Betrayed

by Sam Morton

  Austin had propped himself on the edge of the table. All the mail house workers were covered in grime–ink, dust, sweat, and paper shreds. Nobody really wanted to return to the exhausting labor, but the machine had probably more than cooled off by now.

  Just then the door leading from the office to the mail house sprang open. William was first through the door leading a long line of men and women in suits. Just behind William walked a tall, thin man with a strong, square jaw, perfectly combed hair graying at the temples, perfectly tanned skin, and piercing blue eyes. There was no mistaking Pitchfork Ben. Even if Austin hadn't known he was the distinguished senator from Texas, he would have automatically known from the man's appearance and bearing that he was someone important and no one to be messed with.

  "And this is our mailing operation and warehouse facility," William was saying as he came through the door. Someone far behind in the chain of people looked like she was straining to hear and was jotting notes as fast as her pen could move. "It's not as loud as I told you it would be," he said with an almost nervous chuckle. "I guess everyone is taking a break?" William said staring at Austin with wide eyes and arched brows as if expecting an answer to why no mail was running presently.

  "Oh, yes, Dad," Austin said, setting his drink can aside. Everybody followed his lead like people getting busted at an underage drinking party and trying to hide the hooch. Austin cleared his throat. "The Buskro needed a new cartridge, but we've been running it so hard, we needed to let it cool down before we changed it out."

  "Well, that's okay," he said, nodding and turning to the senator. "That'll give me the opportunity to introduce everyone to Senator Stevens. Senator, we do everything in-house. And these are the guys who do the dirty work," William said with a proud smile. "This is just part of the crew since we run shifts, but this is my son, Austin," he said placing his hand on Austin's shoulder and leaving it while he motioned to each of the others in turn, "and this is Brett Corley, Katie Glaser, Rico Alvarez, and Larry Teague. Gang, this is Senator Stevens from Texas."

  Everyone nodded together and said, "Hi."

  "Pleased to meet y'all," the senator said in his distinctive east Texas drawl. "Looks like you have this mail operation down to a science. Also looks like y'all have been working hard. I'd hit this fella up for a raise if I were you," he said tilting his thumb in William's direction. Everyone laughed and Larry uttered a muffled, "Yeah."

  "I'll have to think about that one," William said with a little chuckle. "You guys get back to work, and Senator, let's go back to my office and I'll answer any questions you have." The group did an about face and went back through the door.

  As the mail crew got up from the table, an unsettling thought ran through Rico's head. Had the man behind the senator been staring at him the whole time the group had been in the room? It sure seemed like it–like the guy was boring holes in him. Rico heard the whir of the Buskro cranking back to life, and tried to push the thought aside. Still, he thought it was weird. Very weird.

  Chapter 3

  The Buskro had been up and running for forty-five minutes. The spent ink cartridge sat on the edge of a shelving unit between a work table and the trash can. Everybody was working at top speed and the mail trays were filling up quickly.

  Rico tore the brown-paper packaging off a newly delivered set of postcards, wadded it up into a big clump, and shot it like a basketball across the room toward a trash bin.

  "Oh! Jeezus," a man screamed. It was the guy who had been eyeing Rico. He had come back in the mailroom unnoticed. Even over the clumping of the Buskro, everybody heard him and looked his way to see him crimson-faced and brushing black-powdered ink toner off his suit jacket. Rico had inadvertently banked his shot off the shelf where the ink cartridge had sat precariously. Austin hit the kill switch on the machine and he and Rico ran over to where the man stood flinging and flailing his hands against the jacket creating a cloud of fine black powder. Everyone else stood frozen in place looking on.

  Embarrassed, Rico stammered out an apology. "I didn't know you were there or I'd have never thrown that paper. Here, let me help."

  "Don't touch it," the man hissed, his voice like metal against pavement. "This coat cost five…" Just then he looked up and saw then entire mail room staff watching him lose his cool. His pupils moved from one young face to the next. "Ah, heck," he said adjusting his attitude, "accidents happen, right? I shouldn't have been poking around where people were doing real work anyway." He shrugged and chuckled at the same time, and everyone else seemed to take in a deep breath of relief, too.

