Fortune and Pride

by Stephen John

  I knew full well why, but wanted to hear the story.

  “And?”

  “And he tells me, you try. So I did. I asked her to please stop pelting the manager in the head with marshmallows.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “She stops throwing marshmallows at the manager.”

  “She does? Really?”

  “Yeah. But do you know what she does then?”

  I knew where this was heading, “She threw marshmallows at you?”

  He nods and repeats the throwing motion, “Boop—boop—boop.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, eyes cast downward.

  “She’s damn accurate, too,” he added. “She hit my face with every single throw, and from over six feet away. It was impressive in a weird way.”

  I shrugged, “So that’s when you arrested her?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he repeated. “She covered the floor in marshmallows, so I knew she was close to empty. After she tossed the last one, I said to her, ‘Are you ready to leave now?’ To my surprise, she said, ‘yes.’ Without another word, she stands, and grabs her purse, and walks past me toward the door. I look at the manager and he waves me off. He wants her gone, right? I watch her head toward the door and then make an abrupt right turn toward the ladies' room. Several minutes go by and she doesn’t come out. So, I follow her. I knock on the door and there’s no answer. I yell at her to come out, or I’m coming in.”

  “And?”

  “She didn’t come out, so I went in.”

  “And then?”

  “She had a lit cherry bomb in her hand, ready to toss it in the garbage can.”

  “A cherry bomb? As in fireworks?”

  He nodded. “As in explosives—the kind that make a loud boom. So I grab the cherry bomb out of her hand and dowse the wick with water from the sink. Luckily, I got to it before it went off. While I’m doing this, she turns away and bends over and pulls up her skirt and moons me—moons me! She had on these—these—bright neon orange underwear with...”

  “‘Bad Ass’ was written on them, right?” I finished. Gertie’s ‘bad ass’ underpants are nearly as famous as her camo undies.

  Hernandez sighed, closed his eyes and nodded.

  I put my hand on his arm, giving it a sympathetic pat, “I know. I know. It’s horrible.”

  He sighed in exasperation, “I didn’t need to see that.”

  I nodded, “I know just how you feel.”

  “I have no choice, now. I have to take her in, so I arrest her and confiscate her purse. I empty it. Do you have any idea what this woman carries in her purse?”

  I smiled nervously, “Bat Shark Repellent?”

  “What? No.” He reached down and opens the box, “Look at this. I put it all in this box. She has cherry-bombs, Roman candles, M-80s, firecrackers and other assorted fireworks. Miss Morrow, she bought this stuff on an Indian Reservation outside of Seattle. All this stuff is illegal within the city limits.”

  It was then I realized why Gertie was so excited about going to an Indian Reservation. I was not surprised. Recently, Gertie started a major ruckus in Sinful when a stick of dynamite went off in her purse. Luckily no one was killed or hurt seriously, but the sound of the explosion spooked Sheriff Lee’s horse, who took off uncontrollably with him on it. The Sheriff hung on for dear life for five-miles until the poor horse finally collapsed from exhaustion. Both Lee and the horse had to go on oxygen.

  Why was Gertie carrying a stick of dynamite in her purse, you may wonder? For fishing, she said. That’s right—fishing.

  “I understand, completely,” I said, now wondering, but not asking, how he is releasing her into my custody without a fuss?

  “What is that other stuff in the box?” I asked.

  “It is the other stuff from her purse,” he said. “It’s all there.”

  I looked inside. I saw Burt’s Bees hand lotion; a small supply of needle and thread; lip balm; a nail file; a broken strap from a watch; a half-eaten bag of M&M’s, three earplugs (note: not three sets of earplugs, just three total); a sample-sized toothpaste; four travel size Kleenex bags; a fishing lure; a single black glove; a child’s teething ring; eight, no—make that ten pens; a New Orleans Subway map; a SpongeBob ring; one small bottle of super glue; a butterfly hairpin; eye drops; a Kiss guitar pick; hand sanitizer; assorted band-aids; a Captain and Tennille cassette, assorted safety pins; and a Super-VHS cable.

  I looked at the policeman and smiled nervously.

  “Officer Hernandez, please accept my humble apologies on behalf of Gertie,” I began. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the trouble she’s caused you—”

  He raised his hand and waved me off, “What? No, no, no. You’re getting it wrong. I think Gertie is great. She’s wonderful. I love her.”

  “You what?”

  “I said, I love her. She is a riot. There was heavy traffic, so we talked all the way to the station. She had me in stitches. The whole cherry-bomb thing took her down from her sugar high. She told me the whole story about how the hotel management fired Consuelo and denied her unemployment and that she was just trying to help a single mom with kids to get her job back. By the time we got to the station I was so mad at the hotel I wanted to drive back there and punch that manager myself. My mother was a hotel housekeeper for seventeen years. I know how they are treated.”

  “Really? So, there is no need for me to post bail or—”

  He waved me off, “No. I never booked her—I didn’t intend to. The manager is not interested in pressing charges. He never wants to see her again. I took her to my office so she could relax until you could get here.”

  “That’s—so sweet of you,” I said. “I—I don’t know what to say, other than—where is she?”

