by Jack Hardin
“You. You are already what you want to be. You only need to actualize it.”
Andrés huffed and pulled out a Marlboro from the half-empty pack sitting in the center console. He grabbed a lighter, flicked his thumb over it, and the tip of the stick glowed orange. He rolled down the window and breathed out. “Actualize this,” he said to the stereo and lifted his middle finger. Chewy paid no heed. His head was laid back on the headrest of the driver's seat, and his eyes were closed.
Andrés shook his head. “You drive me nuts with this.”
“You listen to it enough times, and you start believing it. It’s affirmation.”
“Well, I affirm that it’s all a load of horse crap.”
“...these people who don't believe in you and won’t follow through with anything they say. I’m telling you they are poison!” Burkis’s voice channeled through the speakers with the passion of a Southern Baptist preacher seeking to convert the wayward souls of the heathen.
A beam of headlights swung around, catching the Malibu and momentarily blinding the two men. Chewy turned off Burkis and kept his eyes on the approaching car. “It’s him,” he said. As was customary they remained in their vehicle until the other party stepped out of theirs.
The Town Car stopped directly in front of them. The door opened, and the headlights flicked off. A man with skin the color of the night around them stepped out of the car. Chewy and Andrés followed suit. Chewy shut his door and walked confidently and slowly to the front of the cars. “You’re late,” he said.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“You’ve never been late before, and it makes me nervous. I don’t like being nervous, Simon.”
Simon looked uncomfortable, shifty. He slicked a hand down a long goat patch hanging off his chin. His thick braids were covered by a Jamaican rasta beanie. “Yeah, well...look. I’ve got some news you’re not gonna like.”
Chewy exchanged a quick glance with Andrés. “And how’s that?” he asked.
“The higher-ups. They don’t like all the talk about killing this kid. Too much attention.”
Chewy stared at Simon. Andrés looked away and took another draw of his cigarette, his head bobbing to a silent rhythm of fresh anger, his nostrils flaring like a fish’s gills.
“They think you guys had something to do with it and─”
“And what?” Andrés asked, taking a step up to him. He got in the man’s face and tilted his head. “And what?”
Simon took a step back, his calves now touching the Town Car's bumper. “Look, I’m just the messenger. I have to tell you that we’re not taking possession of the rest of our order.”
Andrés flicked his cigarette at a dead palm tree hugging the back of the building. “No. Simon. No.” He shook his head vigorously. “We don’t do half orders. You’re in it for the whole.”
“We’ve already returned the product to the drop off, so you won’t be out anything.”
“That isn’t the point,” Andrés fumed. “We are not in the inventory business. We are in the getting it out of our hands as quickly as possible business. We don’t order what we don’t sell in advance. You know that.”
“Like I said, I’m just the─”
“Simon. When you wipe your tail, do you do it halfway?” Andrés asked him.
“What?”
“Just answer the question,” Chewy shot back.
“When you wipe your tail, do you do it halfway?” Andrés asked again.
Simon, perturbed, shook his head. “No.”
“And when you screw your girlfriend, do you do it halfway?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh. And when you brush your teeth, do you only do the uppers?”
“What? No.”
“Right...so why would I take half an order back from you when we have already made arrangements? See where I’m going with this?”
“Guys, look. We’ve done business together for a long time,” Simon said. “This isn’t my call. You know that.”
Andrés took a step back. “I know,” he said. He waved a finger at the dark man. “And I like you, Simon. But that is not the point, is it? You’ve put me and Chewy here in a position where we now have to go back and explain why our product is now sitting back at the drop off point for anyone to just come along and stumble upon. I don’t like having these conversations with my boss.” He leaned against the hood of the Malibu, set a foot on the bumper. “So here is what’s going to happen. We are going to get back in our car. You are going to get back in your car.” He tossed out his hands. “And we are going to drive away. You are going to retrieve said product and sell it so it’s never recovered by the feds. I’m going to have to talk with the bossman and see what the repercussions of this will be. You go get the product you’re trying to return. I’m not touching it unless I get the go ahead.”
