Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1)

by Samuel Belcher

  Rick shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Pete’s smile didn’t go away, and neither did Rick’s concern. “How you like ole Pete’s?” He waved his thick and calloused hand toward the back of the diner. “It what you thought? You like de name?” His accent was hard and slow which matched the way he spoke. “I know you do. And you like de barbecue too. I remember dat.” He said as he turned his head slightly toward Rick.

  “Uh, huh.” Rick looked apprehensively at Mel. “Mel what’s wrong with this guy?”

  Mel was chuckling to himself. “Nuthin’. He’s messin’ with you. He does that a lot. He likes to play with people.”

  Pete looked at Mel with the same unnerving smile, and then he let out a hearty laugh that echoed from the sides of the brick buildings like thunder, and he slapped Mel on the shoulder. “Sit down, you two! I got de chicken ready, just need some more love.”

  Rick shrugged his shoulders and gave into the deep urging of his stomach. The heavenly smell of barbecuing chicken was just too much for his tired brain to take and, therefore, all manly jesting bouts were on hold until further notice. He didn’t even try to argue but obeyed instructions and found a seat at the rickety dry rotted picnic table and waited for the smell to become the real thing. Mel plopped down on the other side and shot him an expectant look.

  “What?” Rick asked with his usual harsh taxi driver’s tone.

  “Nuthin’ just wonderin’ why you’re so quiet all of a sudden,” He responded.

  “My stomach is expecting.” He narrowed his eyes at him.

  Mel acknowledged that he understood and then he went into another long story about Pete Reyes.

  Let’s talk a little about Pete Reyes. There are easier things to try and do rather than attempting to sum up Pete Reyes. His life was so full of fantastic and strange stories that if a biography was ever written it would fill a whole set of shelves somewhere between science fiction, fantasy, and cooking at the local library. He was a local legend on the small island. But, he was also a legend in the halls of the Company and that title went way back. He started work with the Company long before the Japanese invaded in 1941. He was born on Guam in 1920, the eldest son of twelve. He was recruited by the Company in 1939 and working full time later that same year. Then the war came along. A lot of those first years with the Company involved the war, and all the fractures that resulted from the strain in various places all over the Pacific. Those years of terrible sacrifice and death were difficult ones for the Company. So much death and so many extreme events caused a great deal of fracturing that had to be attended to and it all culminated in the dropping of two atomic weapons. That decision, though necessary for the war, caused a massive ripple effect on the reality streams that could still be seen in the Pacific even in modern times, even though most people had no idea it was there. And Guam was the center of that effect. Pete’s legend grew out of the war. He was involved in some of the most severe cases the Company ever faced. Eventually, younger agents learned to regard the stories with veneration, glancing up at his black and white Company photo on the Wall of Heroes as they passed by. He was a ghostly, shadowy character to most, almost unapproachable. The truth was much less dramatic. His name was still spoken in awe. So went the legend. Real life often has a tendency to deviate slightly from legend. Or it operates in a realm separate from legend. Whatever the case, despite all the adventures, the weird and the impossible, at the end of the day, Pete was just as human as the next guy. His father and mother had brought him up with the traditions of the ancient Chamorro; to respect the ancestors, the island, and the sea. Knowledge came from the ancestors, your home came from the island, and your food came from the sea. Anything else was superficial. This meant that everything that fell within the three traditions was regarded with respect and treated with the utmost care and patience. And one of those time-honored traditions was the art of the barbecue. It is important to understand that barbecue on the island, real barbecue that is, was not your run of the mill backyard gas grill Sunday afternoon cookout. No, this was a type of barbecue cooked with the faithfulness of time and patience and the proper mixes of seasons and marinating and the right temperatures from the right native woods. It was a taste mastered from practice and years of love. And it was a taste that was not meant to be merely good, but life altering. This was Pete’s passion.

