by Frank Hughes
“Well, then, give me your own opinion.”
I leaned back while the waiter placed a small plate of salad in front of me, one with unfamiliar greens sprinkled with mandarin oranges and little pebbles of cheese. “I’m still not sure I’m the right person to ask. I was in law enforcement for a long time.”
“I’d still like to know what you think.”
Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. And mine usually made me seem like an asshole.
“If you insist.” I paused to gather my thoughts. “I understand what you’re trying to do with the fence and all. The national security concerns, the drug trade, and illegal immigration. It’s just.” I stopped, hoping lightning would strike me.
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure a fence is a workable solution.”
There was astonishment on some of the faces around the table that I was bearding the lion in his den.
Canfield himself seemed unruffled. “The Israelis have had a lot of success with their Gaza fence,” he said.
“That fence is less than thirty miles long, in a populated area, with plenty of guards and armed checkpoints. We’re talking over fourteen hundred miles, much of it through desolate terrain.”
“Our southern border is porous,” said Canfield, “with untold thousands pouring across with little to hinder them. Illegal immigration severely taxes our healthcare, education, and social services systems,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers, “and then there is the threat of terrorism. The Israelis cut suicide bombings from Gaza to nothing with their fence.”
“Yes, but rockets replaced the suicide bombers, and they still have a healthy smuggling problem.”
“If it stops one terrorist, it’s worth it,” said Mayor Dave, nodding vigorously in agreement with himself.
“And exactly how many attacks have been launched in this country since nine-eleven by terrorists who infiltrated our southern border?” I said to him. “I’ll tell you how many. Zero. Terrorism is a straw dog. There are easier ways to infiltrate this country. We have twelve thousand miles of coastline, not to mention six thousand miles of undefended border up north. Hell, Canadian amnesty laws may as well have been designed by an Al Qaeda travel agent. No, this fence is about illegal immigration. And to a lesser extent drug smuggling.”
“You must admit,” said Canfield, “that stopping illegal immigration is a very important goal.”
“Making that fence work,” I said, “is going to require the equivalent of a standing army on our border with a friendly nation and major trading partner.”
“A friendly nation that is in a chaos of violence and in serious danger of collapse,” said Canfield. “Drug cartels openly defy and battle the government. Politicians, judges, and police chiefs are murdered wholesale. Those illegals are coming here because their own government cannot protect them from violence.”
“On the contrary, Senator, most are coming here because per capita income in the United States is seven hundred fifty percent what it is in Mexico. They want better lives, and they were coming in droves even before the violence. As for the chaos in Mexico, that is largely because of us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Mayor Dave.
“Now, Mr. Mayor,” said Canfield, holding up a calming hand, “let the man speak. Mr. Craig?”
“The violence and anarchy there is fueled almost entirely by our demand for illicit drugs. The people of Mexico are merely in the pipeline.” I waved my hand around the table. “We’re the spigot.” I pointed at the lights below. “I guarantee you that in some of those mansions down there illegal drugs are being used right now. It’s part of the culture, made fashionable by celebrities, Wall Street brokers, and politicians – no offense, Senator.”
“None taken,” he said, smiling. “How do we change that?”
“In a free society, one with a culture as coarse as ours, you can’t. We have a First Amendment that protects the sleazy along with the sublime. So as long as the entertainment industry continues to glorify drugs and champion their use, demand will stay high. I’m a veteran of the so-called war on drugs and I can verify that despite all our efforts the stuff comes in by the ton. We spend billions of dollars to very little effect. We had success in Columbia, but the cartels just moved to other, friendlier countries and set up shop.”
“So you’re for legalization?” said Randolph.
“That might work eventually, but some pretty ruthless people supply this stuff right now. They aren’t going to go away quietly and let legitimate drug companies and the government tax man reap what they see as their rightful profits.”
“Do you really think legitimate drug companies would manufacture and sell such poison?” said Randolph.
“In a heartbeat, if it’s legalized. They have in the past. Cocaine was once an ingredient in Coca Cola and the name ‘heroin’ is a trademark of the same company that makes Bayer aspirin.”
“You’re kidding,” said Mayor Dave’s wife.
“Heroin was sold over the counter as a cough suppressant for years. In any case, these cartels have amassed billions of dollars and can simply buy into legitimate drug companies and take them over.”
“It seems to me, Mr. Craig,” said Canfield, “that you are really good at finding problems, but not at offering solutions.”
“As I understand it, Senator, finding solutions is what we elect people like you to do.”
Boyd said, “That’s enough, Craig”
Catherine looked down and toyed with her salad.
“You are correct, Mr. Craig,” said Canfield, ignoring Boyd. “That is why my constituents elected me. And my solution is the fence. It may not be perfect, but it is worth trying.”
“We have different definitions of worth, Senator. Conservative estimates of what this border fence will cost run around thirty billion dollars. You and I both know it will cost much more than that, after you factor in the usual cost overruns, the skimming, and the padded union contracts. And it will take so long to finish, that by the time it gets done, if it ever gets done, some smart guy will have found a way to beat it.”
