Gringo Joe

by JD Davis

  GRINGO JOE

  A novel by

  J D Davis

  © 2018 J D Davis

  Gringo Joe

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Elm Hill titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library Congress Control Number: 2018933346

  ISBN 978-1-595543523 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-595543554 (Hardbound)

  ISBN 978-1-595544933 (eBook)

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  For my wife, Keri, sent by God as a reminder of His grace.

  Thank you for praying and believing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Steve Walker, pastor, teacher, author, confidant, encourager, and mi buen hermano: thank you, Steve, for all those cups of dark, fresh-roasted coffee, and warm cinnamon rolls. Taking shelter from the Oregon rains and listening to your wisdom has encouraged me to be a better man.

  Gino Elsea, a soldier and warrior who did “God’s work” for forty years: thank you, my friend, for your insight and advice, and for doing what few could and what the rest of us would not.

  To the men and women who wear the uniforms and believe freedom from tyranny, evil and fear, for all mankind, is worth the risk of their lives. I am thankful, and we owe you our gratitude.

  According to the United Nations, human trafficking is one of the fastest growing criminal enterprises in the world. Human trafficking affects over 5.5 million children, most of whom are sold as sex slaves. It is a multibillion-dollar industry and only getting larger. According to the advocacy group Free the Slaves, there are more slaves on Earth today than there have been at any other point in history. Think about that: Over 21 million lives are affected by the horrors of slavery every single day.

  Thank you to the courageous men and women—many risking their lives—who give generously and fight tirelessly to rescue men, women, boys and girls from an unfathomable hell. God bless you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 A Mexican, a Tractor, and a One-Legged Chicken

  2 Coffee and Wine (Four-and-a-Half Years Later)

  3 In Search of the Extraordinary

  4 CIA 101; Afghanistan

  5 Three Guys and a Gal

  6 Diva

  7 Poppycock, Peekaboo, and the Posse

  8 San Miguel

  9 CIA 201; Mexico

  10 The Mayor’s Party

  11 George Bush Center for Intelligence; Langley, Virginia

  12 Tucson, Arizona

  13 Cozumel, Mexico

  14 The Perfect Latte

  15 Piper

  16 North of Here, Inc.

  17 Father Dominic Antonio Gonzalez Iglesias

  18 The Director

  19 Tino

  20 The NSA

  21 California–Mexico Border

  22 Señor Juan Delmar Espinoza

  23 The Escape

  24 Lucile

  25 Romeo

  26 Gabby

  27 Providence

  28 Dr. John

  29 Louie Trudeau

  30 Lobbying 101

  31 Archie

  32 The Team

  33 René

  34 The Plan

  35 The Bait

  36 The Virtuous Woman

  37 The Army–Navy Game

  38 Loose Ends

  39 Last Dance

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  The deepest I have loved, the most I have surrendered,

  and certainly the hardest I have fallen was in the arms of a woman.

  Yet it is the battle, in fellowship of noble men, where iron sharpens iron, doubt surrenders, and souls find courage.

  J D DAVIS

  CHAPTER 1

  A MEXICAN, A TRACTOR, AND A ONE-LEGGED CHICKEN

  It is one of life’s great joys to see someone laughing so hard, when they can barely stand as they gasp for a breath, wiping away the tears streaming down their face. It’s often contagious, infecting innocent bystanders.

  Duffy owned a bar on Orange Avenue, a popular watering hole for locals. He had sufficient cause to justify his usual melancholy demeanor, but today he was trying to get his breath and wipe his eyes from the hardest laugh he’d enjoyed in a decade. A young man sitting astride one of his stools had told a story so incredibly funny, once he finally stopped laughing, the barkeep yelled for quiet. Before the young man could object, Duffy hollered, “Gather ‘round one and all and listen up. If it’s not the best story you’ve ever heard, your next beer is on the house.”

  At the mention of free beer, twenty patrons looked up from their tables and stools.

  The young man wore jeans and his tee shirt showed off a powerful physique, not the gym-kind but from a lifetime of hard work. Although his hair was long and well past a trim, and his face days past a shave, the lad had an easy smile and eyes as warm and inviting as a roaring fireplace on a cold winter’s eve.

  He had no desire to repeat the story, for it had been spontaneous and personal, shared with a man he respected. Unlike many of the patrons, he hadn’t come to deafen the shrill of demons but to hear the whisper of wisdom. He had questions common men couldn’t answer, but he figured Duffy and few men like him could. Because the bartender was a good soul and listened intently to all the young man’s concerns, he reluctantly agreed to one more telling of his tale.

  Duffy, childishly giddy to hear it again, insisted the lad turn and sit on the bar, facing the semi-interested crowd. Some rolled their eyes, expecting a drunk to tell an off-colored joke, but once he began a hush fell over the room, as everyone began to lean in and hang on every word. There was nothing loud or boisterous about the stranger, but instead he spoke with a quiet, resolute voice. The story, he assured them, was true and involved a Mexican named Jose, a tractor without brakes, and a one-legged chicken.