  Thirty years ago, after abruptly and mysteriously retiring from the Company, he returned to his native land and announced to his surviving family members that he was going to open a diner and call it Pete’s Barbecue. Many pointed out to him that the name was unimaginative, that he had been away too long and that no one cared for the old ways anymore. He laughed at them and plowed ahead. He was too old now to let nay-Sayers stand in the way. He had come back for several reasons and barbecue was one of those important reasons, but not the only one. Retirement and diner’s aside, Pete didn’t exactly leave reality fixing when he left the Company. During his time with the Company, he had managed to put away a substantial amount of money. He also knew a lot about how the Company operated and the gear they used to do the job. So, he applied this money and this knowledge, built his headquarters on the island and went into free-lance reality fixing. All of this was done quietly and secretly and with the full blessings of the Company itself. His reputation ensured that the Managers would turn a blind eye to his free-lance work in exchange for which they expected his cooperation in certain matters conducted outside of Company oversight. He worked as a contract provider, worked for himself and kept his own porting gear. Not many people were aware of this side hobby, however.

  Rick watched Pete effortlessly tend his barbecue like a ballet dancer as he lovingly inspected and cared for each morsel over the flame of the pit. He finally appeared out of the smoky haze with a paper plate piled dangerously high with savory, heavenly chicken parts and he sat them in the middle of his old warped picnic table. Rick’s eyes followed every move the plate of chicken made until it rested safely in front of him. His attentions were captivated and he suddenly didn’t care that he had been awake for nearly two days, that he had been listening to the world’s longest windbag for seventeen hours and that a strange Chamorro woman had suddenly appeared out of the door behind him with her hands full of paper plates and old silverware that didn’t match and began setting the table. His eyes never wavered from that plate. Mel, who was less distracted, acknowledged her with a smile like a ten-year-old. He wasn’t surprised by her sudden appearance. He acted as if he knew she was there all along, although she had been perfectly quiet and hidden. Pete promptly and nonchalantly introduced her to Rick as his wife, Maria. She was about his height, maybe a smidgen shorter, and looked his age and moved quickly in and out of the house with the skill and speed of an autobahn enthusiast. She didn’t look up or speak but jetted back and forth from their little one room home with item after item. At last, she came back with some potatoes and rice. Every dish on Guam had to have some rice with it.

  Pete plopped himself down beside Rick, laid an old rag in front of him on the table and folded his arms on top of it, looking expectantly at Mel and Rick. He loved it when people ate his barbecue, especially for the first time. He was waiting for Rick’s reaction.

  Rick didn’t wait for an invitation. He reached over and with one large hand scooped up two big pieces together and deposited them on his paper plate like a giant claw machine. He grabbed the one nearest and began biting into it hard. It was time to put this heavenly smelling meat to the test. His first bite would tell-the-tell. Rick was neither shy nor embarrassed by his appetite in the presence of others. He figured it was their job just to keep their hands and feet out of the way.

  Pete was satisfied with the response. He basked in the glow of victory, his smile changing to deep happiness. “So, I get this call.” He began, speaking to no one in particular. “This call from an old friend. He tell me he comin’ to see me. So, Pete tinks, get de barbecue ready for him. But, guess what? He do
n’t show for two days. So, Pete wonders what de matter, maybe he can’t get his port to work. Now, two days later here he is, and with Rick Carter no less. Rick Carter de taxi man. So, now ole Pete he wonders what dis is ‘cause he don’t hear nuthin’ ‘bout Rick Carter.” Pete’s eyes were narrowed at Mel watching him scarf down a chicken wing.

  Rick looked uncertain back and forth between the two of them, his mouth full, wondering, among other things, why Pete preferred to refer to himself in the third person.

  Mel looked up unconcerned; his fingers already stained with barbecue sauce. “Sorry, Pete. We flew commercial. And I didn’t know at the time that Rick was going to be with me, not until yesterday.” He mumbled.

  Pete turned his head slightly and sat back crossing his arms across his large protruding stomach. “Now, ain’t dat somthin’? Commercial? Now Pete he really wonderin’ whats goin’ on now.” He looked over at Rick. “Ders only one reason a pupil of mine would use commercial. What you runnin’ from dis time? What you do wrong now?”

