by John Hunt
In a moment, they were tied alongside a dock at the head of the pier. Petur tied the bowline snug while Clemons made fast the stern. With a wave and a smile, Petur climbed up the ramp to the wharf, throwing his duffel over his shoulder.
“Thanks again for the ride,” he called back to Clemons.
“Not a problem, Petur,” the man replied.
As Petur walked up the paved road away from the pier, he glanced back toward the docks. Clemons had come up onto the wharf and was walking alongside the warehouse. Unaware that he was being watched, the fat engineer looked around suspiciously, and then entered into the warehouse through a door that Petur did not know existed.
Petur did not give it much thought initially, but then something nagged at him. He continued the gentle climb up the paved road, until he got to the curve that led to the steeper climb up past Science Hall, and onward to the airstrip and his own home. Just before he turned the corner, he looked back toward the wharf again. The area was quiet, what with only a few people walking around. The warehouse seemed closed. No forklifts were moving this way and that, as they usually did, like little ants, when the ships came in. But more important was the appearance of the pier itself. There was no freighter, and in fact no ship of any size, moored alongside. He gazed out over the rest of the lagoon. Nor was there a ship anchored out in the quiet green water. For a moment, he worried that the engineer had missed his ship. Perhaps the skipper had not had good luck with his woman friend and had departed early. However, with his recent experience with the OTEC, Petur had learned that a little suspicion was a good thing, now and again.
He would look into this Frank Clemons fellow and make sure he really was what he seemed.
35. Activation
THE TIME HAD finally come. Juan Marcos hung up the telephone and slowly leaned back in his wide chair behind his large oak desk. Scratching his face and thinking, Juan Marcos let several minutes pass. Then he leaned forward, picked up the phone, and dialed his son’s number. Enrico answered after three rings.
“I need you to come by my house today.” There was no “hello,” nor pleasantries of any sort.
Enrico responded immediately and respectfully. “What time would you like me there?”
“Now, or as soon after now as you can arrive,” Juan Marcos responded. “It is time to get rolling again.”
Enrico asked, “Rolling with the political stuff? It is about time. The elections are right around the corner.”
“We have a lot to accomplish by then.”
“Yes, father. I have been ready for a long time. The problem will be to keep it calm enough.”
“I know, and you have done a marvelous job. You seem to have an instinct for this work, Enrico. Perhaps you will follow in your father’s footsteps and go into politics!”
“I still cannot picture you, my father, a politician. It seems strange to me.”
“Fear not; I will not be hampered by bureaucracy. I assure you that I and those working with me will eliminate bureaucracy.”
“I will be over shortly. I need to shower.”
“Fine, fine.” His father hung up the phone and sat back pensively again.
Salingas had been adamant about waiting until this day before starting the last leg of the process. The undercurrent of discontent had been meticulously cultivated throughout Mexico, and Tijuana was the prototype for the technique that subsequently was used throughout the country. The media from above and the grassroots from below inundated the people with information that led them, unwittingly, to the unavoidable conclusion that they needed a major change. And it was all done so quietly.
The presidential elections were soon, and for the first time in a decade, the opposition party had a real chance to win the presidency — or so they thought. The polls were clear that discontent with the government was growing, and the opposition interpreted this discontent to mean that they themselves would be swept to victory in the presidential as well as the local elections. This is exactly what Salingas and the others wanted them to believe.
What the opposition did not yet recognize was that the people’s discontent was not directed solely against the politicians currently in office, but rather it sprang from the failure of the entire government to satisfy their needs. People accepted the thoroughgoing graft as a normal part of government in the past, but only while the government was still accomplishing something for them. Now the government, in their eyes, had become opportunistic and self-perpetuating. The people, who for so long had taken little interest in the government’s policies, were now very interested. Although the polls showed near-complete lack of support for the government, and showed that the opposition was highly likely to win, the polls did not encompass all the options.
Salingas had been brilliant in his orchestration. As far as Marcos knew, nobody outside the group had the faintest clue as to the extent of their operation, in which he was such a key player. Although all political analysts anticipated the fall of the current president, none noticed the severity of the threat to the government as a whole. Nobody saw what was coming.
Marcos stood up, and winced slightly when his prodigious mass came down on the chronically abused cartilage of his left knee. Hobbling slightly, he walked out of his office to the front porch of his house. He pressed a button on the wall as he passed through the swinging screened door, and then moved over to his hefty white wicker rocking chair. Sitting on his porch, he could look out over most of Tijuana.
The button on the wall was a call signal. A young woman hurried to his side. Without looking at her, he demanded, “Get me a lemonade — on ice — quickly.”
The girl answered, “Yes, señor. Right away.”
Something about the handmaiden’s voice prompted Marcos to look up to see who she was, but she had already turned and was moving briskly back to the kitchen. He would wait for her return to see who she was. Perhaps she was a new hire.
Marcos soaked in the view of Tijuana. Tijuana was green relative to the sands of the oceanside desert that surrounded it. Enough water was available here to grow lawns and trees, and the lawns and trees made the city pretty. But there had never been enough water to make it beautiful. This contrasted sharply with its sister city of San Diego, just a few minutes’ drive to the north.
