by Guy Johnson
“What?” Jackson asked incredulously. “Why?”
“He is ready to die. He just wanted to see you first.”
The old bastard knew I was coming all along, before I had even made the decision myself, thought Jackson. It was this byzantine level of planning that seemed to imbue his grandfather with almost supernatural qualities. On the edge of death, he’s still outguessing me, Jackson marveled. He asked, “What kind of condition is he in?”
“Heart and kidney failure,” Carlos answered. “Been getting dialysis to stay alive.”
Jackson merely nodded. It was eerily surprising that the old man was mortal, that his body was giving out, that his desire to live was gone. If anyone had the spirit to live forever, it was his grandfather. He asked, “What’s the projected time after he gets off the life support equipment?”
“Who knows?” Carlos shrugged. “Three days, a week at the outside.”
Jackson sat quietly with his own thoughts as the limo crawled through the busy afternoon traffic. He turned to Carlos. “I was surprised to see you. You’re a college graduate. I thought you would have severed ties with my grandfather by now.”
“Federico Ramirez, El Indio, and your grandfather were family to me. These three men took me in when I was thirteen. They fed me, clothed me, and took responsibility for training and educating me. What I did with you when you were eight was done for me when I was fourteen. Everything that I’ve ever taught you was based upon a foundation laid down by those three men.
“Your grandfather treated me like a son and he did the same for Rico’s boys. After their father was killed, he took them in, provided shelter, trained and educated them, then, when they were ready and capable of protecting themselves, handed over their father’s share of the business. And the only thing he ever asked in payment was that we treat you as he treated us. He is a true man of honor. With his passing, I will lose one of the most important members of my family.”
Jackson snorted. “You make him sound like Robin Hood.”
“He is a sort of Robin Hood. He stood up to forces that other people would have laid down for. He fought back and he made a living taking money from rich and arrogant criminals.”
“True, but he didn’t give to the poor!”
“That’s not exactly true. He didn’t donate money to organizations, but he did things like—Do you remember that first village you stayed in when you were eight years old? Where I first taught you to hunt?” Jackson nodded. Carlos continued, “Your grandfather built a school there on his own land and paid the salary of the teacher for years until they incorporated into a larger school district. He did this predominantly because he wanted to build a good relationship among the villagers, but also he let it be known that if anyone in the village was caught participating in an attack against him, the school would be shut down. He regularly donated to the local church and the village’s festivals. He was very generous. The medical clinic where he is staying is another example of that. He bought that building for the doctor who for years had been providing us with discreet medical services for bullet and knife wounds. The doctor wanted his own clinic and he was willing to direct a good percentage of his services to the poor. I negotiated the deal. It was just one of your grandfather’s ways of protecting himself from treachery and keeping in the good graces of the local people. Almost every place he lived, he was liked as well as respected, because of what he put into the community. His approach was and still is good business.”
The limo turned into a walled, white stucco compound and heavy iron gates swung shut behind it. Inside the courtyard there was a circular drive which arced underneath the overhanging second story of the house. Two men dressed in suits walked out of the front door as the limo rolled to a stop. Jackson got out and greeted the Ramirez brothers. The older brother, Reuben “Cisco” Ramirez, had grown into a handsome, brown-skinned man of average height. He had the Rudolph Valentino good looks that women so often admired: his straight, black hair combed back; flashing dark eyes under arched, black eyebrows. He had inherited his father’s swarthy coloring, while his younger brother, Julio “Pancho” Ramirez, was much lighter skinned and had light brown hair, but he shared a strong family resemblance with his older sibling. They had many of the same features—the same hairline, eyebrows, and eyes—yet the results were significantly different. Julio was a bigger man with a broader face, so that the features which made Reuben look dashing were strangely coarse and unfinished on his brother.
“How was your flight?” Reuben asked, extending his hand. The greetings were exchanged between the three men. Jackson was escorted inside as Carlos took care of his bags and gave directions to the limo driver.
Jackson was guided to the chair behind the desk in his grandfather’s den. It was a room he associated with smells of Scotch whisky, gun-cleaning oils, cigars, and aftershave. The room seemed the same: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall; on the opposing wall a bar with a mirror behind it; in the center of the room a large, circular green felt–covered card table surrounded by solid wooden chairs; and at the far end, the big wooden desk in front of high, arching windows, which allowed natural light to cascade over half the length of the room. He looked across the wooden expanse of the desk and remembered the countless times he had stood in front of it pleading his case to an uncaring judge. Jackson was deep in his recollections when Reuben began laying out various legal papers, and it was only then that Jackson realized that Julio was talking to him.
Julio was providing a quick sketch of the last two decades. The Ramirez brothers had been serving as his grandfather’s attorneys for all the South American and West Coast business from the time each had passed the bar in California. Julio began listing a number of businesses which were among King’s assets and went on to discuss Jackson’s grandfather’s considerable real estate holdings in both Mexico and in California. The brothers explained how, in an effort to avoid inheritance taxes, part of the estate had been transferred to another corporation in Jackson’s name. However, the bulk of his grandfather’s estate remained in stock certificates.
The discussion of money made Jackson feel uncomfortable. He looked at his watch. Almost two hours had passed and there were still two hours yet to pass before he could see his grandfather at six. He needed to wash up and relax, and wander around the old house. He asked to be excused. The Ramirez brothers arranged to meet Jackson the next day to discuss the legal aspects of the will. Jackson did not reveal his reluctance to get involved with his grandfather’s affairs. He was surrounded by loyal men who expected him to pick up his grandfather’s mantle. He decided that he would first see his grandfather before he aired any of his intentions.
