by Wells, Tobin
Professor Blunt's ashen face registered the truth in Paloma's indictment. He opened his mouth to rebut, but quickly turned and scurried off to his section of the tower. As he rounded the corner, Paloma received a text from Porter. "Zeta-Holland connection. Your dad looked into it. Could be big. Headed to WV. Back in a week or so."
Her response was short and snarky. "I love you too :("
*****
It had been six weeks since Porter's fist had met anyone's nose, and he needed a fix. Certain that somewhere along the 500 mile route from Chicago to West Virginia he would find his dopamine, Porter ignored the posted speed limits.
As he entered Point Pleasant, West Virginia, just across the Ohio border, the Feral Pig's year-round Christmas lights welcomed him and offered, he hoped, the types of characters for which his fists were searching.
Immediately upon entering the Pig, it was evident that ignoring Porter's ensemble of tailored khaki pants, brown leather Testonis, and blue button-down Oxford with the sleeves half-rolled up, came as easily to the heavily-bearded and tattoo-covered patrons as their disregard of the state's ban on indoor smoking. Not even his order of a strawberry daiquiri, in a bar that had never served a mixed drink nor seen fruit, garnered as much as a mocking cough from the table of bikers next to him. Abandoning his overt methods, Porter took ten minutes to peer across the bar for just one cross look, but found no takers as they were all deep into their beers and conversations...and then the front doors opened.
The frame was filled by two mid-forties men dressed very similarly to Porter. The leader of the pair and Porter immediately locked eyes. As they passed him, Porter felt the familiar surge he had missed. His fingers tingled while his chest involuntarily took short, quick breaths.
To Porter's surprise, the two were greeted by every member of the tables to whom they approached. Porter lost track of them as they mingled and he accepted the fact that his excitement tonight would come from the current events found on his smart phone. Then the adrenaline surge returned as the dapper pair sat next to him.
The conversation he overheard was benign and exceptionally ordinary. After five minutes the leader swiveled in his chair towards Porter and spoke. "I don't see too many who look like you in here."
"Oh, yeah?" responded Porter. "What's that look?"
"Educated," came the response.
Porter smiled as he said, "Well, I didn't expect you to say that. I was waiting for some homo slam to come next."
"Oh no. Not at all. You won't have any trouble for who you are in here. The Pig is absolutely a biker bar, but the locals are too wrapped up in their worlds to care about your look or who you sleep with. It's just that there aren't too many like us," he said as he gestured to his friend, "who come in here. We are the only ones without tats, facial hair, or a criminal record."
Porter chuckled as he asked, "And just what are you doing in here?"
"It's a fun place to hang. Nobody gives us any trouble and I can do all the blow I want."
"Okay," said Porter, the shock of this admission registering on his face. "Now, I really didn't expect that."
"Why? That not your game?"
"Not at all," answered Porter. "I'm strictly a beer man."
"Oh, you can do more than beer for just one night."
"Nope," Porter said firmly. "I'm good."
"What are you a prude?"
"No. Just don't like what that stuff does to me."
"Come on," said Porter's bar mate. "Just a touch won't mess you up."
"Thanks, but I'll decline."
"So you must be some sort of cop then, huh?"
"Far from it," came Porter's quick response, hoping the rest of the bar heard.
"Then you gotta do a line with us," stated the man in a way Porter sensed was not a request.
"Again," Porter started, this time more sternly, "That's not my game."
"I don't think you understood me," the man said in a tone that was now all business. "You will do a line tonight, or all these good ole boys in here are going to think you're a narc." He paused waiting for Porter to consider his command. "You see, this is a bar that caters to a lot of workers in that trade."
"What trade?" Porter asked.
"The one that a narc like you knows I can't talk about."
"And who are you exactly?" asked Porter.
"Oh, that," he said with a smirk. "I'm the owner of this fine establishment. And every one of these bruisers in here works for me...unofficially, that is."
"I see," said Porter.
"No, what you see is that you can either put some powder up your nose, or you're not walking out of here."