A thin yellow layer of smog hung over the city, as always. The scent was similar anywhere one went because the yellow haze was everywhere. And in that yellow haze the miasma of the sewers mixed with the pungent aroma of roadside cooking and the musk of inadequately bathed paupers. The mixture of fragrances represented all of Tijuana, thought Marcos — almost all. The mixture did not include the smell of drugs. Yet despite Marcos’s withdrawal from the world of narcotics, Tijuana was still the largest port through which illicit drugs entered the United States. A huge amount of business was transacted here. Soon Marcos would control it all again, only this time the law would protect his position, and serve as his enforcement arm. Being the government, instead of fighting it, made so much sense.
He heard footsteps behind him, and soon a girl was putting a lemonade in his hand. Marcos looked up and saw a stunning face that he recognized immediately. His face twisted uncontrollably into a sincere smile.
“Maria! My dear Maria! Are you here to stay?”
Maria smiled shyly and moved around in front of Marcos so that he might look at her without straining his neck. “I hope to stay. Do you mind?”
Marcos shook his head vigorously. “No, no; you must stay. I am pleased to have you back.”
Maria stood like the focal point of a magnificent painting, with the city of Tijuana as her backdrop. Her smile was perfectly symmetric, as was her whole face. Her white teeth must have been sculpted by the Greeks, and her black hair flowed down to her shoulders and made her look like a princess. Marcos marveled at her perfectly smooth skin, which was fairer than that of most Latinos. She had beautiful brown eyes, and her black short dress, with the white lace apron in the front, outlined her exquisite form sumptuously. She
stood in front of Juan Marcos, looking like an angel.
“Where have you been all this time, Maria? I remember that your mother died. I never had a chance to give my condolences. I am truly sorry.”
“No, señor. My mother has not died. She is only very sick. I have been caring for her in Reynosa, as she is still not entirely well, but my sister has come to care for her for a time. I needed to work, so I came back here, where I was fortunate to have been taken back. Thank you.”
“I did not have anything to do with your rehire. But I agree that it is fortunate.”
This gorgeous creation intimidated Marcos and this made him silent, though he rarely struggled for words. Maria leaned calmly against the railing of the porch, looking at him with a pleasant smile.
Finally, something came to mind, and he uttered it without thinking. “Maria, what is for lunch today? My son is coming over soon.”
At the mention of Enrico, Maria’s countenance changed. Her smile was gone. She shifted uncomfortably against the railing. Her eyes, so beautiful and confident, fell away from Juan Marcos.
“What would you like, señor? I can make a quick trip to the store if we don’t have everything we need.”
“Maria, surprise me. I think anything would be fine.” A thin grin grew, and he said slyly, “No. I changed my mind. Let’s have some calamari. Can you make calamari?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Then let’s have calamari. Enrico despises the stuff.”
Maria’s smile returned, and her eyes glowed with pleasure. Observing the change made Juan Marcos feel wonderful. She had a sprightly bounce in her step as she retreated to the kitchen.
Marcos wondered what his son had done to her. No doubt he had tried to seduce her. He probably had been ill mannered — perhaps even violent. If he had slept with her, he would suffer. The elder Marcos remembered well that he had warned his son off.
He rested on the porch for some time. He slept fitfully and occasionally snored, as his bulky neck compressed his windpipe. When awake, Marcos soaked in the view of the countryside, in a country over which he would soon have comprehensive authority. Then he drifted to sleep again, and dreamt that he was a monarch in a castle with a crown on his head.
He was in the midst of a particularly enjoyable fantasy when Enrico roused him. His son drove his car up the driveway, swerved around the sharp corner, and its tires screeched. Everything that Enrico did irritated his father, and this manner of driving, as it disturbed the serenity of his house, was no exception. Marcos leaned forward and looked down as Enrico pulled his car to a stop in front of the stairs. He walked up and nodded respectfully at his father.
Enrico’s nose was crooked now, a memento of one of the more severe encounters with his father’s unpredictable temper. There also was a faint scar above his left eye that was visible only because the skin had never been stitched and the hair of his eyebrow had not realigned properly.
“Good morning. I have come, as you requested.”
“Yes,” the elder Marcos replied curtly.
Though Marcos did not offer Enrico a chair, the son moved to one and began to sit down, slowly. His father nodded in assent, and he sat down all the way.
Enrico was more comfortable now, and he leaned back and crossed his legs. “So it is time, you say.”
“Yes. Salingas called this morning. All is lined up and ready to proceed. All of Mexico is prepared. He wants us to start the process. The wave will start here in Tijuana and sweep southward over all of Mexico. It will take a month, and neither the opposition party nor the government is expecting what is about to occur.
Maria had moved back to the porch, and Marcos saw that she stopped briefly when she saw Enrico. She must not have recognized that the screeching tires were his. Maria moved forward, so as to keep the elder Marcos between her and the young man.
Enrico caught her eye. A crooked smile took over his face, and a lascivious glimmer took hold of his eyes. He winked at her. It made Juan Marcos feel sick.
“Your father is drinking lemonade, Señor Enrico. Would you care for some?” Maria asked politely.
