The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Dos Hermanos?” Dos Hermanos – two brothers - was a heavy rival cartel to Valdez. The Consul General of Columbia, the girl’s grandpa, was heavily connected to Valdez.

  “If it was Dos Hermanos, it would start a war,” I said. “They don’t want that.”

  “Someone else then,” he said. “Wonder who?” We both looked at Elena. Elena had packed up her mirror and cosmetics, and was starting out of the room. She turned to look at us. Each. One at a time.

  “You help him,” she said. She left the room.

  Blackhawk watched after her for a moment, then turned to me, shaking his head. “I don’t think she knows what she’s asking.”

  “She knows. Any ideas?”

  He shrugged, “Maybe go see if Mr. Escalona knows anything. They owe us a favor.”

  The Columbian Consul was in Los Angeles, but they had a consulate office in Phoenix that worked with Arizona on South American issues. Santiago Escalona was the ambassador’s man in Arizona.

  “Not sure I want to waste a favor on a pissant like Diaz,” I said, watching the door Elena had disappeared out of.

  “The old Don said if you ever needed anything….”

  “Do you want me to? For Elena?”

  “No. How about our old friend Emil?” Emil was Escalona’s muscle. He had helped in snatching the girl back from Dos Hermanos.

  “Yeah, I like that. He won’t tell us anything that Escalona doesn’t want him to. But it won’t be like calling in a chit from the ambassador.”

  Blackhawk’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket.

  “Hello,” he said formally. He was always formal on the phone. Please and thank you and how do you do. He listened, then, “I’m going to be gone. I need you at the club.” He hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He looked at me. “Nacho. He got Diaz checked in.”

  Elena came back into the room. She wore a wide straw hat and bright red sunglasses that covered half her face. They matched her huge red purse.

  “I’m going to Scottsdale for shopping. I’ll be back for the first show.” She leaned down and kissed Blackhawk on the cheek. She went out the door without looking back.

  “When do you want to go see Emil?” I asked.

  Blackhawk stood. “No time like the present.”

  We took the Mustang. Escalona’s office was in the same place. A tall, fancy high rise office building in downtown Phoenix, on Adams. There was a convenient spot open on the street next to a fire hydrant. I pulled the Mustang in and parked.

  The consulate office occupied a half a floor. Stepping off the elevator, nothing had changed. The same seal of Columbia was on the glass of the doors. We pushed them open and stepped in. The receptionist was new. Just as striking as the last, but new. She had the same uniform. A black skirt and crisp white blouse. Like the old receptionist, her white blouse was straining to contain her. Also like the old one, her eyes barely left Blackhawk. I guess I’m going to have to get me one of those two thousand dollar silk suits.

  “May I help you?”

  “We are here to see Emil,” I said, giving her the killer smile. It didn’t seem to faze her. Mostly because she wasn’t looking at me.

  Watching Blackhawk, she said, “I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name.” She sounded almost disappointed.

  “Big guy. Bald. Muscles. Likes to shoot things.”

  She shook her head, her eyes flitting on me, then again resting on Blackhawk.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

  Blackhawk turned his back and began studying a painting on the wall.

  “If anyone that answers that description happens to wander through here, please tell him that Jackson and Blackhawk are across the street at the Einstein Brothers eating a bagel.”

  “Jackson and Blackhawk?” she finally looked at me.

  “Yes ma’am, Jackson and Blackhawk.”

  “You are making that up.”

  “Only the names, ma’am, the bagels will be real.”

  She wasn’t amused. “I’m sorry, as I have already told you, there is no one here named Emil.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” I said, winking at her, but it was wasted. I’d lost her attention again. Blackhawk turned and looked at me, a small smile on his face. I hoped the girl didn’t see it. If she did, she might wet herself. We turned and left.

  In the hallway, as I punched the elevator button, I looked back through the glass doors. She was still watching Blackhawk.

  Einstein Brothers was like Starbucks; there was one on every block in every city in the world. This one was across the street, and down mid-block. We went in and ordered plain coffee, which threw the girl behind the counter for a loop. We redeemed ourselves by buying two parmesan bagels. We sat at a table for two at the window. Halfway through the coffee and bagel, I saw Emil come out of his office building. He stood on the curb and looked across at my car. He wore a tailored dark suit and a red tie. Emil was built like a redwood. Tall, wide and solid, without an ounce of fat. His bald head gleamed in the sun. We knew him to be a very dangerous man, and an excellent shot. He jaywalked across, dodging the traffic, moving like a dancer. A moment later he was coming in the door.

  Emil was smiling. “I thought Rain was joking,” he said. “You made an impression.”

  “Rain? The receptionist?”

  “Yeah, I think her name is Betty or Beverly or something, but she wants everyone to call her Rain.”

  “Does she know how to joke?”

  “Probably not.” He snagged a chair from an adjacent table. “She’s too young to not take herself seriously.”

  “Is that a double negative?” I said.

  “She’s new,” Blackhawk said.

  Emil reached across and took my coffee cup. He took a sip, made a face and set it back down.