  “Hey!” Mel almost spit his chicken across the table. “Why’s it always got to be like that? I can’t just fly over and see my uncle?”

  Rick looked up sharply. “Uncle?” He mumbled.

  Pete chuckled. “Dat what he calls me, Uncle Pete. You see I know dis kid a long time, Rick Carter. I trained him. I taught him good, too. Dats why he flies commercial when he could just port here in seconds. ‘Cause he hidin’ from somethin’ or somebody. Only reason to fly. I taught him dat, too.”

  Rick looked at Mel. His friend was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Obviously, there were bits of the story that Pete hadn’t been told and Rick sensed a reckoning was coming.

  “You know,” Mel spoke openly now. “I’m not exactly a kid anymore. I’ve been independent for a long time, Pete.”

  Pete chuckled more heartily this time from deep in his round gut. “You may be independent but you always a kid to ole Pete.” He looked at Rick again. “Pete he 90 years old. What you tink of dat Rick Carter taxi man?”

  Rick stopped chewing, realizing that he had aaparently just heard something wrong. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Oh, nuthin’,” Mel said. “Pete’s just bragging on himself again. You know there are older people at the Company, Pete. You remember Nell?”

  Pete rocked a little as he relished putting his younger pupil on the spot. “But, ole Pete he different, yeah?”

  “Yeah, you can’t fly as good as she can.” Mel pointed out. He raised a barbecue-stained hand at Rick to help make his point. “This guy has never stopped reminding me how good he is. I’ve had to put with this for almost thirty years. You think driving a cab is bad, try dealin’ with Mr. Humility over here.”

  Rick wasn’t sure what he should say so he took another bit of chicken instead. He thought this sounded too much like a family squabble and as a general rule, he stayed away from family problems.

  Pete leaned forward slightly and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at his pupil with glorious intent. “Dats why ole Pete he knows you up to no good, cause you fly over here. Who you tink taught you dat trick? Now, Mr. Independent, how come dat is? What you come all dis way for to get from ole Uncle Pete?”

  Mel looked slightly embarrassed and a little uncomfortable which Rick found very amusing. For a moment, a brief moment, he thought Mel might be at a loss for words. But, that was wishful thinking. “We…I have a problem.”

  Pete quickly sat back again making the old picnic table squeak in protest, a triumphant smile on his face. “Mmm, imagine dat. Mr. Independent. Ole Pete he never see dat one comin’.”

  Mel stopped and looked at his old master. He was silent, quiet, a perturbed look was crossing his thin face. “You know I hate comin’ here to ask favors.”

  Pete chuckled again, very accustomed to the bizarre sound of his bellowing. “Says de man who keep Pete up all hours of de night chasin’ down Ghengis Khan and fixin’ South America, and gettin’ Henry VIII out of Italy alive. All dees tings de just come from ole Pete knowin’ Melvin Thibadeaux, yeah?”

  The look remained on Mel’s face. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t like you, you know that? You’re an old pain in the ass.”

  Pete laughed outright. “Dat alright, but you like Uncle Pete’s barbecue don’t you?”

  Rick mumbled through a stuffed mouth something unintelligible while his head bobbed to the affirmative, bending over closer to the table to catch the falling bits.

  Mel sighed deeply and looked down at his plate. He was collecting his thoughts, regrouping. Rick was even more amused by this. Mel had met his match and then some in Pete Reyes.

  Pete looked at him carefully, understanding the thoughts racing in his apprentice’s mind. He had known him too long and he knew when the jabbing had to stop. “It alright, Mel. Just come out wid it. You’ll feel better when you do.”

  Mel raised his head and tightened his lips. “We need to see Roger, Pete.”

  Pete stopped. He stared at his adopted nephew. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed between them. “Now, bra, you know nobody sees Roger but Management.”

  “You did.” Mel crossed his fingers.

  It was Pete’s turn to take a deep breath. “Dat was a long time ago, and Pete had de blessing. Management dey not gonna let you walk in dere. Besides, you don’t even got de coordinates. Nobody does.”

