Sotello: Detective, ex-FBI, ex-Secret Service (DeLeo's Action Thriller Singles Book 1)

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  Even some of the reporters laughed with the crowd at Sotello’s warning, but a few of the ones near him exchanged uneasy glances. “Where do you get off telling us what questions we can ask, or not ask?” A dark haired woman reporter, with an angry pinched look, shouted immediately from in front of Sotello.

  “What part of raise your hand, and wait to be called on, don’t you understand lady?” Sotello fired back. Immediately the reporters’ hands went up, and Sotello pointed to a man with a Fox News banner on his mike.

  “One of the terrorists died last night at the scene Mr. Sotello. Can you confirm how he died?”

  “I’m glad you labeled them for what they are, Sir,” Sotello replied. “One of the terrorists made a move to fire on me, when I confronted them, as they planted bombs on my house. He died instantly from a shotgun blast from my twelve-gauge Remington.”

  After a short silence at the matter-of-fact way Sotello told of the terrorist’s death, the woman who had questioned his right to direct the interview raised her hand. Sotello pointed to her. “So, Mr. Sotello, you executed a man in the back yard of your home. Did you give him a chance to surrender before you gunned him down?”

  Her question brought a chorus of boos cascading down from the crowd. Sotello gestured for silence, and then answered. “Well, my first thought was to empty the shotgun at them, and let God sort them out later, but…”

  Again, the cheers from the crowd stopped him for a moment, as he saw the woman’s face redden in anger. “…I thought we would have a better chance of finding out who sent them if I tried to keep some of them alive. One resisted my attempts at capture. He died.” Sotello continued simply, evoking more applause.

  “You could still be charged with murder, Sir,” the woman continued angrily. “Your accosting a reporter, trying to do his job later, did nothing to help your position. Were you afraid to answer his question?”

  “First off,” Sotello pointed out calmly, “I am being charged with nothing. Thankfully, the local police has more brains, and common sense, than you do, lady. Secondly, I see whoever decided last night to turn loose the rumors about blown drug deals, has made the assumption I will take that crap if a woman spews it out. I won’t.”

  “Is that a threat Mr. Sotello?” The woman asked, hoping to provoke him further.

  Sotello ignored her completely, as if she were not waving her hand right in his face. He pointed to a short blond haired man at his right.

  “Do you think this could have a Mid-East connection?” The blonde haired reporter asked.

  “I hope not,” Sotello admitted. “We do not need to throw fuel on that fire.”

  “You would tell us if there was, would you not, Sir?”

  “I will not cover up anything,” Sotello assured them. “Unless national security is at stake, you folks will know everything I know about this. These men have already been tied to South American death squads, and they were trained and employed in the Mexican Federal Security Directorate, after they did a stint in the Mexican armed forces. They are not on La Raza’s membership list, and those people would have to have the IQ of a tomato to…”

  “Are you saying La Raza is run by morons?” The woman shouted in Sotello’s face.

  Sotello looked around as he brushed at his face, and then back at the reporters. “Sorry, I swear there was one of those sweat bugs buzzing around my head.” He paused as laughter erupted from the crowd, and the woman steamed in tight-lipped fury. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I think La Raza, if they had anything at all to do with this, would have to have a death wish. They have to know their organization would be destroyed, and all of the leaders sent to prison. A more likely scenario would be someone using them to take the fall for the assassination attempt. With the near riot at my office the other morning, if I turned up dead, the blame would have logically fallen on La Raza.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” A woman with a Sacramento Bee badge asked as Sotello pointed to her.

  “Considering these dangerous times, I would not speculate. They are moving quickly on this, because of the terrorist angle, so we will all probably know soon. If I sense a cover-up of this, you all will be the first to know.” Sotello looked right at his tormentor in the front. “At least some of you will be told.”

  The crowd, and the rest of the reporters laughed.