  He looked up, “Hmmm. She should have been here by now. Hold on.”

  He pulled out his cell and dialed, “I called for Gertie ten minutes ago. Where is she?”

  He listened and nodded and hung up. He looked at me, “She’s fast asleep on the couch in my office. She must have crashed after the sugar wore off.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll take care of her, I promise.”

  “Good. Because as much as I like her, if she rings the bell again and we have to answer the call, I will not—”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  “You know, if anyone found out I confiscated a lit cherry bomb from a person and didn’t arrest...”

  “I know,” I said. “We’re good. Trust me.”

  He walked away, “Oh, one more thing.”

  Was the other shoe about to drop, I wondered?

  “I know how all this started,” he said. “The hotel has a history. I think there is something you should know.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I will—but you didn’t hear from me.”

  TWENTY-MINUTES LATER I roused Gertie from her slumber and get her into the car. I called Ida Belle.

  “I have Gertie,” I said.

  “How much was the bail?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a long story, but it’s over, provided we can keep Gertie out of that hotel.”

  “Let me talk to her,” she said.

  I looked at Gertie—she was fast asleep again.

  “She’s crashed. How is the résumé coming along?” I asked.

  “We finished the résumé,” Ida Belle said. “We are role playing her interviewing skills. I helped her arrange an interview for tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates this,” I replied.

  “It will all count for nothing if we can’t convince the manager to give her a decent reference.”

  “I think I can help with that. I’ll fill you in later. I will take Gertie back to the hotel and get her into bed. I’ll meet you and Consuelo in about an hour and update you everything. I must spend a little time with Consuelo before we speak with the manager.”

>   Chapter 14

  I called Carter before heading downstairs to meet with Tim Young, the DEA Agent Harrison spoke with me about.

  “Did you get everyone settled?” I asked.

  “You could say that—for now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Sally Green was unhappy with the recent developments,” he said.

  “Perhaps a bullet in her head would please her more, because that is where it was heading.”

  “The way she is acting at the moment, it would be tempting to oblige,” he said. “At any rate, we got her in the car and I drove her and Paul to the safe house. Everything that had developed has her upset.”

  “Again, compared to the alternative—”

  “I know it and you know it, but she was furious,” Carter said. “And when we got to the safe house, the sparks exploded.”

  “Ariel did not greet them with open arms, I take it?”

  “At first, she cried and hugged him and told him she was worried and was glad he was safe...”

  “And then she lit into him?” I guessed.

  Carter whistled, “You have no idea. She went off like the Tasmanian Devil. I didn’t feel like I was mediating an argument. I felt like I was refereeing a cage match. It took well over an hour but I got everyone calm and into neutral corners, but the tension is high. I felt bad for Paul.”

  “He screwed up,” I said. “He’s getting what he deserves.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me there with the DEA Agent?” Carter asked.

  “Not at the first meeting. I’m on tenuous ground as it is,” I said. “He’s a friend of Harrison’s. Let me do this. Have you called an attorney for Paul yet?”

  “I have,” he said. “He’s a good one. His name is Hank Haddad. He is a former Naval Officer and specializes in representing military personnel. I’ve briefed him. He’ll meet with Paul and I later today.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll be there if I can but don’t wait on me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Call me if you need me.”

  SPECIAL AGENT TIM YOUNG of the DEA walked through the hotel doors right on time. On an overall hot scale of one to ten, with one being Keith Richards and ten being Keith Urban, he was a solid seven-point-five, maybe after a beer, an eight. He was perhaps ten-years older than me and carried an over-the-top government agent Men in Black look, without the sunglasses.

  He seemed to recognize me and approached me with his hand extended, “Special Agent Tim Young,” he said. “DEA.”

  I introduced myself.

  He sat and took a quick glance around the hotel lobby, out of habit. Satisfied, he said, “Harrison tells he works with you,” Young said. “He’s a damn fine agent. He tells me you’re a damn fine agent, too.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “He also told me you are off-assignment; that there’s a hefty price on your head and that you’re incognito, hiding out in a Podunk town called Sinburg.”

  “Sinful. That’s right.”

  “You have a very interesting way of lying low,” he said.

  “It’s complicated,” I replied.

  “Don’t worry. Harrison briefed on the confidentiality and sensitivity of your position. He reminded me of a favor I owe him, so I promise to respect that.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “Harrison said I could trust you.”

  “So, how may I be of service?”

  “What did Harrison share with you?”

  “Not much,” he said. “He told me you know a party that might have information on Manny Montoya and Luis Alvarez. That got my attention as it so happens, I am on the team investigating both those men.”

  “That’s all he said?” I asked. “Does your team know about me?”

  “Not yet. I’m treating you like a brand-new CI. Please—fill in the blanks.”

  “The man I am speaking on behalf of is a lower ranking drug smuggler—a nobody in the grand scheme of things,” I began. “He wants to cut a deal.”

  “You mean Paul Pride,” he said. “We are looking for him too.”

  “I didn’t say a name,” I retorted.

  I paused, looking for reaction. There was none. Tim Young was a cool customer.

