Fair Trade

by Dustin Stevens

  “I thought this was being taken care of?” Morgan asks.

  “It was, but things have changed,” Teller replies. “Turns out the guy is a bit smarter than we might have thought. Which is good for him, but bad for anybody else he might have talked to.”

  Leaning back, Morgan exhales slowly. He considers what she is saying, finally understanding why she has come to see him.

  Her job has a fair bit of leeway in it, free range she has been extended for completing certain tasks, but she isn’t at liberty to make all decisions on her own. The go-ahead for those must come from a ranking official within the organization.

  Someone like him.

  “How wide are we talking?” he asks.

  “Enough to finish it,” Teller replies.

  “And you’re certain they can get it done?”

  The right corner of her mouth turns upward, a small smirk rocking her head back half an inch. “Considering everything that has happened in the last day or so? Yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

  Morgan has no idea exactly what she’s referring to, and he doesn’t want to. Already this has grown bigger than it should have, extending much further than any of the other ones.

  “Just make it go away,” he mutters.

  Both eyebrows rise as she nods, a bit of surprise coloring her façade. “There could be some unforeseen costs associated with doing so.”

  “Just make it go away.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Both of the beds in the room beside mine have been made, each of the Ogo women awake and showered. On the round table in the corner sits a small assortment of items that Valerie had picked up from the gas station, chips and power bars and a handful of other snack items. I’m guessing drinks line the shelves of the minifridge in the corner, the appliance humming loudly, making sure we are all well aware of its presence.

  Added to the collection are the pair of sacks I brought with me, one the medicines from the Ogo’s home, the other more food from the Von’s I passed on the way out here. Mostly deli items, it is filled with sandwiches and pasta salad and a few other odds and ends, light only the chicken tenders I ate in the car as I drove.

  They were terrible, salty and overcooked, but they were protein and calories, two things I haven’t gotten enough of in the last week. If recent events have told me anything, it’s that I should make a point to stay replenished, as there is a strong likelihood I’m going to soon be needing it.

  Just as my years in the military have instilled, always consume when the opportunity presents itself. One never knows when the next chance might arise.

  A bottle of water in hand, I lean back in one of the wooden chairs provided for the table in the corner. Perched on the edge of the bed before me is Valerie. Leaning forward, her fingers are laced between her knees, a look of concern on her face.

  Behind her, Fran sits at the head of the bed, her back against the wall, staring off into space.

  “How much English?” I ask, leaving my question vague.

  “None,” Valerie replies, catching where I was going with that. “I mean, no more than basic greetings, anyway.”

  Nodding slightly, I ask, “And you?”

  Again, I am speaking in fragments, hoping she will know where I am leading.

  “Was born here,” she says. “They sent my father here for college, he never went back.”

  Like me, she is speaking in code, trusting that I will fill in the blanks.

  “And him? Now?”

  “Gone,” she says.

  Flashing my gaze to the head of the bed, I ask, “Same?”

  “No, but yes.”

  Words have been sparing, but they provide a great deal of clarity to the situation. Decades before, Fran Ogo sent her son to America. Allowed entry under COFA, he was either sick at the time or contracted it later on, eventually succumbing to cancer.

  Not thyroid, but some form it, a result of spending his formative years with such direct exposure to the radiation still in the area.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For both of them.”

  Pressing her lips tight together, Valerie nods slightly. “Thank you for getting the medicine. It isn’t much, but it does help.”

  My turn to nod, I accept her thanks, before saying, “The house is still under surveillance. Two men, plain car. Not the same as last night, but from the same group.”

  “The same group that...” she says, using a hand to motion toward me.

  “Yes,” I reply. They are from the Wolves, the same people that killed my wife, that seem intent on turning the lives of so many other people upside down.

  People that at first glance don’t seem to be connected, or at least not enough to warrant what is happening.

  “I spoke to the doctor. He told me he had never met my wife.”

  “No, he hadn’t,” Valerie replies. “We only met her a couple of times.”

  Falling silent, I chew on that a moment, trying to make sense of it.

  “Walk me through it,” I say, my focus shifted to the side, still trying to put these women and my wife together. “Who called who? How was this all set up?”

  The basic backbone for what brought them along was there. Fran Ogo was a COFA migrant that was sick and needed care. My wife was a social worker that specialized in helping people navigate the system.

  Still, there were large gaps that existed between almost every aspect, different spheres floating nearby, but not yet overlapping.

  “Do you happen to know a woman named Mallory Rueben?”

  The name surprises me, my eyebrows rising. “I know Mallory very well. She’s the one that let me into my wife’s office, which is how I got your name and contact information.”

  The response is a small bastardization of events, but by and large it is the truth. I’m not lying about anything, though perhaps omitting just a bit.

  “Right, well, I went to undergrad with her,” Valerie replies. “Not terribly close, more like Facebook friends. She was a bit older, already had a family to get home to each night.”

  Nodding, I remain silent, letting her continue.