  His name was Joe and, unbeknownst to the crowd, he was one day away from changing his life forever. His eyes danced, his arms swirled above his head, and, within minutes, every last soul was captivated by the rhythm and enchantment of his voice. Well before it ended, folks were wide-eyed and spellbound. Reaching its crescendo, all who were able were on their feet, laughing hilariously and applauding. There were offers of free beer, jobs, and at least one proposal of marriage. Fresh drinks were ordered, backs were slapped, and yet, before anyone realized, Joe had slipped away. He turned up his collar against the advancing Pacific fog and walked for miles, contemplating all he had learned. The lad was gone but his story lingered, retold again and again, until Duffy turned out the lights and locked the door.

  CHAPTER 2

  COFFEE AND WINE

  (FOUR-AND-A-HALF YEARS LATER)

  Michele Randle was the daughter of a hardworking Swedish dairyman and grew up with a sense of humor that was, well, somewhere between awkward and hard to explain. She did, however, inherit her father’s work ethic, instinctive logic, and her mother’s extremely good looks. After a bachelor’s degree in
history and prepping for law school, Michele, or Mel as everyone called her, did a tour of combat—at least that is how she referred to her three months as an intern for a San Francisco congresswoman. The chief of staff recognized her exceptional talent and begged her to stay, but the environment of Washington DC had shocked and disgusted Mel. Regardless of being raised in a Christian home with conservative values, like many college students, Mel’s pendulum swung from right to left at Stanford University. However, working in DC, for whom she later called “A leftist, self-serving, maniacal lunatic,” the pendulum had settled a bit more to the center.

  After her graduation from Stanford Law, Mel passed the California Bar with exceptional ease and then, to quote her brother, “Mel was possessed by an alien being, which short-circuited her common sense and robbed her of a promising financial future.”

  Mel was disciplined, sensible, and implemented her steely-eyed focus on well-thought-out goals and objectives. However, in celebration of her graduation and to consider the multiple offers of employment, she did the first spontaneous and impetuous thing she’d done in over seven years—she drove to a small town in Oregon and rented a cozy studio apartment. It was furnished, walking distance to restaurants, and overlooked a small vineyard on a nearby hillside. The town was a random choice, discovered as she searched for gas and food. The exit sign mentioned wine tours and a fly-fishing wilderness. The thundering river still bellowing from the Cascade snowmelt and beautiful rolling hills that blended with fir trees and vineyards reminded her of a shire where Hobbits dwelled and mythical legends were born.

  She was finishing a sandwich when she saw a woman putting out a FOR RENT sign, so she inquired. The lady was friendly, the place was clean and cheap, so she leased it for a month. Mel knew she would never stay that long, but the price was right and the town had a slow, mellow vibe; exactly what she was looking for. She read mindless novels, played Candy Crush, ate pizza, and discovered her true love—fresh shots of espresso buried beneath a splash of vanilla and layers of steamed whole milk. It makes sense: in a state where it’s either raining or considering it, coffee flows from pots, spigots, and espresso machines on every corner, but what ends up in a cup varies from something black and hot to a life-changing, mind-altering experience.

  It was late afternoon when she strolled into the beautiful artisan cottage, home to an espresso shop and bakery. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans mixed with warm cinnamon rolls and marionberry scones was intoxicating. With no more deadlines, classes, or papers due, Mel threw caution to the wind and decided to try one of everything. Two hours later, after the coming and going of dozens of patrons, the handsome barista with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen approached her table. He tilted his head and looked at her for a moment with a bit of a curt smile.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid it’s my responsibility to cut you off. There will be no more sugar or caffeine.”

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Mel. “I’ve been jabbering nonstop for over an hour … to complete strangers. You’re right, I definitely need something to eat besides a third scone; those things should be illegal. Forgive me if I’ve embarrassed myself.”

  After finishing the last of her third latte, she stood to leave. Helping with her chair, Joe looked down with those dreamy eyes and, in his hushed yet confident manner, said, “I think you’ve earned a good salad and glass of our local Tempranillo.”

  “Is that an invitation?” Still buzzing from at least six shots of espresso, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Actually I would love to, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  “You’re right; my apologies—I’m Joe.”

  “Hello, I’m Michele but I answer better to Mel. Wait! Do you mean Joe as in Gringo Joe, like the sign out front? Are you that Joe?”

  “Guilty as charged. If it’s alright, I’ll swing by around five?”

  “Well, okay, I guess, sure … my address is….”

  Joe held up his hand and smiled.

  “It’s a small town; I know where you’re staying. It’ll be semicasual but bring a wrap, we’ll dine outside.”

  For the last several years Mel had kept her head down and studied relentlessly with very few distractions, especially from men. Oh, she was a brown-eyed beauty with thick chestnut hair, and there had been many invitations, most of which had been kindly refused.

  Walking back to her studio, Mel suddenly realized she had a date; at least it felt like a date. No doubt Joe was a fine specimen of a man, with eyes big, green, and deep enough to drown in.

  Oh well, she thought, I’m just passing through and, after all, he’s just a cute, uncomplicated barista. What’s the harm?

  She slipped on a pair of Escada jeans and a colorful peasant top that showed off her figure. Staring into a mirror she said, “Goodness, Mel, you look marvelous,” just as a car door slammed.