“Not if we put the Army on the border,” said Randolph.
“As I said, the cartels have billions to spend. Do we really want to create a situation that exposes our military to the sort of corruption that’s rampant in our neighbors to the South?”
“Well, I say we at least try the fence,” said Mayor Dave. He turned to me and sneered. “It’s better than doing nothing. And I believe it will stop illegal immigration.”
“It may slow it,” I said, “but it won’t stop it. The smugglers always find a way. Demand is high for their product, too. As long as the well-to-do want their beds made and their lawns mowed for a reasonable price, we’ll have a constant stream of illegals to replenish the supply.” I looked around the table. “You know, some poor illegal froze to death in your town not long ago, and as far as I can tell, nobody reported him missing. Or cared to find out why he died.”
Catherine’s eyes blazed and her mouth opened to speak, but Richard Imperatrice, of all people, came to my rescue.
“I should have warned everyone,” he said, “that my experience with Nick is that he has strong opinions.”
“And is not very diplomatic when sharing them,” said Catherine.
I pushed back from the table and stood up. “My wife once told me I could light up a room simply by leaving. I apologize for all my shortcomings, and don’t wish to further damage the mood. Senator. Mrs. Canfield. Chief Masterson.”
33.
I left the dining room and trotted up the stairs. Kohl was waiting outside the bar, hands folded behind his back, as if he had been expecting me.
“Mr. Craig.”
“Herr Kohl.”
He was used to me now and didn’t even blink. “Surely dinner is not finished so soon.”
“Let’s just say I left while everyone else still had an appetite.”
He pursed his lips. “No doubt you wer
e indiscreet.”
“And we’ve only just met.”
“You are a young man still. Perhaps you will learn more social graces.” He paused. “Given enough time.”
I was simultaneously weighing the sinister implications of his statement and crafting a snappy comeback, when we were interrupted by satiny rustle from below. It was Cory Canfield, whose attempt to run up the stairs in a skin tight dress and six inch heels was both amusing and stimulating.
“Nick! Nick! Why are you leaving?”
I stepped down and offered her a hand. She used her free hand to hold up the hem of the dress, arriving at the top flushed and nearly out of breath, her chest heaving. I realized I was staring and glanced away at Kohl, who seemed unmoved. How old was this guy?
“Why are you leaving?” said Cory, slapping her hand against her hip.
“I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Oh, come on. There’s nothing wrong with a little political conversation. I learn so much when people have the guts to argue with my husband.”
“Nevertheless, it’s late and I have to be going.” I turned to Kohl. “When is the next car down?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but Cory cut him off.
“No, no, no, no, no! Come back, Nick. Have some dinner.”
“I’m sorry; I think it’s best if I don’t. I was crashing the party anyway.”
“Well, if you must be a poop?” she said, frowning. Then her expression brightened, “I know, you’re going skiing with us tomorrow!”
Kohl looked stunned. I know I was.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Canfield.”
“Cory!”
“It’s very kind of you, Cory, but I don’t have any equipment and I’m not staying in town.”
She brightened. “You’re right! You’re staying here tonight.” She turned to Kohl. “Arnie, don’t we have that unit? You know, the one owned by that prime minister who can’t come now?”
Kohl, who had recovered his composure, nodded. “Correct, Mrs. Canfield. Unit twelve.” He turned to me. “Certain political setbacks make it unlikely the owner will be using it.”
“Tonight?” I said.
“Ever,” he said, his tone flat.
“Great!” said Cory, taking a little hop for emphasis. “Can you get everything ready? And he’ll need ski stuff, too.”
Kohl bowed. “Leave everything to me, Mrs. Canfield. And now, perhaps, it would be best if you rejoined your guests.”
“Oh, my gosh, you’re right!” She started down the steps. “Get a good night’s sleep, Nick. We’ll have a great time tomorrow.”
I watched her all the way down. When I turned back to Kohl he was watching me with a neutral expression.
“No doubt,” he said, “it is time for a witticism.”
I shook my head. “Fresh out.” I paused before adding, “Arnie.”
He nodded and pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“Renee? Prepare unit twelve. And arrange that a full set of proper men’s ski clothing and undergarments be delivered to the room.” He cocked his head and examined me. “Height one hundred eighty-five centimeters, eighty two kilograms, medium build.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I beg your pardon. About one hundred eighty pounds.” He looked at my feet, and then at me. “Forty-four?”
“What’s that in American?”
“Ten and a half.”
“You should have been a cop.”
“Perhaps I was.” To the phone he repeated my shoe size and said, “Oh, and perhaps a set of après ski clothes.” He listened for a moment. “Style?” He looked at me and smiled. “Pretend you are buying them for your father.”
“Just like that?” I said.
He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Precisely like that. And now, you are certain you do not wish to return to the dinner?”
“Yes.”
“It seems your meals are always being interrupted.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This morning. Your breakfast with the charming Sheriff. I apologize again.”