  A tall, dark haired woman reporter at the back raised a hand, and Sotello pointed at her. “If this had any relation to the Middle East, why would they bother with blowing up your house, and not simply machine gun you down on the street?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that very question,” Sotello admitted. “It must be a need, the ones behind this feel to send a message. If we find out who sent them, we may find out the reason. I have made it clear I plan to shut the border down in California. My thoughts are the same with our ports. This may not be sitting well with some terrorist cell out there. We have been pussy footing around the border security issue for too long.”

  “Do you fear for your life Mr. Sotello?” Another reporter yelled out from the back.

  “No,” Sotello smiled. “I made peace with that a long time ago. I don’t have a death wish though. Having done some time in the Secret Service, I realize if someone really wants you dead, you’re probably going to die. Those men last night did not figure on the surveillance system I have at my place. Last night may have dissuaded them from anymore attempts. If not, I will have to keep my eyes open.”

  “We all forget, at times, we are still at war. How many of us can vouch for anyone’s safety in these times. No day goes by now, without a second glance at an uncared for bag, and an uneasiness until its owner claims it. How many of you laughingly open packages, or nonchalantly eat from restaurant salad bars, or breathe deeply in closed in buildings? Part of why I ran for Governor rests in the frustration and helplessness I have felt since 9/11. We all have felt the growing danger. I have more people watching out for me than any of you, and we have all been targets.”

  The crowd applauded him loudly, with bobbing heads and pumped fists, in recognition of the truth of his statement. The attacks on Sotello had given them all a momentary pause, where they could think of something else other than the danger to their own families. His no holds barred defense of his family and property struck a chord so deep within their souls, they had forgotten their own worrisome times. Sotello held up his right fist, and scowled dangerously at the crowd with a slight thin-lipped smile. They saw the passion in his eyes, and a silence swept over the group, until you could hear the gentle wisp of wind brushing by.

  “I have had it,” Sotello snarled through clenched teeth. “I have buried the rage inside long enough, because I was helpless to do anything about it. If ever I live to get elected to the Governor’s office, you will all be enlisted in this war. This will be fortress California, the front line of the United States forces, arrayed against our porous borders and Western Coastline. They will be secured, and there will be an end to special interest groups with the destruction of the United States on their minds. I do not give a crap what color or race you are in California, but you will be an American first, last, and always, or you can get your ass out of our state.”

  As Sotello’s voice rose to a crescendo, the cheers of the crowd who had gathered, became an arm-pumping roar of deafening proportions. Sotello looked around at the reporters and said, “I think that’s all for today folks.” Sotello stepped down into the crowd and high-fived or shook hands with all who wished to do so.

  Later in his Dodge on the way to the office, Sotello’s cell phone rang.

  “Sotello.”

  “I just saw your press conference,” Phillips said laughing. “You have a new nickname, my friend.”

  “God,” Sotello sighed. “I am afraid to ask what it could be.”

  “That woman reporter, you sparred with, tried to push poll one of the people in the crowd by loading up the question,” Phillips informed him. “She cornered someone from whom she must have felt she could get wh
at she wanted to hear. She collared a woman, holding a baby in one arm, and the hand of a three year old. She asked the woman what she thought of your xenophobic little speech, and if she would be voting for you after such a mean-spirited display. The woman laughed in her face, and said, ‘I’m voting for Scarface if I have to crawl to the polls with an M16 in my hands’. The little crowd around her went nuts, and began chanting Scarface over and over again. Fox broadcast the byte, including the woman reporter stalking off with her CNN cameraman.”

  “Scarface?” Sotello exclaimed laughing. “I like it. So, she was from CNN, the Taliban News Network huh?”

  “Yep,” Phillips confirmed. “They didn’t broadcast any of the conference until they saw it all over Fox, who carried it live. I expected more of a rise out of you over the Scarface thing.”

  “Why?” Sotello asked puzzled. “This sounds like just the thing we need.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Phillips said, “because when you see the press conference, you’ll see why the lady made the observation. In daylight, with your adrenaline flowing, the scar over the left side of your face stood out like a beacon. You looked like a pirate.”