  Mel didn’t budge. “But, I know how to get the coordinates.”

  Pete drew back in concern. “Oh, now it come out does it? See here, ole Pete hears de sound in the winds. Mel, he tinks he has his catch does he?”

  Mel pressed on. “You’re the only one with the equipment that can do it, Pete. You know you can. We have to see Roger. This time, it’s critical.”

  “It’s always critical wid you Mel. Nuthin’ you do is simple.” Pete looked at him sternly. “An you don’t want de Company to know nuthin.’ Dats why you use commercial, yes? You don’t want ole Tabert and Ball knowing?”

  “That was the idea.” Mel readily admitted.

  “Why?” Pete quickly asked, his eyes flashing.

  Mel fidgeted a little. “Something’s coming, Pete. I’ve been tracking it off the record for a long time. It’s big.” He tried to emphasis his point.

  “You didn’t answer Pete’s question. Why?” Pete tapped the table in front of him lightly.

  “There’s a different kind of problem with this one, Pete. Extra baggage that the Company needs to stay out of.” Mel’s voice was slightly lower as if he were afraid of being overheard.

  “Pete’s listenin’.” The old Chamorro responded.

  “It’s about me and Roger, Pete. I think this problem has something to do with all that.” Mel explained. “And now it involves Rick too.”

  Pete looked at Rick, who had stopped voraciously chewing when he realized his name had been suddenly dropped into the middle of the conversation. “Rick he always been involved in it, even when he don’t know it.” Pete sighed again and leaned back, crossing his arms over his stomach yet again. “So, it come to dat, has it? All dat stuff comin’ back to get us again.”

  Rick seemed interested, even concerned now. “What stuff? What am I involved in?”

  Mel looked at his friend contemplating. “I’ll explain later. I told you some of it on the plane, but I guess maybe you’ll listen this time?”

  Pete thought for a moment, mulling some unseen memory with the possibilities of reality that only an experienced and seasoned fixer could see. “What you tink it is? Big tear?”

  “Bigger than last time.” Mel Quickly explained.

  Pete rocked again but this time, he didn’t seem so amused. “Where’s de start? How far you tracked it?” He sounded far more serious now, business taking over the pleasure of letting his star pupil have the ribbing of his life.

  “I can’t find the origin. It’s muddled, and the streams are all bunched and chaotic. That’s why I, I mean we, wanted to see Roger. I wanted to see what he knew, what he could te
ll us.”

  “You need a tracker.” Pete pointed out.

  Rick was still stuck on a previous point and not moving forward with the conversation. “Seriously how am I involved in this?”

  “Rick, I’ll explain again later.” Mel said with a harder emphasis this time and turned to Pete. “I was hoping Roger would do the trick. I can’t use Company trackers, and nobody can find The Tracker anyway. We stand a better chance to get in to see Roger than finding him.”

  “Tormodis, he know where de Tracker is.” Pete pointed out.

  Mel looked at him dejectedly. “Really? You want to get him involved in this?”

  Pete was silent again, thinking over so many scenarios in his mind and pondering outcomes. “So, you want ole Uncle Pete to find Roger’s place and what? ‘Cause I know der more to it den dat.”

  “Well, yeah. There is.” Mel reservedly admitted.

  “Here it comes.” Pete rolled his eyes slightly and steadied himself for Mel’s next verbal punch.

  “We’ve got to break him out, too.” Mel knew the kind of critical response he was about to get from his old mentor for even suggesting such an action.

  “Break who out?” Rick lowered his half-eaten chicken breast.

  Mel glanced over at Rick and pretended not to notice the question. “Before you start, Pete, I already know all the arguments. You’ve told me a thousand times how bad it would be. But, we have to get him out of there, out of the shield they have him under in that place and free from all that pyscho crap they pipe into his brain.”

  “You remember the last time he was out? You remember what dat do to him? That pyscho crap is de only ting what keep his brain from frying completely. You take him outta dare and who knows what might happen.” Pete pointed out with an urgent harshness.