“I can’t go back and get it. Look, I’ve got some stuff in my trunk right now,” Simon pleaded.
“So if I ask you to open up your trunk, I’m only going to see,” Andrés lowered his brows, looked up, and tossed out a few fingers as he mumbled numbers to himself. “Twelve packages? I will only see twelve packages?”
“I think it’s eleven,” Simon said.
He jutted his chin toward the Town Car. “Why don’t you just get out of here and tell your bosses no dice. You’re an idiot to even come talk to us about this. You know how we work.”
Simon sighed. “All right, guys. Look, I’m sorry.” He walked back and disappeared into his ride. He drove across the potholed parking lot and pulled out into the road. His taillights disappeared behind a cluster of pines.
“You believe this?” Andrés said. He and Chewy got back in the Malibu. Both took in a deep breath and exhaled simultaneously. Chewy started the car, turned on the stereo, and drove away from the carcass of the old bank.
Burkis resumed his sermon. “...so now if people don’t keep their commitment to you. Get rid of them! They are dead weight in letting you achieve your fullest. If they can’t be trusted and won’t follow through, just gggggget rid of them!”
The corners of Andrés’s mouth worked into a twisted smile. “You are not kidding,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Ellie, Mark, Jet, and Garrett sat at the monstrous table. Four others had also been brought in to discuss what was known about Victor Calderón and whether or not what Jimmy Joe Claude had provided was worth pursuing. Discussions over the last thirty minutes had the room unified that Jimmy Joe Claude’s lead on Victor Calderón was worth massaging. Victor was indeed a known lieutenant of Mateo Nunez, was two years through a ten-year stint, and as of a couple months ago had been sharing a cell with Boosie Maine, a large man whose sexual proclivities leaned heavily toward the male variety.
“We can’t just walk right into the prison and talk to him,” Garrett said. “That will make the wrong people think he’s talking, or at the very least being questioned. I’m with Ellie. We need to find a way to get him out for a while.”
Mark was staring at his laptop screen. “He’s doesn’t have any kind of pass. Hasn’t been out on garbage patrol, no laundry duty, isn’t allowed conjugal visits, no temporary releases. So no getting close to him via his daily routine.”
Garrett eyed those around the table. “Any suggestions?”
“What about talking to him in the library after hours?” someone suggested.
“No,” Jet said. “We’ll have to get him off site. Anything else is too risky. Someone even smells that he’s being talked to, he’ll have X’s over his eyelids before the week is out. Nunez doesn’t mess around.”
“What about a trip to the doctor?” Ellie offered. “You know, he gets sick and has to be rushed to the hospital.”
“Go on,” Garrett said.
“An officer or cook could slip him some ipecac - whatever they use these days - that would make him visibly sick. That might get him to the hospital for an overnight.”
Heads nodded.
Jet picked up his phone and opene
d his maps app. “Hardee Correctional is an hour and a half from the nearest hospital.” He continued thumbing the phone. “It’s about an hour from anywhere, so we need to choose the destination hospital and plan for an overnight. We can engage him while he’s there or on his way back. The latter would be preferable.”
Garrett leaned back in his chair and tapped the top of his pen on his chin. “All right. Let’s see about getting the ball rolling on that over at Hardee.” He looked back at Jet. “Do you know if we have anyone on the inside we can trust over there?”
“I have a guy at the Sheriff's Office. He’ll know how to help.”
“Okay.” Garrett made some notes on a pad. “Get me all the specifics on your contact by tomorrow. Some of these correctional officers are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. If nothing else I’ll call the warden and see about getting one of us in there to make sure it’s done right.” He looked down the table. “Mark, get with Kevin. He’ll know who to contact for the right cocktail and dosage to get Victor temporarily sick. I’m with Ellie, I don’t have a clue what that might be.
