by Glenn Trust
More than a few houses were surrounded by chain-link fences, useless at keeping out intruders but perfect for keeping a dog on the property. The drug dealer’s ubiquitous Pit Bull Terrier, or mixed breed mutts with Pit blood in them, patrolled and growled, or hunkered down in the bare dirt yards waiting for someone to make their day and enter their domain. There didn’t seem to be much chance of that. Most of the residential streets were empty of pedestrians.
The business district was little better. Most businesses made an attempt at security by placing iron and steel bars on windows and padlocks on doors. Sole knew these would not be an effective deterrent against any determined burglar. Everywhere there were signs of the battle to retain some semblance of societal order and the decency of past decades. It was a losing battle.
Gangs had taken over. There were never enough police to patrol the neighborhoods. Drugs were sold brazenly in the open. John Sole found what he sought and slowed.
He dropped the pickup’s visor and adjusted his sunglasses. The western sun had lowered. A block ahead, it spotlighted two men on a corner, sending their long shadows down the street toward him.
The buy lasted only a few seconds. The dealer and buyer were not novices.
It looked safe enough as long as he left the area quickly afterward. He decided to circle the block, park away from the corner, and walk back to make a buy and continue the game of cat and mouse with the Los Salvajes cartel.
One day, when the time was right, he would do more, but there was time for that. For now, it was enough to ensure that they would never forget him.
He passed the dealer on the corner, made a turn at the next block, drove two blocks, and then another turn. Then, he slammed the brake pedal, the truck’s tires squealing as it rocked to a halt.
A white van roared by, the passenger leaning out the window, pounding on the door. “Fuck you, cabrón!”
Sole watched the van without reaction. Gangbangers. He had definitely found the right neighborhood.
The Moment was Perfect
“So, I’ve been thinking.” Isabella lifted the glass of beer, took a sip as if to clear her throat, and deliberately placed it on the table in precisely the same spot.
The great moment had arrived, and Sam Goodwin’s brow wrinkled. There was only one topic that she had asked for time to think about. Concern, mingled with hope, flushed his face. He leaned forward, elbows planted on the table to anchor himself against the storm.
“Yes?” He managed to whisper, breathlessly
“You are a very good man Sam Goodwin.” Isabella gave him a tender smile and reached up to touch the side of his face. “I would be very happy to marry you.”
Relief flooded his face. He reached up to hold her hand, resting against his cheek. The position was awkward, but her touch held a tenderness unlike any he had ever experienced. A simple hand on his cheek, soft and warm and gentle, and he wanted it to linger right there forever. Somewhere inside, he knew he was acting like a lovesick schoolboy, but he didn’t care.
“Thank you, Abby,” he managed to choke out. “I promise to make you happy.”
“You already have, Sam.” She lifted the napkin, touched it to her moist eyes, and smiled. “You’re going to make me ruin my makeup, and I worked so hard to put it on special for tonight.”
“You two lovebirds certainly look happy.” Ida Stokes, their regular server, stood over them, smiling. “Anything I should know about?”
Lacking any of the upscale pretension of Atlanta’s spreading urban sprawl, the neighborhood bar and grill on the outskirts of Gainesville had become their favorite spot. The homey atmosphere, simple good food, and ice-cold beer offered them a relatively private spot to sit quietly together and talk, or laugh, or play music on the jukebox.
Sam had become a regular, known to the owners and most of the other patrons. He always got a welcoming wave from the bartender, servers, and those seated at the tables around the bar. Over the last several months, Isabella had also become one of the crowd, recognized when she walked in and made to feel at home.
“We are happy,” Isabella said. “Sam and I are going to be married.” Her brow wrinkled in concern for a second. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that yet, Sam.”
“Say it,” he beamed. “Shout it to the world! Say it loud so you won’t be able to take any of it back once you realize what you’ve done.”
“I won’t be taking it back, Sam. Not ever.”
“Well, hell yeah! It’s about time.” Ida grinned. “This calls for something on the house … champagne!”
“No.” Isabella grinned and held up her glass. “I’m a beer-baby. I was drinking beer the night we decided to get married, and I don’t want to do anything to change my good fortune. I’ll take another just like this.”
“Superstitious? I’m learning more about you as the seconds tick by.” Sam never took his eyes from her face.
“Feel like backing out already?” Isabella said, teasing.
“Not a chance.” The grin on Sam’s face kept expanding until he looked like a cheery beaming sun. He nodded at Ida. “Beer, and a round for the house.”
“You got it,” Ida said and hurried off to the bar, as she called out to the other patrons. “Round for the house on Mr. Sam Goodwin!” She stopped in the middle of the room and pointed at Isabella and Sam. “They’re getting married!”
Heads around the room nodded. Faces smiled. Glasses lifted in congratulatory toasts. Patrons stopped by their table to wish them well.