Long gone were the disinterested parties only concerned with their conversations. The eyes of the bar were all now on Porter. Two on one, even four on one were odds Porter had successfully beaten, but not 40 to one. And he knew the Pig's patrons likely had multiple weapons, and lots of experience using them.
"So how about this," Porter began. "How about you and I walk out together and I won't take down this whole bar."
"How about this," retorted the owner. "You don't have a choice. You aren't leaving at all. All your buddies in whatever agency you work for will ever know is that you just never made it back to Illinois. If that's where you're really from."
"Listen," Porter said with a hint of concern, "I'm not a narc. And don't be stupid. Let me walk out. If not, well, then you can't hold me responsible for any of the injuries in here, especially yours. And just so I know who I'm beating, what's your name?"
"That would be Benjamin...Blow Me."
"Thank you Ben," Porter said mockingly. "So, I'm going to stand up, walk to the door, and leave. And you're going to lead me there. We clear?"
"Oh, I hear your words, but I won't be leading you any..."
His sentence was abruptly halted by the knife Porter pulled from inside his shirt and drove into Ben's shoulder. Ben shrieked, but to Porter's surprise ignored the pain and pivoted towards him. As Porter's hand slipped from the hilt of the knife, he drove his palm into Ben's nose.
Dizzied but still conscious, Ben let himself fall to the floor. As Porter lunged to continue the beating, Ben pushed right and swept Porter's legs, causing him to stumble into the bar where he was immediately subdued by a .45 magnum against his temple.
Porter's hands reached for the ceiling before his arms were detained by two of Ben's men. With the entire bar now on its feet, waiting to see what the wounded owner would do when got to his feet, Porter searched for an escape plan but discovered nothing as his thoughts were quickly interrupted by Ben's fist in his sternum.
When Porter caught his breath and stood erect, he found himself nose to nose with Ben who clenched his teeth as his left hand slowly pulled the knife from his right shoulder.
"Now," said Ben, still grimacing from the pain, "What was it you were going to have me do? You were going to make me your bitch? Walk out of here? Live?" He laughed at all of the scenarios. "I think not.”
"Let's first start with your knife," he commanded, as he returned the favor and drove it into Porter's right shoulder. Porter's face registered the pain, but he uttered no sound. Ben stepped back as the two restraining Porter looked on. "And next, you will be doing copious amounts of the product you refused. I will turn that blonde hair of yours white. And with a little luck, maybe those brown eyes will turn a nice shade of red."
As Ben's goons were opening Porter's mouth for the first dose of coke, Porter played the only card his mind could conjure. "Holland."
At that name, Ben froze. "What'd you say?"
"Holland," Porter muttered again, "my employer."
"The Hell are you saying?" asked Ben. "Don't dick around with me. Who's your guy?"
"James Holland, Attorney General of the State. He sent me here to check out your operation," Porter pleaded. "He needs some boys down here to help with his operation and I'm his guy to make sure you've got what he wants."
"Holy Hell! Let him go!" shouted Ben to his men.
> Porter crumpled to the floor. "I'll think you'll do."
Still reeling from this information, Ben asked, "Why the Hell didn't you say something? I could have killed you. And why the fuck did you knife me?"
"Holland needs the best," answered Porter. "He heard you were and I had to test it."
"Yea, but you just about got water-boarded by coke. That's a huge risk to take, even for Holland."
"Not if you knew him like I do," answered Porter. "Plus, you weren't going to do it immediately. Just like Holland, you like to watch."
"He knows that?" asked Ben.
"Sure he does. He's had tabs on your operation for a while."
"No shit?" said Ben.
"I never do, especially when it's the boss's job." said Porter. "So let's head to my car and we'll talk about this where there aren't any other ears."
"Sure," said Ben anxiously.
As they stood in front of Porter's car, Ben quickly removed the knife he had embedded.
After Porter finished dancing around trying to stop the pain, he retrieved his knife, started his car, and addressed Ben. "So here's what the boss will expect. He's going to make sure you cut him in on your deals."