  All the kids knew that the only reason they got to work in the mailroom was because their families went to church with the Pierces or one of their parents did business with William. It wasn't bad money for what you had to do, and unless a huge mailing was going out, Mr. Pierce was pretty liberal about schedules. Because of that, they all kept in mind that these politicians paid huge bucks for their campaigns, and they tried not to screw anything up.

  The man stuck his hand out, "Jordan Steele."

  Rico took his hand and shook it.

  "And, I'm sorry, but tell me your name again."

  "Rico. Rico Alvarez."

  "Great." He tossed his thumb over his shoulder. "Why don't you come outside and help me knock the rest of this dust out, and we'll call it even?" The man smiled like a politician in training.

  As they headed out the loading dock door, Rico heard the machinery whine back to life and saw his co-workers turn back toward their stations, catastrophe apparently averted. He followed Steele around the corner of the building, where the man removed his suit jacket and the two of them laughed as they beat it like a rug to knock out the toner.

  When nothing else came out of the cloth, Steele slipped his coat back on, laughed out an "Oh my," and put his arm around Rico's shoulder. The smile left his face like a mudslide and his eyes grew into slits. "Look here, Chico. Like I started to say in there, this coat cost more than you make here in a year. Now it looks like the old man might give Pierce some of his campaign business, so chances are I'll be here a lot. You see, I'm the brains of this outfit, and while the senator makes a nice speech and looks good in front of the cameras, I'm the one who gets business taken care of and writes the checks, comprende? So if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll make sure the only job you'll have around this place is night janitor."

  Rico pushed out from under Steele's arm. "First off, the name's Rico. Second, it was an accident and I've apologized for it. If you want me to pay to have the thing cleaned, fine! If you feel like telling Mr. Pierce I messed up your suit, fine! But other than that, just step off, dude." His accent grew heavier when he got angry. Rico turned back toward the warehouse.

  Steele called after him. "You know a huge issue this election season is immigration. So what part of Mehico are you from, Chico?" He had a Cheshire cat-like smirk on his face.

  Rico turned on his heel, walked back a few paces, and looked the man in the eye. "My family is from Carranza, near Piedras Negras. And I told you, the name is Rico."

  "Thanks for the geography lesson, son. I'm very well acquainted with your hometown since it's just across the river from Eagle Pass, one of leakiest points of illegal entry into the States that ever existed. La Puerta de Mexico. The Mexican Front Door." His taunting voice sounded as if he were singing.

  Steele tilted his head in the direction of the office. "The senator's made it a campaign pledge to slam that door shut, even talking about putting armed sentries along a thirty-mile stretch if that's what it takes."

  Rico could only hold his ground with a locking of eyes. He knew that he was pushing it saying what he had to Steele, and if that cost Mr. Pierce the big money the senator's campaign would bring in, he'd never be able to face him, or Austin, again.

  Steele curled his hand and examined his fingernails. "Personally, I don't see the problem with letting you people in." He took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a long sigh, tilting his head a
nd again settling his squinty eyes on Rico's face. "I mean, if we throw you out, who's going to pick our fruit or build our houses, hmm?"

  Rico felt his temperature rising, his blood about to boil over. He'd expect this kind of talk from some ignorant redneck, but this was the chief of staff of one of the most powerful and popular senators in the United States. He knew if he said anything, anything at all, it wouldn't turn out well. So he shut his eyes for a second, breathed deeply, and turned back toward the mail house.

  As he reached the door and turned the knob, Steele's manicured hand came over his shoulder and held the door shut. "You breathe a word of this conversation to anyone, even your little buddies in the mail room in there, and I'll yank our account from Pierce so fast it'll make your head spin. Now, you learn some respect, boy, and the next time I'm here, we'll get along splendidly." Steele spoke to Rico's back, since Rico checked his anger and never turned around to face him.