  “Arrrrrrrrrh Matey,” Sotello quipped.

  “You laugh now,” Phillips informed him, “but rest assured, the lady’s nickname for you will go nationwide like wildfire. You can kiss your Christian name goodbye. You will be Scarface from now on.”

  “Well, I can live with that. Wait until the kids hear about it. Craig will go nuts with this.”

  “How did you get the scar?” Phillips asked him. Silence on the other end said more than if Sotello had answered. “They’ll all ask. Count on it.”

  Sotello realized the length of time elapsed had been more than a comfortable silence. “How about it happened long ago, and far away?”

  “I doubt you will get by with just that,” Phillips remarked kindly. “You can try though.”

  “Good thing I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit,” Sotello said, changing the subject. “I would be Scarbody. It doesn’t carry the same magic, does it?”

  Phillips laughed. “No, but you might want to use that line if they do start in on you. I’m at the headquarters now, with some of your volunteers. Because of the bad feeling people have about the mail, I thought we would stick to a grassroots phone campaign.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Sotello allowed, fingering the scar along his cheek for the first time in many years. “Will you have enough people though to man the phone banks on an operation like that?”

  “You would not believe the army I have here to carry on this battle, my General,” Phillips said. “Your campaign will be one of the easiest I have ever run, and Jim, I promise you this: if you can stay alive, you will be Governor.”

  “I will keep that in mind Adrian. I’ll be at the office for the next few hours, so call me if you need me.” Sotello hung up after Phillips said goodbye.

  Ellen met him at the outer office door. “Oh my God Dad, you were great. Craig and I watched your press conference.”

  “Yea, Scarface,” Craig said, coming up behind Ellen. “You were incredible. Ellen started crying, so you know you were good. She’s such a wuss.”

  “Adrian filled me in on my new nickname,” Sotello said, hugging Ellen. He shook hands with Craig, and then followed them into the kitchen. Ellen poured him a cup of coffee.

  “This all makes our client gig with the Taiwanese tonight even more difficult,” Sotello said, sipping his coffee.

  “We’ll do it just like you said,” Craig pointed out. “Let me go in and meet our clients, and you keep the Limo circling. I hate SF Airport, but at least I will be near the pickup point.”

  “I know what you mean,” Sotello agreed. “They have had the surrounding area, and building over there, under construction for thirty years. I wonder if I will ever see the day they quit subsidizing the construction companies, and finish the damn thing. We will stick to the plan Number One, and I will stay out of sight as much as possible. If by some dunce headed screw-up I let myself get spotted, you get our clients away, and Ellen can send someone for me. She can coordinate me back with you in no time.”

  Ellen nodded. “I guess I will get important if you get spotted. I have my homework to do, so I won’t get bored. I will put you guys on the speaker, along with keeping my headphones on. If communications break down, will you be taking a laptop with you, like last time? I thought that was pretty smart. With our up-link, I can get you right back on, or send you messages.”

  “I will keep it on the limo,” Sotello agreed. “We’re getting a nice healthy paycheck out of this, so let’s do it by the numbers, and make some money.”

  “What did Adrian say about your press conference, besides the nickname?” Ellen asked.

  “He loved it,” Sotello said. “He guarantees, if I live through the campaign, I will be Governor.”

  “Wow,” Craig laughed, “what confidence.”

  “He’s just stating the obvious,” Sotello added.

  “You looked intense,” Ellen said. “When you started talking about the Middle East, and the terrorist threat, you really lit up. I haven’t heard you talk like that since just after September 11th.”

  “I couldn’t handle it,” Sotello told them. “We were still taking in people from the Middle East, including those fifteen Syrians coming in to take flight training, just a month after the attack on the Trade Center. A couple weeks later, they let a bunch more in for flight lessons. It was insane. They weren’t locking up the borders, or throwing out the illegals already here. Losing troops in a war on the front was one thing; but losing people, because we were so PC brainwashed, we refused to get serious instantly on the borders, really fried my grits.”