"All the way," said Ben, knowing a deal with Holland was a trip to easy street.
"Don't let me hear about you running anything you don't give a piece to Holland. If that happens, one minute you'll be breathing, the next you'll wake up in Hell."
"You tell Holland he has my word. He'll be in on all the guns, drugs, and girls we run."
His interest now piqued, Porter ignored the blood oozing from his wound and pressed this last statement. "Careful with the girls. Holland can influence a gun or drug charge, but girls...they like to talk when they get pinched."
"Not these," answered Ben proudly. "These bitches only hablo Español. If you know what I mean. Plus, even if they could, they wouldn't. We got most of them from illegals who had to pay off a debt or," he paused to display a menacing grin, "if they were gorgeous and inexperienced, let's just say I persuaded their families they should work for me."
Excruciating pain changed Ben's expression from a smile to an open-mouthed inhalation of disbelief as he looked down to see Porter's knife deep in his chest. Using his weapon, Porter pulled Ben close, twisted then retracted the blade, watched this stuck pig fall to the ground, and drove to Charleston.
Chapter 13
Contradictory Alliance
February 2012
The stark white attire worn by the leaders contrasted sharply with the black cinder block walls in the basement of the South Charleston Full Gospel church. The 50 folding chairs were only half-filled as the members began slowly entering the room for the monthly meeting. Membership had waned for years, but with the Executive branch of the Federal government now run by a black man, concerned citizens in the Charleston metro felt the need to once again defend their own.
“The meeting will be called to order,” said Bill Cockrell in a commanding voice. “Gentlemen, David Harrah will be running things tonight because the leadership has some pressing matters we need to get to. He will welcome a few new members, go over some things the porch monkey leading our country is doing that you need to be concerned about, and give you the names of some folks to talk to who are interested in our cause. So with that, I’ll turn it over to David.”
Cockrell moved from behind the lectern and into a classroom normally used for a children’s Sunday School class where Chandler Gibson and Ron Allison, the other executive team members of the Klan's Charleston chapter were waiting, as was James Holland.
“Men,” began Holland as he offered his salutation to the group, “Thank you for giving some time to address a topic I think your group should be concerned about. But, I only have about five minutes. The Governor needs a little strategy session on how to control a couple of rogue union locals." Holland paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and then continued, “But with the time I have, I want to propose something huge for your cause.” Holland inhaled and said, “You need to be done with niggers.”
The inner circle looked between themselves and Holland, puzzled by what he had just uttered. “What do you mean ‘done’ Jimmy?” asked Chandler.
Holland answered quickly, “Let me say it in a language you understand. I mean those jigs aren’t your problem anymore. They’re not organized. They’re killing themselves faster than you can. And as fast as your daughters can spread their legs, they’re all spitting out little mulatto jungle bunnies. Pretty soon we’re all gonna have some family who’s mixed and everybody’s gonna be okay with that.”
“Well, Jimmy, your kids won’t be,” added Bill as a dig at Holland’s sexual orientation, while the others chuckled.
“Fuck you, Bill,” Holland snapped.
“Take it easy, Jim. I’m just playin’ around,” responded Bill.
“This isn’t any time to play, Bill. We’ve got a serious problem, and we all know what it is but none of us want to talk about it,” answered Holland forcefully, even if he did not believe it. “The problem is those fuckin’ wetbacks. They’re taking over our country. Rolling in here for the work we won’t do, or doing it cheaper than any of us will. Then they’re breeding like rabbits, and now that spook president is courting them like they are some white supermodel he wants to fuck while all of us watch.”
“But Jim,” interjected Chandler, “how’re you gonna go against the President? I mean, he’s a Democrat like the rest of us. You mess with him, you lose your power.”
“Don’t paint me with that Democrat brush,” commanded Ron.
“Who gives a shit which side of the aisle you’re on,” Holland firmly stated. “I don’t need him or anybody else on the Hill. The old boys had to use the Presidents and Congress from each political party to maintain the proper social structure, but not me; not you. No, we’ll let the spics keep their own kind down.”