  He opened the door to the ever-present sound of the Buskro at full speed and let the door close behind him.

  Chapter 4

  Hall of Records, Saltillo

  Capital, State of Coahuila, Mexico

  Raul turned his computer monitor with the heels of his hands toward the man seated across the desk from him, Generalissimo Hugo Omaga. "These are the tax records for the property you asked about."

  Omaga, dressed in his olive drab field uniform with three black stars on his collar, inched forward in his chair and leaned in toward the screen to examine the names. "How long have these people owned this property?" he asked, maintaining his stare on the monitor.

  Raul turned the computer back, scanned the screen, and clicked the "PgDn" button with his finger. "Ah," he said searching and then raising his eyebrows, "it looks like the land has been in this same family for decades. Eighty years at least."

  Omaga looked straight ahead and then tilted his head to the side as if trying to develop a strategy.

  Raul listened intently for the sound of a vacuum or the rolling of the cleaning carts that belonged to the janitorial crews that tidied up the Hall of Records in the State Treasury building. His brother-in-law, General Omaga, often visited after hours demanding information that he was not entitled to have. Raul felt certain that nothing good ever came from the information he provided. He felt equally certain the information greatly profited his wife's brother, a profit he never discussed or shared with Raul.

  He often questioned why he volunteered his help anytime Omaga asked for it. He placed his job in the Ministry of Treasury in jeopardy and himself at risk for prison. Each time he realized the answer was clear. Omaga was ruthless. There was no law or any man, including his family, which would stand in the way of making him richer or more powerful.

  "Hugo," Raul finally said using his brother-in-law's familiar name, nervousness evident in his voice. "I researched this property you wish to acquire, and I do not believe its owners would be willing to sell."

  "Who authorized you to conduct this…research?" Omaga asked. His wooden chair creaked as he leaned back in it and crossed his arms, glaring at Raul.

  "No one," he replied.

  "I know everything I need to know about this land," Omaga said, "and it is truly horrible that this family failed to render their taxes to the government for the past two years, according to your computer."

  Raul bolted upright, confused. He looked from the screen to his brother-in-law in such rapid succession that it felt like his neck was on a rubber band. "These records say no such thing," he said in a loud whisper.

  "Then I must tell you Raul, your records are gravely incorrect." The general stood, leaned across the desk, towering over the man. "Now put your fingers on that keyboard and correct your mistakes."

  For a moment, Raul sat perfectly still. He finally mustered the courage to say, "And if I refuse?"

  Omaga sat back in his chair and threw his arms open wide. He spoke in the calm, charming voice that made men follow him and fight for him–to their deaths if necessary. "Raul, Raul, Raul. Am I not a good brother to your wife? Hmm? A good uncle to your daughters? Raul we are family. And families help each other." He smiled.

  "But this is strictly against the law! Yes, we are family; proud Mexicans. And proud Mexicans obey the law," Raul said, his voice firm.

  Omaga leapt from his chair and again hovered over the man. He pounded the desk with one hand and pointed his finger in Raul's face with the other. "In Mexico, I am the law!" The two men glowered at each other for a full minute, both refusing to budge. An electric tension hung in the air like a combustible gas awaiting a spark before exploding.

  "Raul, I forgot to ask when I came in. How is Juliana?"

  At the sound of his secretary's name, Raul braced like he had been slapped across the face. She was just ten years older than his oldest daughter, yet his relationship with the young woman had grown faster and much more intimate than he had ever intended. What did Omaga know? "I suppose she is fine," Raul responded, his face like stone and his fists balled.

  "Tell me, do you still find her as delectable as you did two months ago in the room at the Cantina Royale?"

  Raul went pale, the only answer Omaga needed. His head swirled and he felt like he might faint. He loosened his fists and again looked down at his desk. Omaga got up slowly from his chair and walked behind his brother-in-law. He placed his hands on Raul's tense shoulders.

  Omaga kneaded them gently. He leaned down and whispered into Raul's ear. "We would hate to break my sister's heart. Wouldn't we, hmm?"