  “Never took you for a sweetener guy,” he said. “Mr. Escalona changes receptionists like other men change their socks. He keeps them for his amusement until they start thinking they deserve to be a permanent part of his life. He is a very happily married man. This a social call?”

  “You think?” Blackhawk said.

  He smiled. “What’s up?” He had been born and raised in Columbia but he had no accent. He could have been born in Toledo for all you could tell.

  “You know Blackhawk’s woman, Elena?” I said.

  “Beautiful woman.”

  “Indeed. She has a cousin that has been muling dope out of Mexico and smuggling cash back for the Valdezs.”

  “Diaz?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know what the street knows.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “Somebody heisted the money.”

  “You know who?”

  “The street thinks it’s Diaz. If Valdez thought that, your woman’s cousin would be dead now. As it is, I don’t think your woman’s cousin will live very long.”

  “It would make Elena very sad,” Blackhawk said. “Jackson and I want to get the money back and cut a deal to exchange it for the mule’s life.”

  “Admirable. How do you intend to do that?”

  “We were hoping that you might have some idea. Diaz came to us, or rather, came to Elena with his sob story. If he had stolen the cash, why isn’t he running as fast as he can?”

  Emil reached over and picked up the remnant of my bagel. He tore off a piece and began munching on it. He set the remainder back on my napkin.

  “Good question,” he said.

  “Not Dos Hermanos?” Blackhawk said.

  Emil looked at him with a faint smile, “We would know.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You boys are smart,” he said.

  “Meaning we can figure it out,” I said.

  Emil just looked at me.

  “Okay, I’ll play. I would guess,” I continued, “very few people knew about the run and fewer still would know how the money was hidden.”

  He nodded.

  “And if someone did lift it w
hile Diaz was in the crapper they would have to know where it was, to get it out so fast.”

  “Does he know how it was hidden?” Blackhawk said.

  I looked at Emil. “Do the drivers know how the money is hidden?”

  “What do you think?”

  “That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it? So he might be telling the truth,” Blackhawk said.

  “It’s possible,” Emil said. “But I doubt if that helps him.”

  “If we got the money back, would they trade for him?”

  Emil shrugged. “They are hard people. It is hard to say.”

  “Would Diaz’s boss man know how the money was stashed?”

  “Possible.”

  “Emilio Garza?”

  He looked at me for a long time. Finally, he shrugged.

  “Diaz worked for Garza,” I continued. “Think you can introduce me?”

  “You mean like a networking mixer?”

  “Can you set it up?” I said.

  He stood.

  “Your funeral,” he said.

  26

  Elena was a good singer, but she was a great entertainer. Her main music was salsa but she’d mix in other popular music. She had the crowd captivated with her own slowed-down and sultry rendition of the Stones’ Satisfaction. There was blood flowing to every male groin in the place.

  Not mine, of course, Blackhawk was my friend.

  Maybe I was wrong; I felt a vibration down there.

  It was my phone. I thumbed it out of my pocket. It was Eddie.

  “Hold on while I get out to where I can hear you,” I said. I had been leaning against the bar. I stepped out into the busy hallway. It was a little quieter.

  “So the kid did give you my message,” I said.

  “What message?” His voice had a tinny, echo-like sound.

  “I called the store and asked the kid to have you call me.”

  “Shit no, he didn’t tell me. I’m at the store, and the nosepicker didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Figures. What’s up?”

  “Wondering if you talked with Joe Whitney?”

  “I did. Nothing new except both those dead guys were in the same militia, and we already knew that. But the Sedona bombers released a video claiming credit. Call themselves Khorasan America.” I spelled it.

  “Same assholes, different name.”

  “Radical group out of Syria and Iraq. They hate America so I guess they want to bring it to us, up close and personal.”

  “Dirt bags.”

  “Yeah, but something interesting. You remember Nacho?”

  “Hard to forget.”

  “Yeah,” I smiled. “Anyway, he took one look at the video and identified where it was shot. Called it his backyard, Hance Park in Phoenix. He used to deal drugs there before he did his time. But the really interesting thing is that the shit bag in the video was ID’d by two separate people. Whitney and the headless guy’s wife, Lucy.”

  “They know him?”

  “Said it was Ramirez, the guy that was at the bar when Billy and Mooney fought. And Ramirez was in their militia.”

  There was silence on the other end and I thought I had lost him. There was thunderous applause from the other side of the door. Evidently Elena had finished Satisfaction satisfactorily.

  “Are you still there?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That is damned interesting.”

  “Better yet, Boyce’s federal guys have identified Ramirez as the son of a Jordanian diplomat. His real name is Ali Ibrahim Atef.”

  “Jordanian, not Mexican.”

  “Spent time in South America. Speaks Spanish fluently. He apparently was radicalized in prison.”

  “Passing for Mexican.”

  “If you had a cell phone, I’d send you his picture.”

  “Fuck cell phones.”

  The hallway was filled with El Patron customers roaming between the three nightclubs. Over the milling heads I saw a large, perfectly bald head that was a good four inches taller than anyone else. Emil had two guys with him. Except for standing next to Emil, they would have seemed to be very large themselves. One had a full head of curly black hair and a swarthy, droopy moustache. The other was as bald as Emil, but his wifebeater shirt showed his thin and muscular body. Both were marked with homemade pin and ink prison tats.