Bewildered and confused, Bill questioned, “How you gonna do that, Jim?”
Holland slowed his breathing and smiled widely, “It’s called cannabis. All the cartels in Mexico are looking for allies on this side of the border. If they can grow their shit here, then not having to get it across the border is one less obstacle they have to deal with. And our hills are perfect for growing boat loads of that plant. Raleigh, Mingo, Fayette, or any of the other southern counties are way too rugged for the Feds to really monitor. Plus those dumb shits down there hate the current coon government ‘cause all their coal jobs are being taken away.”
Holland took a breath, then continued with his plan. “What you're gonna do is get the bosses of the local chapters to select some guys who know how to stay quiet and set them up at guard posts outside the shuttered mines. Since nobody goes there anymore, we’ll say they’re there as a safety measure so hikers don’t wander into the dangerous abandoned mines.”
Holland could see the leadership team was intrigued and rapidly unveiled his plan. “I’ve already contacted one of the cartels. The Zetas. There are thousands of acres of unused mine space for them to plant in using growing lights. And since they'll be underground, there’s no way they will be detected by the helicopter flyovers. Plus, all those mines have their own power source we can turn on. So they won’t be found out for using a huge amount of electricity. The locals will get a cut and we’ll use the rednecks to harvest it so that no spics come in and raise concerns. The Zetas will then distribute it without any interference from us.”
“But I still don't get how that hurts the spics, and how the hell you gonna keep the Feds out?” asked Bill.
Displaying a slightly annoyed expression, Holland continued, “As chief law enforcement officer in the state, I have complete control over who is in charge of the territory down there. Plus, if the Feds ever do come in, as a courtesy, they always let me know where they’re gonna go and when.”
Having successfully defended his position, Holland added, “If the Zetas can produce here with our labor, then fewer illegals come across the Rio Grande to h
arvest. Because they don’t have to pay off border guards or transport it two thousand miles, the Zetas will make a shit ton more than their biggest rival, the Sinaloas. Then they'll have the funds to go on an all-out assault down there in Mexico killing the other cartel leaders. Once the heads of the rivals are dead, especially the leader of the Sinaloa cartel, then the Zetas will run that country. If we tell them to keep their kind away, they will. Hell, they’ll set up an army on their side of the border to keep them away and protect the ‘legal’ processing they have here with us. Who needs a fucking fence on our side when we’ll have a goddamned fence of brown faces with AK-47s keeping them on their side,” Holland concluded triumphantly.
"I'm not sure any of us wants to be in the killing business, Jim," Ron said without hesitation. "We haven't lynched or killed anybody for 45 years."
“You won't be," added Holland. "You will just improve the Zetas ability to do what they do best. And whether we like it or not, in our world, violence is the rule. Living by any other code will only subjugate us to the inferior races."
The group took a moment to process the plan. As none had the courage to challenge Holland anymore, Ron asked his final question slowly and deliberately. “Jim, how in God’s name did you get in contact with the leader of a Mexican cartel? And why them? I mean is there some database you go to when you want to talk to a drug lord? And what’s to say these grease balls will honor any deal we cut with them?”
Holland was pleased their objections had ceased. They were in and he knew it. “Good question, Ron,” Holland answered flatly. “For a while, I’ve been studying how the power structure is shifting in our country and where the real problems lie. Everything I studied showed me it was the Mexicans, not the Blacks like you guys think. But it all came together when I went to Chicago for that benefit gala. I met a young lady named Paloma Peréz Guzmán. She was rubbing shoulders and networking with all the politicians there,” he lied. “When I saw how everyone just fell over themselves to talk to her, it hit me. The Mexicans are making a play from the inside out. She’s connecting with the power class to get the legislation done so more of her kind can come over here and take back the Southwest that they think we stole from Mexico, and then the rest of the U.S. So I did a little research on who she is. Turns out her father is Mario Peréz Vasquez."