“Will do, boss.”
“Jet’s right. We’ll keep the lowest profile engaging him on his return. With him being higher up in Nunez’s org chart, they’re going to have their eyes on him while he’s out. Ellie, we’ll bring him back in a car. Why don’t you pose as the escorting officer and do your thing. We’ll get you set up so the handoff at the prison goes smoothly and everything looks normal.”
“Sounds good.”
“Let’s be clear on the objective here, folks,” Garrett said. “We need Victor to cough up names or leads that we do not currently possess. I know that boy’s death hit many of you hard, but be reminded that we are not the Sheriff's Office or the FBI. Our job is to grab the bastards for dealing drugs. That’s all. If we can stop them, we can make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen again.” The room nodded in agreement. “I want a list of people we think we can trust on the inside on my desk by tomorrow. We pick the wrong guy at Hardee, this whole thing is a bust, and we’re back to square one. Let’s see if we can get this done by the end of the week. Everyone's dismissed.” Garrett lifted his hand. “Ellie, hold on a second.”
She sat back down, and the room cleared. Garrett waited for the glass door to shut before speaking.
“You good with my suggestion? Posing as an officer?”
“Sure. It’s a good idea.”
“Okay. Then we’ll leave him overnight at the hospital and not touch him. If I remember correctly, Hardee doesn’t employ female correctional officers over there, so you’ll pose as a transport officer. We’ll have an unmarked cruiser behind you.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll see what I can get out of him. I already have a good angle.”
Garrett closed his folder and jammed his pen into his shirt pocket. “Couple of us are grabbing lunch as Rosa’s. You want to come?”
It was Friday. Victor Calderón had been in room 309 at Blake Medical Center in Bradenton since early last night, ever since he fell ill in the prison mess hall. He had taken his meal tray of mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and steamed carrots to his usual table in the center of the room and begun eating. Three minutes later and all at once, his face broke into a hot sweat, his skin flushed red, and projectile vomit the distance of three tables flew across the room. Inmates had scattered and cursed at him. Victor landed on the floor, lurching and dry heaving and wishing for someone to shank him to end whatever ailment had come upon him. It didn’t stop once he was carried to the infirmary. He’d spiked a hundred-and-five degree fever a half hour in, and the decision was made to send him off site for advanced medical care. Once in the ambulance, they stuck an IV in him. The dry heaving eased, and the nausea waned. He slept the whole hour to the hospital and was handcuffed to his bed on the third floor with a guard posted outside his door.
He had been cleared to leave at nine this morning with all paperwork resolved in the system by ten. He would be brought out a side entrance used for staff. The hospital was privately funded, and a single officer standing down a hallway was one thing. Having a man in a blue jumpsuit and handcuffs walking out the front door didn’t exactly protect their brand. People would talk, and some would think of the hospital crawling with prisoners every time they would visit.
Ellie stood outside the metal door in the khaki shirt and dark brown pants of a correctional transport officer. A .40 caliber Glock 23 was strapped to her side, and her ponytail was pulled through a dark brown ball cap ensigned with the county’s correctional transport logo. Other than the driver, Ben Richter, a real transport officer, Ellie would be the only one in the car with Victor. She would sit in the back seat directly behind Ben. He and his superiors had been informed as to the nature of Ellie's presence.
The side door opened, and Victor stepped through with two armed officers flanking him, each with a hand clasping the upper part of his arm. She put her hand on the top of Victor’s head, and he lowered himself clumsily onto the seat of the Crown Victoria. She shut his door, walked to the other side, and got in behind the driver’s seat. Ben’s responsibility was no different today than any other day: drive the car safely to the prison. A blacked out Chevy Tahoe belonging to the Sheriff’s Office was behind them, providing additional, standard protection. Because of his position in Nunez’s network, Calderón was considered a high-value prisoner, raising the possibilities that his associates might try and intercept him on the way back. People with Nunez’s influence had eyes and ears everywhere. Calderón probably hadn’t even arrived at the hospital yesterday before his associates knew he was there.