  “When Nana got the diagnosis and the doctor told us we were going to need to seek out specialized care, I guess I kind of freaked out. I’m a graduate student and work part-time.

  “I have insurance through school, have a little money from when Papa died, but...”

  Cutting herself off, I can see the overhead lights reflecting off the sheen of moisture in her eyes. What she is describing is difficult, the sort of thing thousands of people in the country experience every day.

  Healthcare is absurdly expensive, cancer treatment of any kind even more so. Trying to do that as a migrant that doesn’t speak English, or even Spanish, is almost impossible.

  “And she recommended Mira?” I ask. My voice is no more than a whisper, my core tightening. I hate the idea that one of our friends might have in some tiny way contributed to what happened to her, no matter how unknowing.

  Even more what it would do to Mallory if she ever found out.

  “She did,” Valerie replies. “Said Mira was the healthcare guru in the office, that if anybody could get us squared away, it would be her.”

  To see Dana Penson on the street, a person’s most immediate thought would be soccer mom. Not meant to be the least bit disparaging, it wasn’t even an assessment based solely on looks.

  Sure, she was diminutive in stature, with curly hair that hung almost to her shoulders and a round face positioned above a rounder torso, but it was based more on her demeanor. On the fact that her voice was almost singsong. That she never used a swear word, instead preferring to exclaim fiddlesticks, or phooey, or even rats if things really weren’t going her way.

  Or that the scrubs she wore were always festooned with Garfield or Sponge-Bob or some other such character.

  Or a thousand other tiny things that made her who she was.

  All of which made the fact that she was making my life miserable, rendering me in agony vir
tually at will, all the more difficult to swallow.

  “I told you you weren’t ready for eight yet,” Dana said, her voice bearing just the slightest bit of self-satisfaction.

  Bent over at the waist, drawing in massive breaths of air, all I could see was the bright white of the running shoes she wore, though I had no doubt if I looked up, the expression to match her tone would be plastered across her face.

  With one hand draped over the steel railing beside me, I glanced to the rubber-coated eight-pound dumbbell on the ground between my feet. Less than half the size of either shoe I wore, I stared at it with disdain before pulling myself upright.

  As I did so, the full light of the outside world returned hit me square, the morning sun made even brighter as it reflected off the three inches of fresh snowfall we’d received overnight.

  Despite the frigid scene depicted on the other side of the window, sweat ran down over my face, saturating the stray hairs sprawled across my forehead. The salty brine of it rested flush on my lips, adding to the frustration I felt.

  “I told you, I’m not doing the fives anymore,” I said, keeping my face turned from Dana, my eyes squinted up as I stared outside.

  Positioned on the far end of campus, the rehab facility backed up to an open field that was ran by the agricultural department. Some months prior, it had been planted with winter wheat, the snow having settled into even rows lined across it, promising to be knee-high by July 4th.

  As a former athlete, I was granted access to the facility for as long as was necessary, needing only to make a couple of phone calls to put things in motion. Since I was still an employee of the Red Sox, they were footing the bill for everything, making it an arrangement that worked well for all parties.

  The training center was well compensated for their time. I was allowed to be where I wanted, living with the person I needed. Everything was good.

  Except for the fact that my recovery was taking much, much longer than I’d anticipated.

  “Aw, come on,” Dana said, coming up alongside me. Resting her palms against the same steel bar I was leaning against, her wrists flush against her chest, she added, “You can’t let the fact that they’re pink push you off.”

  Flicking my gaze to the mirrors running the length of the room beside us, I could see the faint smile on her features, knew that she was only joking with me.

  Though that did nothing to dampen the frustration roiling through me.

  “I don’t give a damn if they’re made of cotton candy,” I snapped. “It’s the fact that we’ve been at this for almost two months, and a damn eight-pound dumbbell is kicking my ass.”

  Beside me, I could see a flash of dark hair as she looked my way, her jaw parting slightly.

  “Look, Kyle,” she said, the melodic lilt of her voice receding as she looked my way, “I know this is hard. And that it takes a lot longer than you’d like-“

  “But what? I have to keep at it? I have to forget about the fact that spring training opens in three weeks and I still can barely pick up a dumbbell that weighs a fraction of what a bat does?”

  My mouth open, there was no less than a dozen – two dozen – things I wanted to add. Bits of venom I wanted to fling, aiming it at everything I could think of.

  Myself for having dove at that damn ball. My shoulder for taking so long to come around. The surgeon for not doing a better job. Dana for not making it better already.

  None of this was how things were supposed to be. Coming back to Corvallis was a choice, somewhere to train with the team through the winter months before heading to Florida in February to try my hand with the big team.

  Not this. None of this.

  Leaning forward, I raised my face toward the ceiling. I blew a long sigh out through my nose, my eyes sliding closed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m just frustrated.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As the head of the Wolves, Ringer spends the vast majority of his time at The Wolf Den. He, along with his deputies, receive a salary for being there, taking a cut of membership dues and assorted other enterprises that the club is involved in. Not a huge cut, but enough to keep him fed and clothed.