Isabella soaked everything in. The goodwill from so many was unlike anything she had experienced in her past life. Everyone, Sam’s friends, acquaintances, and those he knew simply on nodding terms, was happy for them. The sentiments were genuine and sincere, and it became a time of joy they knew they would savor and remember in years to come, sitting on the porch or having coffee at the kitchen table or whispering in bed before falling asleep.
The congratulatory slaps on the shoulder and kisses on the cheek were completed, and the crowd returned to their tables. Isabella and Sam held hands across the table, silently looking into the other’s eyes. Words were unnecessary. The moment was perfect.
The Hunter - Closing In
He pulled the yellow, cracked newspaper from under the front seat and looked at the picture for the thousandth time. John Sole’s anguished face covered nearly the entire top fold of the front page.
He stared at the image, looking for some sign of familiarity, something he might recognize in the face. The grainy picture held few clues about the man he hunted.
After the image, the story took up the rest of the front page. Detective John Sole’s family had been murdered. The suspects were never identified, and despite the efforts of one of the best forensics teams in the country, no clues to their identity turned up at the scene of the crime. The article reported knowingly that the murders were probably related to a drug smuggling case Sole had been working with his partner. The man smirked as he read the article. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that much.
He had spent countless hours studying the case over the last couple of years. Still, there might be something that he missed, some small piece of information that could guide him on his hunt.
***
The drug cartel came up with a plan to use shrimp boats to smuggle drugs into the country. Detective Sole and his partner were instrumental in breaking the case. Their work even implicated a sitting senator.
But there would be no accolades. The killers murdered his partner on the same night they slaughtered Sole’s family at home. It appeared that Sole was the target, but he survived because he was away working with the DEA and Coast Guard on the case.
Without evidence or suspects, the police could do little but speculate, although they assured the public that they would not stop until the killers were brought to justice. That was more than two years ago. In that time, there had been no arrests and no suspects identified. While not officially a cold case, the investigation was as dead
as if it had been placed in a deep freeze.
And John Sole disappeared.
The media clamored for more information about the detective, the only survivor of Atlanta’s ‘Night of Blood,’ as they described the night of the murders. Sole was nowhere to be found. The department put out a brief media statement that left more questions unanswered than it answered.
“Detective Sole is understandably in seclusion, grieving the loss of his family and partner. We ask everyone to respect his privacy during this time of tragedy and mourning.”
The truth was that he had resigned, and they had no idea where he had gone or what had become of him. He had no surviving relatives and no known friends outside the police department and his in-laws.
Speculation swirled around the department and in the media that perhaps the cartel finally found him and finished what they began on the day of the murders. It was only speculation because John Sole had not been seen or heard from since.
***
The hunter placed the newspaper on the seat beside a stack of others he had collected. Each held a link to the man he hunted. At least, that is what he believed.
He had spent months at the library, using public computers to scour the web. It was painstaking work, but he thought he knew the man he hunted and the kind of trail he would leave behind.
In the last year, a pattern began to emerge. A string of unsolved murders in a backwater Texas county along the border with Mexico caught his attention. Then the pace increased, and others began appearing.
The murders all remained unsolved. At first, he added any unsolved murder to the list. It was a very long list, but little by little, he narrowed it down.
Two drug dealers shot in a Detroit alley. There might be a link.
A mugging in New York. Sole wasn’t a mugger.
A woman raped and murdered in Nashville. Sole wasn’t a rapist.
A drive-by murder in Kansas City. A possibility.
Slowly, the list shortened. It took time to work through the cases, but he had time. It was a commodity that he had in abundance.
A drug dealer with links to a cartel found dead in Minneapolis. Another in Louisville. Then more in Charlotte, Memphis, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Houston, Dallas.
The trail was clear, at least to the hunter. He couldn’t yet tell where it would lead, but he knew he was closing in.
Find the Rat
The rat had disappeared. For some, that might have been a problem. They might have even given up and taken Bebé Elizondo’s counsel to let the matter rest. Alejandro Garza was not one to give up. Instead, he changed tactics.
Where John Sole was at this moment was of little importance. The Los Salvajes cartel members might find him one day, but Garza doubted it. He intended to bring John Sole to him. To accomplish that task, he had to give Sole a reason to come, and Garza believed he had found the bait.
Chico Saludo forced himself not to look away and to keep his eyes focused on Garza’s. Looking away might send the wrong signal, and sending the wrong signal to Garza could be a dangerous thing.
“How is business?” Garza asked before getting to the real purpose of his visit.
“Good, good.” Chico bobbed his head up and down emphatically to demonstrate that his organization was meeting all of Bebé Elizondo’s expectations in the sale and distribution of drugs around the southeast. “There are reports, back at my house, if you want to come see them,” he offered, praying silently that Garza would not want to visit him in his home.
“Not on this visit,” Garza said, his icy eyes fixed on Chico’s. “I have other business just now.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I understand completely,” Chico said, not understanding at all but immensely relieved. “Can I offer you another drink?”
“No.”
They sat in an upscale bar in Buckhead, sipping expensive tequila, and Chico toyed with the idea of ordering another for himself, but only for a moment. There would be plenty of time for drinking when Garza left. The most important thing now was to focus and to hurry Garza along on his journey and away from Chico as quickly as possible.