Ben started the cruiser, eased out of the parking lot. The one-hour drive back to Hardee Correctional would consist of taking Highway 41 north until it merged into 683 which would carry them east, finally connecting to Highway 62, the longest and final leg of the trip.
Ellie said nothing for a while. Waiting would give Victor time to think through the events of the last eighteen hours and for his thoughts to start drifting toward what waited for him when he got back. Ellie felt right at home. This is what she had been trained to do and did it well for many years. Working herself into people’s circle of trust was a skill as much as it was a talent. If she couldn’t gain his trust, she would make it clear who among them had the upper hand.
“How are you feeling?” Ellie finally asked.
Victor dipped his head in her direction. Transport officers didn’t strike up conversations with prisoners. “Fine.” His guts were sore, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He looked back out his window at passing trees and scattered farms. He looked tired and uninterested in talking.
“I hear you might not like your cellmate,” she finally said.
His brows lowered. “What?”
“I’ve been told you would be up for a transfer to another cell block. Maybe with a more ‘accommodating’ cellmate.”
“You don’t know nothing about me.” He gave her uniform a once over. “You’re transport,” he said. “What do you know about who’s on the inside?” He asked in a way that made it hard to tell if he was actually curious or just thinking out loud. He looked in her eyes. “You got something to say, say it.”
Direct. Just what Ellie preferred. She smiled. “Victor, I’m with the Drug Enforcement Agency and wanted to use this as an opportunity to speak with you.”
Victor scoffed. “DEA? Man, I ain’t talking with you.” He looked back out the window. “Whatever you want to say to me can be said in front of my lawyer.”
“Sure. I can arrange that. But I’m not willing to say what I came to say in front of your lawyer.”
“Then I guess it don’t need to be said.” He shook his head. “Estúpida,” he mumbled.
“Why would you call me stupid when you don’t even know what I want to talk about?” Ellie asked.
“Man, I’m in here because of you shanks. One of your people stood me up and got me stitched. Gonzales. Mario Gonzales.”
“I don’t kno
w him,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter. All you the same. Up on your white collar high horse thinking you own the world. I got news for you. We,” he jammed the finger of a restrained hand into his stomach, “own the world. You can’t figure us out. You never will.”
A satisfied smile rested on his lips.
“Fair enough,” Ellie said. She waited a full minute, let Victor breathe the fresh air of his moral high ground, then spoke. “The word on the street is that Boosie Maine likes to get friendly with you on a whim.”
“What?” Victor’s tone was laced with a mild panic.
“You heard me. We know, Victor.” Ellie shook her head. “And we’re always the last to know something. So you must be aware that everyone else knows of Boosie’s proclivities too. I mean,” she shrugged, “some have even suggested you don’t really mind the arrangement.”
Victor’s hands were chained to those coming up from his ankles, and he couldn’t raise his hands more than a few inches off his waist. But he tried. He lurched against them and swung them in Ellie’s direction, his face now red like he’d been holding his breath a minute too long.
Ellie didn’t flinch. “And if I know that, everyone knows it. One might get the idea that if you’re not willing to go the distance to change your immediate living arrangements then, well, maybe you like them.”
He cursed at her. His smiled vanished. His lip curled.
“So Victor, this is where I talk. Where I make a proposal. You go ahead and sit there acting like you’re not interested, but you think about it. Then we dialogue. Got it?”
He didn’t answer. This lady was tough.
“I’ll cut right to it. I can change your living arrangements. Simple as that. Not just living quarters; cell blocks, yard time. You’ll never have to see your overly-friendly cellmate again. But then, of course, this is where I ask you for something that can help me. You see, Victor, we’re starting to get serious about getting what you and your people like to put on my streets. We’re also serious about getting the people that put them there. What did Dylan say, ‘The times they are a changin’’?”