  “Go on,” he said. “I know there’s more.”

  “What would it be worth if I could produce this party and he gave you information that led to the arrest and conviction of both Montoya and Alvarez?”

  “You can do that?” he asked. “Produce him?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “What would it be worth?”

  “It would depend,” Young said. “There would be a lot of factors to consider.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, how long he’d been in the organization, what kind of information he had, is he a credible witness, would he wear a wire?”

  “Would he need to wear a wire?” I asked. “Couldn’t he testify?”

  Young smiled, “Fortune, there is something you don’t know, because the man you’re representing doesn’t even know it. The cocaine Montoya is moving right now is a special formula. It’s uncut, pure. It’s worth five times what you think it’s worth. That’s why Montoya’s competitor, Luis Alvarez, is so hot to buy it.”

  So, Paul Pride had not stolen $200,000 in cocaine. It was worth a cool mill. Great...

  “You are a government agent,” he continued. “Why are you protecting someone who is guilty of a crime? What is your stake in this?”

  He intended to rattle me with the question. I was not bringing Carter’s name into it. Instead, I leaned forward, “Agent Young, I assume that Manny Montoya and Luis Alvarez are two big fish in this corner of the country?”

  He leaned back and placed his hands behind his head, interlacing the fingers, “They are two biggest whales in the Pacific Northwest, without question.”

  “You asked me a tough question,” I said. “I will ask you an easy one.”

  He froze for a second and then sat upright.

  “I’m listening.”

  “How would you like to take the credit for bringing down both organizations in one fell swoop?”

  He paused for a second. A wry smile formed on his face.

  “I have to admit, it sounds good.”

  “So, let’s talk.”

  Chapter 15

  “Where is she?” Gertie asked.

  Ida Belle looked at her watch, “Consuelo should be here any second.”

  Gertie, Ida Belle, and I were standing just outside the Camano Bay Hotel, waiting for Consuelo to arrive. I was on the phone. I held up a courtesy finger to Ida Belle showing I’d be off soon.

  “I don’t care, Carter,” I said. “We need to have Paul Pride ready to move first thing in the morning.”

  I looked up and saw Consuelo walking toward us as I listened to Carter’s reply, “I have to go now,” I said. “Consuelo is here, how far out are you? Okay, see you then.”

  “Carter is coming here?” Gertie asked, confused.

  “Yes, he is,” I said. “Thanks for coming, Consuelo.”

  “I can’t thank you all enough,” she said.

  “We got you into this,” Ida Belle said. “We are not about to give up.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she replied. “I did it. It was my fault.”

  “You heard our story,” Ida Belle replied. “You were helping us. And that help led directly to us helping Carter. We can’t let you go down for that.”

  “Are you ready for this?” I asked.

  She shrugged, “What do I have to lose?”

  “Good. Let’s hurry inside. It’s right at five o’clock. I am told Tiny Tom leaves exactly at 5:00 p.m.”

  “Who is Tiny Tom?” Ida Belle said.

  Consuelo giggled, “That’s the manager’s nickname. He’s obese.”

  Consuelo, Ida Belle, and Gertie followed me into the hotel, through the lobby, past the front desk and down the hall toward the administrative offices. Clerk Kent noticed us passing and called out, admonishing
me to not go back there.

  “Take a pill and relax, Kent,” I replied in passing. “It’s all good.”

  I stopped in front of a door marked, “Private.” I turned to Consuelo. “Is this it?” I asked.

  She nodded, appearing to be a little nervous.

  “It’s okay,” I insisted, knocking on the door. “Ladies, follow my lead.”

  A very large man answered the door. He was easily three-hundred pounds with wispy gray hair and heavily pocked facial features. He wore a scowl on his face as wrinkled as his ill-fitting suit.

  “The administration office is closed,” he said, and tried to close the door.

  “We’ll only be a minute,” I replied, pushing him back slowly but firmly and walking through the door. I held the door open for Ida Belle, Gertie and Consuelo.

  “You are Mr. Thompson? Tom Thompson, the Hotel Manager?”

  “Yes, but the administration office is closed,” he repeated, looking at his watch.

  “I’m Fortune. These other ladies are Ida Belle and Gertie. I assume you remember Consuelo,” I said.

  It was only then he recognized Consuelo standing just behind me. His expression went from annoyance to a combination of confusion and anger.

  I motioned for Ida Belle, Gertie, and Consuelo to sit.

  “What is she doing here?” he huffed. “I fired her.”

  “Yes, you fired her, and that’s why we’re here,” I said. “You see Tom, I think you fired the wrong person.”

  “I did not,” he insisted. “I saw the videotape myself.”

  “Well, in about four minutes, your guest, Carter Le Blanc, will be walking through that door. Sorry, he’s running a little late. At any rate, you may remember Mr. Le Blanc is the guest who was staying in the room Consuelo let me into.”

  “So?” he replied, smugly.

  I raised my eyebrows, “I spoke to him last night. Mr. Le Blanc informed Consuelo that morning I would drop by and asked her to let me into his room when I arrived. She was providing reasonable accommodation to a hotel guest.”