  “I gotta go,” I said. “Call me once a day to check in, okay? Just so I don’t have to talk to the nosepicker.”

  “Will do,” he said and disconnected.

  Emil saw me and started forward. The crowded hallway parted for him like the Red Sea parted for Moses.

  I put my phone in my pocket and leaned against the wall. When they reached me, I opened the door and waved them into the main room. Emil barely acknowledged me as he moved past, but the other two looked at me with naked curiosity.

  I moved past Emil and they followed me to the bar. Blackhawk and Nacho were behind it, helping Jimmy with the large crowd. I caught Blackhawk’s eye. He came over.

  I leaned across the bar.

  “Can I use your office?” I said above the din.

  He looked at Emil and the other two, taking his time. He nodded. “It’s open.”

  I looked at Emil and nodded toward the stairs. They followed me. The crowd didn’t part for me the same as for Emil. I took them through the landing doorway. The hallway that went the length of the building sported his two doors. One to his living quarters, the other to his office. The office door opened into a foyer. The foyer was a small waiting room furnished much more richly than Lawyer Taggart’s. I wondered who Blackhawk would keep waiting in here. Beer salesmen probably. The back wall sported a closed door and his office was behind it. As usual it was tastefully furnished. He had expensive-looking paintings on the walls and a plush, burgundy rug. The wall behind the desk sported a one-way window overlooking the bar below. I moved around the large mahogany desk and glanced down to see that Elena had started another number, and the dance floor was full. The room was soundproof, and for all the activity below, I couldn’t hear a thing. I sat in Blackhawk’s chair. I felt like the pretender to the throne. Emil’s two friends remained standing until Emil waved at the leather couch that stretched across one wall. They sat. Emil sat in the leather brass-studded, high-backed arm chair. Without moving much, I placed my hand on my right leg, then lifted it so the back of my hand touched the Sig Sauer that was held in place by a magnet. Still there.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

  Emil nodded, “Whiskey.”

  I looked at the other two. “Sure,” said the curly-headed one.

  I got up and went to the wet bar. He had a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I normally see a glass as half-full. When it’s a whiskey bottle I see it as half-empty. I got four glasses and poured an inch in each. I carried them over and handed them to Emil’s friends. I gave Emil his, and took mine back to the desk. I sat and took a small sip.

  “Introduce me,” I said to Emil. He seemed amused.

  He indicated Curley. “This is Emilio Garza.” He nodded at baldy. “That is Rojo.”

  “Red?” I said.

  Rojo emptied his glass, looking at me with unfriendly eyes. I was disappointed. I’d hoped we could be friends. He was tall and stringy, his skin the color of coffee with cream. He wore a diamond-studded crucifix on a slender gold chain.

  Emilio Garza stared at me with dark-eyed intensity. He held his glass but didn’t drink.

  “This is Jackson,” said Emil.

  “Yeah, you told us,” Garza said.

  Emil turned slightly to look at him. “Don’t underestimate him,” he said flatly.

  Garza took that in, but didn’t respond. He looked at me. “You wanted to talk,” he said. “Talk.”

  “I like a man that gets right down to business,” I said. “The lady you saw singing downstairs is a very good friend of mine.”

  Garza turned to Emil. “We come here for him to talk about his Puta?”

  “Her mother’s sister
has an eldest son,” I continued. “His name is Luis Diaz.”

  I had his attention.

  “A dead man,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I would like you to answer some questions. I intend to find your money and bring it back to you.”

  He studied me. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “In exchange for Diaz’s life.”

  “You’re crazy. For some Puta’s cousin?”

  I looked at him. I didn’t even try to look tough, “You call her a Puta again and I will shoot you.”

  He slid his shirttail back to reveal a pearl-handled pistol in his belt. He was giving me that stare-down look that he thought made him look like a really bad man.

  “You will be dead before you even touch it,” I said. My hand was already on the Sig Sauer.

  Emil tossed his whiskey back. “Maybe you two can stop playing big dick, little dick, and,” he looked at Garza, “why don’t you answer his questions.”

  Garza stared at me for a long time, then looked at Emil. He shrugged. He pulled his shirt back over the pistol. He looked back at me.

  “What do you want to know?”

  27

  I moved my hand from the Sig Sauer, but left it lightly on my thigh.

  “Did Diaz know where the money was hidden on his truck?”

  Garza smiled. “We are not stupid. The mules know nothing. They don’t come to the truck until it is time to drive.”

  “Is it always hidden in the same place?”

  “No.”

  “Is there an infinite number of places for it to be hidden on the trucks?”

  Rojo said, “What’s that mean?”

  Garza held up a hand.

  “I know what you are asking. It is a good question. No, there are only three ways we have moved the money.”

  “How many men are aware where the money can be placed?”

  “Only one man knows. But we have others to load the trucks.”

  “How many trucks?”

  Again, he looked at Emil.

  Emil nodded.

  “Five,” he said.

  “Does the same man hide the money on each truck?”

  “No,” he said. “Each truck has its own man. These are our most trusted.”

  “But usually only three places on the truck?”