“How may I help you then?”
“I am looking for someone.”
“Yes? That is easy enough. I will find him for you,” Chico said, relieved. “Who?”
Garza took the photo of Sole from his breast pocket and placed it on the table between them.
“But this man … we all know that you seek him,” Chico said, the worry creeping back into his mind, fearful that Garza might turn the task over to him. If Garza couldn’t find him, how the hell did he expect Chico to locate the ex-cop? “You must believe me that my people are all on the lookout for him. If he comes to Atlanta, we will have him. I promise you.”
“I am looking for someone who worked with him,” Garza said, his eyes narrowing to indicate that Chico should pay close attention. “Before he left, before you inherited your position here, one of our people worked with him when he was still a detective.”
Chico began to understand. He had been promoted to lead the Los Salvajes business in the southeast United States after his predecessor was murdered in his own taco shop. Chico had possession of the shop now and reported directly to Elizondo and Garza. The police never identified a suspect in the murder, but cartel members all knew that the detective, this John Sole, came into the shop and eliminated the drug lord, Esteban Moya.
“Yes, I see.” Chico nodded. “As I recall, someone we suspected, but could never prove, was the rat. He was to be eliminated as a precaution, but then he disappeared after the murder of …” His voice trailed off, thinking that it might be best not to speak of murders of drug lords since he was one himself now.
“Find him.”
“Find him? But how? I don’t …” Chico’s eyes widened, and then he nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. I will do my best to locate this rat for you.”
“Not your best,” Garza said. “Find out where he ran to. He had friends here, people he spoke with, family perhaps. Put the word out on the street that we want him. Is there a photo of him?”
“Possibly. There are boxes of photos in Esteban’s … I mean, my office. These were taken when we had people come in to meet or to discuss business. My predecessor was very careful about such things before he was murdered.” He crossed himself reverently and touched his finger to his lips.
“Find the photo. Distribute it.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” Garza snapped. “Have your people look for his contacts here. Possibly someone heard from him or spotted him in a different city. A man like that, a street dealer, only knows one way to live, and he is no doubt doing what he did here somewhere else under a different name.”
“Yes, of course.” Chico nodded. “You are correct, of course. Stupid of me not to have come up with the idea myself.”
Garza was silent for several seconds, staring at Chico. “I expect daily reports until you provide me with the information I seek.”
Chico nodded. “Yes, of course … every day.”
“We are done now. Go.”
Without another word, Chico scurried from the table, leaving a half-full glass of tequila. He almost ran out to the street, muttering, “Thank you, Jesus, for not letting him kill me today. Now please help me find the son of a bitch rat.”
Part Two - War and Peace
Latest News
In New York, the store might have been called a bodega. In Atlanta, a quick-mart. In Montreal, a dépanneur. Depending on the region, stores like this one—superettes, corner markets, dairies, milk bars, corner shops, convenience stores, tiendas—exist in virtually every corner of the world in some fashion or another.
This one was known simply as Dupart’s to the locals, taking its name from the owner, Edgar Dupart. Located on a side street in southwest Albuquerque, it was a purveyor of various necessaries for its customers. Candy bars for youngsters and grownups with a sweet tooth. Beer and wine for those with more adult tastes and the requisite I
D. Dupart’s had a little of everything, including gossip.
Edgar himself served as the community bulletin board. His brain was a repository of information, important and trivial. Edgar didn’t sort it by value. That was up to the listener.
Bits of gossip, family news, births, deaths, tragedies, and joys were all dutifully reported to him by the locals to be passed on to other members of the community. Customers visiting Dupart’s always found the owner engaged in conversation with any and every other customer in the store, discussing various bits of neighborhood news. Soon they would be drawn into the conversation and brought up to speed while passing on their own tidbits of news for Edgar to remember and share with the next visitor.
A conversation about the weather that began over coffee with the early comers who wanted their morning paper would morph into a discussion of neighborhood real estate prices and the difficulty old-timers faced when they attempted to sell out and move. This would shift to a detailed summary of the local high school football record, then to the news of a layoff at a business that had hired two hundred workers only six months earlier. The news of old Mr. Santiago’s passing and the birth of a little girl to the young couple at the end of the street, the Clarks… or Clarksons… or Cleery. No one could quite remember the young couple’s name, but Mrs. Alvarez assured Edgar that the baby was beautiful.
The conversation never ended, flowing smoothly from one customer to the next. Edgar heard it all and passed everything on. While the rest of the world distanced itself from personal interaction, relying on digital communication whenever possible, Edgar and his customers clung to the old fashioned method of communication. They talked.
In the process of this communication, Edgar became a sort of glue, binding the neighborhood together amid a raging storm. Crime rates soared. Drugs were sold on corners. People were assaulted in the streets. Gangs raged and fought and took the lives of the young. But in this tiny corner of Albuquerque, the locals clung to the lives they had always lived, and Edgar helped them do that.