“I would rather have some cherry juice, Maria. Do you have any cherry juice?” He leered at her as he spoke.
Maria frowned, and stated curtly, “We have cherry syrup for cocktails. I can put some in a glass with some soda water if you would like, señor. I think the Americans call it a Shirley Temple.”
Juan Marcos laughed. The girl had noticed Marcos’s son’s disgusting innuendo. In the past, it seemed to fly over her head. She was getting smarter.
“My son will drink lemonade, like his father. I need more as well.” Juan Marcos added, “Please.”
Enrico raised his eyebrows at his father’s out-of-character civility. Leaving her small serving tray on a table, the girl walked back through the door, and Enrico ogled her legs and buttocks the whole way. When she turned the corner, he asked, “How long has Maria been back here?”
“She just returned.” Juan Marcos closed his eyes, and mused, “What a beautiful girl. She is a monument — a statue. She is here on this planet for us to worship.”
Enrico interrupted his father. “She is here on this planet for me to fuck! — and for you to fuck as well. What a waste it would be to just look at her. She needs to be handled, father: covered, fornicated, mated with — and frequently, I might add.”
The elder Marcos sneered, and looked at his son with scorn. “Have you no respect for beauty? No respect for art? You would defile the Mona Lisa if you could, Enrico! Grow up. Get a grip on your hormones. And learn to have respect for women.”
Enrico frowned and looked at the ground. His father always made him angry. He knew that in other circumstances, the older man was just as crude and licentious as himself, and indeed, had Enrico chosen to be respectful to the girl, he had little doubt his father would have put forward equally lewd comments. His father was like that — always taking the opportunity to belittle and berate his son.
“Sorry, father.” He was not sorry at all. But it allowed him to change the subject. “So, have you received any assurances from Salingas that you will benefit from the great effort you have put into this undertaking?”
“Yes, Enrico. I have his assurances.”
“Then you did heed what I said.” He rubbed his nose and remembered the day two months earlier when he had raised this issue with his father.
“I heed wise counsel, Enrico. But you had best learn how to provide such counsel. Soon you are going to be in a position of power. Northern Mexico will be under our control and we will take advantage of that. But, we must do that very cautiously. We will not be all-powerful. We will not have a mandate to rape, pillage, and ignore justice. No, we will simply be in a position to promote our former enterprise without danger of retribution, and with the bureaucracy working for us instead of against us. Enrico, you must be careful. You will tend to abuse your new power. You will take it too far. Do not be shortsighted, my son. Heed my wise counsel.”
Enrico scowled. “I am not an idiot! I understand people. I know my limitations. Father, I singlehandedly fabricated the eruption that is so imminent.”
“No, Enrico. You lit and stoked the fires in northern Mexico. But Salingas, and the others too — they are the architects. There are parts of this plan of which you know not. You have done well, but do not think so highly of yourself that you lose sight of where you stand in the big scheme.”
“You are almost getting religious.”
“But you hear me, do you not?”
Maria was back on the porch. She refilled Juan Marcos’s glass with lemonade, and then handed Enrico a fresh glass. He reached for it with two hands, and with one of his hands he grabbed her wrist. He rubbed her palm between his thumb and forefinger, provocatively. Pulling away, she departed.
Enrico scratched his neck. As he pushed himself up and out of the seat, he excused himself, and, with glass in hand, followed Maria to the kitchen. He found Maria near one of the large sinks at th
e far side of the room. Her back was toward him, but he could see that she was slicing lemons in halves. A knife again: Maria seemed to like knives. He smiled as he quietly approached her.
As she sliced, her shoulders moved not unlike an Arabian dancer. Perfectly honed, each muscle complemented the others and made every movement of her back enticing to watch. The curves of her figure swayed in a mesmerizing dance as she proceeded with the simple act of cutting lemons.
A large fan was making a great deal of noise, and so he was right behind her when she sensed his approach. Reaching in and around, he grabbed the wrist that held the knife. She gasped and twisted her arm frantically. His other arm wrapped around her back and pulled her close. She dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. He lifted her to her toes and her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. Their faces were close. The soft skin of her cheek was inches from his. His hand released her wrist and moved down to her lower back, where it caressed the lowest part of her spine. Then the fingers slowly lifted the black skirt higher and higher, and the sensuous flesh of her upper thighs was soon exposed. In a moment, his hand was on the soft cotton panties and reaching wildly down within them. Maria made no effort to fight.
She turned her head only slightly as his groping hand worked its way around. His knee pressed between hers and forced her legs apart. Still she did not struggle. In his passion, he only briefly noted that his hand felt no moistness, and her breath was not deepening. Her lack of response infuriated him, and his hand probed with greater vigor and violence.
The fan buzzed loudly, but even louder was his heavy panting. His heart pounded furiously, and he could think of only one thing.
Suddenly, an enormous arm was around his neck. Enrico was lifted bodily into the air, and pulled backward with great force. The girl was flung to the floor and crawled away rapidly. With his feet dragging along the tile floor, Enrico struggled to break free. No air could pass through his throat, and no blood could flow to his head.