  Mel was more than surprised when the “barista” showed up wearing a crisp white shirt under what was obviously an expensive sport coat. But when she walked out and saw a vintage 1962 Corvette convertible, her jaw dropped.

  “Wow! Coffee drinkers must be better tippers than I imagined.”

  Joe shrugged his shoulder and helped Mel with her jacket. He closed her door and the two sped down the highway with “I Need a Miracle” by Third Day blaring from the speakers.

  When Joe suggested a local Tempranillo, Mel never imagined they would enjoy it on a beautiful stone porch overlooking a magnificent vineyard. And when the owners of the magnificent vineyard came out with a Tuscany salad, fresh bread, and two bottles of wine, Joe stood.

  “Mel, I’d like you to meet my parents, Cade and Elizabeth Chandler.”

  “Call me Lizzie—everybody does, and we all call my husband Drummer.”

  Drummer and Lizzie were gracious, humble, and, with roots from the South, as hospitable as a Charleston quilting circle.

  Joe hardly said a word but sipped and ate with a discerning eye as his parents began opening the very interesting box named Mel Randle.

  “Mr. Chandler—”

  “It’s Drummer,” he exclaimed to her. “Please call me Drummer.”

  “All right, Drummer it is. I was wondering how you came by such an interesting name?”

  Drummer and Joe locked eyes; Joe smiled and shook his head.

  “It is your life, Dad. You own it, you survived it, and it’s your story to tell.”

  Drummer cleared his throat for what appeared to be the beginning of a long narrative, when Lizzie interceded.

  “Honey, for over a decade my heartthrob sitting over there was the drummer for a very famous Southern rock band. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Ozark Midnight Dance Band?”

  Mel blushed, apologized, and took another long sip of her very good wine.

  “No matter,” injected Drummer. “We were legends long before anyone ever heard of Stevie Ray Vaughan or Joan Jett.”

  Mel shifted uncomfortably in her seat because, again, the names were vaguely familiar but she couldn’t immediately recall any of their songs.

  Growing up on a dairy the work was hard and early, and if there was any music at all, it was one of two kinds—country or Western.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the Pretenders or Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers,” Drummer said, slightly deflated.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Mel, “I have heard of him. I loved ‘Free Fallin’.’”

  Drummer suddenly perked up. “Yeah, you bet I watched him sing it in El Paso from backstage. Yes sir, we even played with ZZ Top on their first of several farewell tours. I know you’ve listened to some floor-stomping ZZ Top?”

  Seeing her discomfort, Joe said quietly, “Would you care to take a walk?”

  Seizing the opportunity to stop offending Drummer, Mel accepted and the two excused themselves and strolled away into a beautiful setting sun.

  “My, my, my, did you see the way Joe looked at that girl?” Lizzie whispered with a pleasant sigh.

  “Yes … I … did, and I think there is more to the lovely
Ms. Mel than meets the eye.”

  “Oh, I like her too,” said Lizzie.

  “Well, let’s see. It makes sense your mom is called Lizzie, and now, with some context, I understand why your father is called Drummer, but how in the world did you end up as Gringo Joe?”

  “It’s a really long story and I don’t want to….”

  “I absolutely love stories, Joe, please, and no shortcuts, I want all the details.”

  Joe gazed toward the darkening sky and let his mind slip comfortably into his childhood.

  “One of my earliest memories is me sitting at Dad’s drums, banging away as Mom applauded wildly. I also remember the long absences when Dad was on tour. The reality for a rock star,” he said shyly, “is a wife and child back home doing everything without you.”

  Drummer Chandler had been a gifted percussionist—maybe even a prodigy—but as it turned out, perhaps his greatest talents were his ability to invest well and his immense love for Lizzie and Joe.

  Before walking away from stardom on his thirty-third birthday, he purchased two hundred acres of farmland in the rolling hills of Western Oregon, and then he bought a gazillion shares of Apple stock for ninety-seven cents a share. Folks thought he was crazy.

  “Mom and Dad were both raised in the South,” Joe continued. “Mom was from Sugarland, Texas, and Dad was an Arkansas farm boy who went to Baylor University on a music scholarship. It was actually my dad’s cousin, Twissle, who started the band with a couple of friends and, as it turned out, they had talent.”

  “Twissle—really?” asked Mel.

  “Yeah; apparently, he couldn’t pronounce his ‘Ws’ as a little boy, and ‘whistle’ came out ‘twissle’ and the name stuck. That’s the South for you. Be careful of an embarrassing idiosyncrasy or you might wear it for the rest of your life.”

  The band’s original percussionist came down with mono just before a summer road trip. Cade Chandler reluctantly agreed to fill in until school started, and he just never left. Twissle wrote the words, Drummer did the scoring and composition, and before they knew it, they were on tour with several hit records. Fame came fast, but the real money was from touring, year after year, with some of the biggest names in rock music. Few bands, with all their egos and girlfriends, survived more than one tour, but beating all the odds the Ozark Midnight Dance Band rode the wave for almost fourteen years. However, one day it did end, and everyone knew it was time. When they parted, they parted as friends, and by all accounts, another miracle.