across the seat. “It’s a box at National Capitol. I’ll wire you funds when I’m in the air.”

  “Don’t bother. I would rather there not be anything else that could lead back to me.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll do it. Where are you headed?”

  “Switzerland. I’m sure I’ll be arraigned in the next few days and will have to return.”

  “Best of luck.” With that, Frank O’Conner returned to his vehicle and drove away. Reardon stepped onto the tarmac, steeling himself for a transatlantic flight with a bevy of overwrought lawyers.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  He pulled up on the chair’s adjustable handle, and the lumbar support pressed tighter against his lower back. He didn’t like that too much, so he tried to move it back. He pressed down on the same handle, and the chair shot down three inches. Kyle Armstrong tossed his hands up and sat there defeated. One more thing he couldn’t get right these days. The leather chair was ergonomically designed and had, he thought, a strange design, almost like a praying mantis, or even an alien. For the life of him Kyle couldn’t remember purchasing it. Maybe Carlene had gotten it for him. Why he would buy something like this he had no idea. It wasn’t very comfortable. It did look nice behind the desk though, made the office look a little more distinguished.

  It was Sunday, and he had come in for a couple hours to try and regain his bearings. Since experiencing what his family was now quietly calling “the event,” Kyle had been trying to put in a few hours at the office each day. As usual, he would come in at nine in the morning, and then, most unusual, discover that his mental stamina would only last for two, maybe three hours. He had quickly discovered that trying to focus on important details for more than a few moments was like trying to swim through oatmeal, a little fact he didn’t come upon until his warehouse manager started hurling numbers and routes and barrel counts at him in what felt like a one-way volley.