“It’s okay. Besides, I learned quite a bit from you.”
A look of concern crossed his face. “How so?”
“The whole hand kissing thing. It really works.”
His face lightened and he smiled. “Manners still matter. Even in today’s rather brusque society.”
“Whatever.”
“Chief Masterson is a charming woman, yes?”
“I may have to get myself arrested.”
“We are outside her jurisdiction.” He leaned in towards me and lowered his voice. “I am the law here.”
“Then I’ll behave. Being handcuffed by you doesn’t seem as much fun.”
“I can guarantee it.”
At that moment a lovely, but very businesslike young redhead in a black pantsuit and white blouse appeared.
“Mr. Craig, this is Renee. She will escort you to your room.”
“Good evening,” she said.
“Hello.”
“Please follow me.”
“Until the morning, Mr. Craig,” said Kohl.
“Yes, until then.”
We left him standing there. I felt him watch us all the way down the hall.
Renee took me back past the restaurant to the residence wing.
“How long will you be with us, Mr. Craig?”
“You’ll have to ask someone else. I lost control of my life a few hours back.”
She responded with a very attractive laugh. “Now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Not everyone gets in here, you know.”
We stopped at the door marked “12” and she swiped a white card.
“What I want to know is does everyone who gets in eventually get out?”
“I get out every night at ten and go home to my cramped little cottage in the valley. Whereas you,” she said, as she opened the door, “you get this.”
The door opened and all I could say was “Jesus.”
“Cute, isn’t it?”
Whatever the owner’s current situation, he had once benefited from an excellent compensation plan. The enormous suite had walls of pale stone and a two story high ceiling with exposed wooden beams painted to match. Dead center in the living room was a circular fireplace surrounded by deeply cushioned sofas and easy chairs. The copper chimney jutted down from the ceiling like the business end of a gigantic trumpet, but the flames jumping in the pile of logs were gas fed.
“The master bedroom,” she said, pointing, “is up there.” She smiled. “This is as close as I get. Company rules.”
“Yes, I imagine that might tend to be an issue with the clientele.” I pointed at a narrow door with a clear glass panel near the circular stairs. “Is that?”
She nodded. “An elevator.
“How the other half lives.”
“That elevator goes up to the master and down to a climate controlled tunnel to the ski shop.”
“Tunnel?”
“It does get cold and windy outside. The door next to the elevator is emergency stairs to the tunnel, and I do mean emergency. It’s a one way door and an alarm goes off, so stick to the elevator.”
She continued on, skirting the fire pit.
“The second bedroom is on this level, over there,” she said, pointing.
She stopped at a discreetly placed alcove housing a wet bar and picked up a remote control. When she clicked a button, curtains on the far wall parted, revealing a glass wall with a sliding door in the center.
“Be careful if you open this door, although I don’t know why you would in cold weather. We maintain a slight positive pressure inside the building to compensate for the altitude, so I wouldn’t leave any important papers lying around. They’re liable to get sucked out.”
“I’ll make a note.”
She pressed another button and outside lights revealed that snow had begun to fall.
“You’ll have good pow-pow tomorrow,” she said.
“Pow-pow?”
> “Powder. Don’t you ski?”
“East coast.”
“Oh.” She grimaced, as if tasting something bad. “This remote controls the lights, TV, everything. Even the fire.” She clicked a button and the flames died. Another click and the fire restarted.
“How about the shower?”
“That works the old fashioned way. Now I’ll show you how the other half cooks.”
She led me past the bar into a very sizable kitchen with a central island, Sub Zero refrigerator, and a stove suitable for a restaurant.
“Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“Big.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Really? You think this is big?”
“I’m from New York City.”
“They don’t have kitchens there?”
“If this is a kitchen, then no they don’t.”
She walked back to me and held out the white card. “Here’s your key.”
It was just like the ones I’d seen the staff and Kohl using, slightly thicker than the usual hotel card key, but the same size. There was no room number or writing, just an embossed resort logo.
“This key is programmed for you personally. Certain areas of the building are off limits for security reasons. This opens all doors authorized to you, including the gym, and you will need to have it with you to use the elevators. It also serves as a lift ticket.”
“How?”
“Electronic scanners. Just leave it in the pocket of your outermost garment.”
“Do I get beads or something for the bar and restaurant?”
She smiled. “You are Mrs. Canfield’s guest. She is taking care of everything.” She looked at her thin gold watch. “You are expected at the ski shop at seven-thirty tomorrow morning to be fitted for boots and skis. Just use the tunnel. There is a map of the building on your television. Just use this remote or the one in the bedroom. Now, as to those après ski clothes.”
“Please tell me your father is a youngish, attractive man.”
She laughed. “Oh, that was just Mr. Kohl. He has a very dry sense of humor.”
“Saharan.”
“I think we can arrange something.”
“Something with pleats?”
She shook her head. “Not on you.”
“Why, Miss Renee, you’ve given it some thought.”