  Raul remained motionless.

  "Now, the tax records, my friend."

  "Yes, Generalissimo," Raul's voice, barely audible, caught in his throat. He began to type.

  Chapter 5

  Columbia, South Carolina

  "Yeah, sounds like a pretty bad virus got a hold of him," Karen said into her cell phone, crinkling her brow in concern. "Tell him not to worry about it, Carla. We'll get caught up. Okay, bye." She closed her phone with a flick of her thumb and looked at Austin working on his math assignment at the table. "Rico's still not feeling well. It's not like him to be out three days in a row."

  "We're feeling a pinch, too, down at Dad's office. Has he been puking or what?" Austin asked looking up from his paper.

  "Eeww, Austin! No. Sounds more like a sinus infection or the flu from what his mom said."

  "It must be bad. His cell phone's been off and he hasn't returned any of my calls since Saturday." He bounced the eraser end of his pencil off his workbook.

  "Tell you what," Karen said. "You finish your math and physics and I'll make some homemade chicken soup. We'll take it over to him this afternoon with the class material he's missed."

  "Mom, no one wants to do school work when they're sick. Hello…"

  "Hello, back, Austin. No one wants to get so far behind that they have to work twice as hard to catch up either. And speaking of that, get back on that math. It's not going to do itself. I'll get the chicken boiling. When I come back in here, I want it done. Understand?"

  "Yes ma'am." Austin rolled his eyes as his mother turned to walk through the swinging wooden door that separated the dining room/classroom from the kitchen.

  "And don't roll your eyes at me," Karen said, her voice snaking its way back through the door.

  Rico, his father Armando, and his mother Carla lived in the Winstead Hills subdivision, an upper-middle class neighborhood with sidewalks and wide lawns. Austin and Karen parked by the curb.

  "Oh, thank you so much, Karen. You and Austin come on in," Carla said as she took the towel-wrapped Tupperware container of soup from her hands. Austin thought she looked pretty stressed.

  "Is it okay if I go up to Rico's room?" Austin asked.

  "Um…sure…sure," Carla stammered. "Just, uh, be careful you don't get too close. No sense in you coming down with what he's got."

  Austin plodded up the stairs. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Mrs. Alvarez acted different than he had ever seen before. What if it wasn't the
flu? What if Rico had something else, something more serious and they just didn't want to say what it was? Austin quickened his pace up the steps. "Hey, Rico," he said as he topped the stairs and turned directly into the doorway to his friend's room. "How're you feeling?"

  Rico looked up at him from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn't look sick, but did he look angry? Frustrated maybe? Austin crinkled his forehead. "What's up, man?"

  Rico didn't say anything at first. He wouldn't meet Austin's gaze and he kept fidgeting with a paperclip in his hands.

  "Rico?" Austin pressed.

  More silence and then finally, "I'm not sick, okay? I'm just…I don't know." Rico pursed his lips and looked down toward his bed covers. He looked defeated or depressed, maybe both, but Austin couldn't tell. He'd never seen his friend this way–not after failing a test, not after losing a game, never.

  Austin sidled onto the opposite side of the bed. "Rico, what's wrong? Whatever it is, maybe Mom and Dad can help…"

  "Your dad can't help," Rico interrupted with an edge in his raised voice. "As a matter of fact, I need to find a way to tell him I won't be coming back to work."

  "What? You can't quit work. We need you, man. We've got tons of mail to go out and not having you leaves us short."

  Rico only shrugged and looked down at his bed again.

  "Please tell me what's going on. Did I do something to tick you off? Or did Mom or Dad? Even if I can't help, won't you please at least tell me what it is?" Austin pleaded.

  Rico stood up and sighed deeply as he looked at his best friend. "Okay, but let's get out of here. Maybe walk down to the gym. I've been cramped up in this house for three days and the walls are starting to cave in on me." The boys walked down the stairs to the den where their mothers were talking. Carla still looked uncomfortable.