  Both Ellen and Craig laughed, until Sotello looked up at them sheepishly.

  “What dinosaur did you ride that one in on Scarface?” Craig asked. “Fried your grits, huh?”

  “I would suggest leaving that phrase out of your lexicon,” Ellen advised.

  “I tried to pull it back,” Sotello grinned, “but it was too late.”

  “There’s something Adrian may not have reminded you of Dad,” Craig put in. “The nickname Scarface comes from Al Capone.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Sotello admitted. “I don’t believe those people were thinking of Al Capone. You have to admit though, I do look like a mook out of a Robert Deniro movie. In my case, however, the truth does not hurt. I got a kick out of it, and it may work to my advantage. I took it as it was meant: a term of endearment.”

  “Say, did you notice how normal the streets around here look?” Ellen asked.

  “I did notice the office doesn’t appear to be staked out by the media, or anyone else, for that matter,” Sotello said.

  “Oakland’s finest moved along anyone even pausing out front for any space of time, at least since Craig and I have been here,” Ellen informed him. “Jay and Tank were by first, and then the ones relieving them took up where they left off.”

  “The Dynamic Duo of course stopped in for lunch, I assume?” Sotello ventured.

  “That goes without saying,” Craig grinned. “Don’t worry, we took good care of them.”

  “I only mentioned it because I am sure I will need another supply of groceries with all the stops Tank has been making lately,” Sotello laughed. “Craig, you better be dressed plainly while you’re picking up the client, and then I want you back wearing Kevlar as soon as we get where we are going. They don’t let you approach the flight waiting areas anyway, so you won’t be going through any metal detectors.”

  “Ellen and I saw you had left out the body armor for us,” Craig observed. “What about you?”

  Sotello tapped his chest. “Are you kidding? I only look like a dumb mook. It won’t protect against a head shot, but what the hell, it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Knife thrusts in a crowd are another thing I always told you two are just as deadly. If tipped in poison, a knife wound anywhere wo
uld make me just as dead as if I had my head blown clean off.”

  “But you would be a better looking corpse,” Ellen added.

  “Oh thanks El,” Sotello said. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Do you want me to take a stun gun in with me?” Craig asked.

  “No, leave your stuff with me until you get back. Keep it with you everywhere else. I will be the only one packing; but I want you to have the stun gun with you, and pepper spray in case we run into a little crowd control problem. We’ll let the client pick the restaurant, in case she is familiar with San Francisco, but we will be extra wary if she does.”

  “Meaning the client is not to be trusted?” Craig asked.

  “Exactly,” Sotello confirmed. “I have no idea about the political bent of Taiwan now, with the constant threat and infiltration by Red China. The Red Chinese assimilated Hong Kong as if it were a potential Borg drone in a Star Trek movie. They probably have quite a few agents in Taiwan, injecting the control devices even as we speak.”

  “Good Lord,” Ellen exclaimed with some surprise. “Is there anyone you trust?”

  “You and Craig, my dear,” Sotello smiled. “I would advise you both to increase your usual level of paranoia, because we are already living the Chinese curse of being in interesting times. Now, let’s get to work.”

  “How did you get the scar?” Craig asked.

  “In Vietnam,” Sotello said.

  “Yea, I heard the two word answer a hundred times,” Craig said, pushing his Father in the side of his head. “Now tell us the real scoop. We’re old enough to handle it. I doubt they will let you keep your nickname if you continue stonewalling about the origin of it.”

  “Since I wasn’t looking for a nickname,” Sotello pointed out, “I don’t have to legitimize it whatsoever. Let them think what they like.”

  “It was a prostitute in some hootch near your camp, right?” Ellen asked, trying to get a rise, and trick her Father into the truth. “She carved you for not coming up with enough cash.”

  Craig moved away from his sister, as if not wanting to be near a soon to be exploded hand grenade. “Geeze El, nice verbal picture you paint there. Smack her Dad, I won’t tell.”