  And pay the bills on his own home, the place he retreats to in the moments between stints at the bar.

  Even he can’t be around the guys all the time.

  The reason for his return home tonight has nothing to do with needing a break. He isn’t hungry, doesn’t want to catch the latest episode of NCIS, doesn’t even need sleep.

  What he needs are answers. And the only way to get them is to have a conversation without a dozen other Wolves listening to the phone call he’s about to make.

  The home he rents is just outside of Santee, the next town north in order from El Cajon. Far enough removed from the bar to not to be in direct sightline, it is a small dwelling carved into the side of a canyon wall. The front protrudes out, raised on stilts, with a wooden porch lining it. The rear and sides are literally the limestone of the rock formation.

  Facing south, the place stays cools year-round, never receiving direct sunlight.

  And more importantly, is easy to fortify and defend, with only a single point of entry.

  Stepping over the threshold into the house, Ringer flips on the lights, a filmy glow springing to life, illuminating everything. Moving fast, he tosses his keys onto the table by the wall, knowing he won’t be here long.

  The place is designed as one enormous studio. The size of a regular home, it was built without interior walls, both to take advantage of the unique geographical design and to give him clear sightlines to everything in the home at any time.

  As head of the Wolves, he isn’t foolish enough to believe that the list of people that would like to see harm befall him isn’t lengthy. Everyone from rival crews to past business associations to some members of his own club that might be gunning for a promotion could stop by unannounced.

  And when they did, he needs to know he was never more than a few feet from one of the weapons he has stowed around the place. That he could get off a clear shot before they even got their bearings.

  In the far back corner is his sleeping area, which consists of a king-sized bed and a miniature gun locker disguised as a night stand. Across from it is a kitchen with all the requisite pieces, though the fridge and the coffee pot are the sole items that ever get used.

  Most of the front of the place is left open, a couch and recliner on one-side offset by a table and chairs on the other. A toilet and freestanding shower are tucked along the side.

  Otherwise, the place is barren. No pictures on the walls, no throw pillows on the couch or bed.

  A head-on collision of a crash pad and a bachelor spread, the place is utilitarian in a way that trends well past Spartan.

  Just as Ringer likes it.

  Striding across the room, he is still fuming. Taking long steps, he goes straight for the refrigerator, jerking the door open in search of a beer. When none turns up, he sets his attention on a bottle of water, snapping it out and emptying it in one long pull.

  When it is empty, he chucks it in the sink before grabbing another and slamming the door shut, leaving a menagerie of old and molding food behind.

  In his years as the top man, never before have the cops had the temerity to set foot inside The Wolf Den. More than once they have stopped by, or pulled one of them to the side of the road to ask a few questions, but never have they actually entered.

  Certainly not sauntered in as if they belonged there, smugness and condescension rolling off them.

  The mere recollection of the black bastard with his sunglasses and tie makes Ringer’s blood boil, his grip tightening on the bottle of water in his hand, threatening to blast the cap off the end of it.

  Keeping it clamped tight in his paw, he walks over and deposits himself on the couch, a thin plume of dust rising around him. Extracting his phone, he scrolls to the third entry in order and hits send.

  “Don’t you even think about
ignoring me, you bitch,” he grumbles, listening to a pair of rings before the line is picked up.

  “I told you this afternoon I would be in touch,” Elsa Teller says. She doesn’t use a greeting of any kind. Her tone makes it clear she’d rather not be having the conversation.

  Which is exactly how Ringer feels as well.

  “Yeah, well, things have changed since then.”

  A moment passes, Teller most likely considering what was said, before she asks, “Lincoln? Did he turn up?”

  “Nope,” Ringer says, “but it’s funny you should jump straight to him, because the damn cops showed up today sniffing around about him.”

  In response, there is nothing but silence. Deciding to wait her out, Ringer leans forward, the phone pressed to his face, his elbows resting on his knees.

  The pose isn’t nearly as intimidating over the phone, but it does eventually drive home the intended message.

  “What? And you think I put them on to you?” Teller asks.

  “Seems mighty odd,” Ringer replies, “in the course of twenty-four hours, you show up, two of my guys get jumped, and now the cops are coming around. You do the math.”

  A sharp snort rings out, the sound acerbic, doing nothing to cool the acrimony seeping into Ringer’s system. “And you think I walked into your bar, made a business arrangement with you, and then met with you a second time today just to tip law enforcement?

  “Leave the math to me. It clearly isn’t your strong suit.”

  Using his elbows, Ringer pushes against his knees, leveraging himself to his feet. He flings the water bottle behind him, sending it bouncing off the couch, every breath loud and angry.

  “Listen, woman-“

  “Kyle Clady,” she says, cutting him off before he can get another word out.

  The skin around his eyes creases into tight folds as Ringer pauses. “What?”

  “The man you’re looking for, the one that put down your guys last night, is likely who did in Mike Lincoln,” Teller says, “his name is Kyle Clady. He has a house in Clairemont Mesa.”