Julio picked up a weathered valise and placed it on the table. Jackson gave him a questioning look. Julio said simply, “It’s a list of names along with some reading material. El Negro will explain it.”
Jackson did not inquire further. He figured that the valise contained information concerning his grandfather’s enemies. He hoped in reading its contents that he would discover the key to disengaging himself from the conflict. He smiled at the Ramirez brothers. “Has my grandfather taken care of you for your years of service?”
“He’s treated us like family,” Reuben replied. “He has taken care of us extremely well. He has given us control over all our father’s old businesses and paid us well too. If anything, we are in your grandfather’s debt.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Jackson smiled again and said, “I want my blood brothers taken care of.”
“You still remember that oath we all took together?” Julio asked with surprise.
“I remember it and still honor it.”
“Good,” Reuben asserted. “We may still have need to rely upon one another.”
Julio offered to introduce him to the people who maintained his grandfather’s house. On the way out to the kitchen, Jackson asked about the facsimile machine for which he had been given the number and when he might be able to check for the receip
t of documents. Reuben informed him that he would check with his friend who was a manager in the multinational corporation that had the fax machine. If documents had already been sent, Reuben would call him.
After a brief introduction to the three house-staff members, Jackson was left to his own devices. The limo was scheduled to take him to the clinic at a quarter to six. He walked through the house, reacquainting himself with its shadows and doorways. As the cool darkness enveloped him, Jackson could hear echoes of long-dead conversations, the scuff of leather boots on the cold tile floors, and the gruff sound of his grandfather’s voice.
He walked into the kitchen and interrupted the hushed conversation of the house staff. There was a gray-haired man named Mario who stood up immediately, ready to be of service. His comrades, two women, stood up more slowly. Jackson assured them in broken Spanish and hand gestures that he was just looking around. He went upstairs and discovered that his bags had been placed in the master bedroom, his grandfather’s bedroom. He went down the hall and pushed open the door leading into his old bedroom. Nothing seemed changed from the last time he had slept in it. It touched him that his grandfather had maintained the room as he had left it.
On the far wall of the room, between his bed and the window, there was a painting of a beautiful young Mexican woman. Her name was Maria. Jackson’s heart ached at the sight of her picture. She had been his first real foray into the minefield of love. Their relationship had been quick, intense, and heartrending. He had never opened himself to anyone like he had with her, and she had given him sexual pleasures that had never been rivaled. It had seemed a match made in heaven, but shortly after their meeting she was carried away in a tide of bloodshed and death.
On his return to the master bedroom, he saw his grandfather’s majestic gun case. It was a huge chifforobe made of dark red wood. He reached up and took the key from its hiding place atop the chifforobe and unlocked the main cabinet. The guns gleamed in the light from the hallway. There were ten to fifteen rifles and shotguns stacked upright in neat rows. The pistols lay flat, crowded into ten narrow drawers. The smell of the cleaning fluid on the guns stirred even more memories.
In the back, hanging above the rifles, he saw the wire coat hanger that his grandfather had used on him that first summer. He had never forgotten that whipping. Anger flushed his face. Roaming through the old house that he had known since he was a child was like digging through scar tissue; wounds that he thought had long since healed were reopened. He could feel the pain of the welts again on the backs of his legs. Suddenly, it seemed too warm in the house. He decided to go outside. Descending the stairs he heard the yapping of a small dog. It came from the kennel that his grandfather had maintained for his hunting and fighting dogs. Jackson went to investigate.
The kennel was at the back of the house and consisted of four caged runs, each with a covered shelter built against the outer wall of the compound. One of the women Jackson had seen in the kitchen was attempting to feed the kennel’s sole occupant, a bullterrier puppy, which was more interested in escape than the food she was providing. It was also obvious that she was not used to dealing with the puppy, for she kept waving a broom at it every time it came near. The puppy, nearly six weeks old, was fearless; it bit the broom several times trying to defend itself. The woman and the puppy were battling for position by the door of the run.
The scene brought laughter to Jackson’s lips. He entered the run behind the woman and indicated that she could go. The puppy stopped to consider its new antagonist. Jackson sat down in the run with his back to the door and waited. The puppy, with its big head and feet, came over cautiously to examine Jackson. As it was snuffling him, Jackson began to pet it. It was a black-coated young male with the broad white chest mark of the fighting Staffordshire bullterriers. The puppy was happy to receive attention. It tried to lick Jackson’s face and his hands. It began to wag its tail so furiously that its whole body bent back and forth. It was a healthy young dog. Its nose was cold and damp, and its coat was thick and shiny. Jackson spent half an hour in the kennel with the puppy. Jackson knew that in his prime, his grandfather would have had this puppy trained for the pit, to fight and perhaps die amid the shouting and laughter of uncaring voices.
When Jackson went upstairs to wash up, he let the puppy come with him. Because he knew that terrier puppies liked to chew on various objects, he stopped by the kitchen and got a bone. The staff were surprised to see that the puppy was following him. It appeared that the puppy had been in desperate need of affection, and now that it had received a little, it was not going to let the bestower of that affection out of its sight. Its curiosity would cause it to venture off, but it soon came scampering back.
The phone rang several times before Jackson picked it up. It was Reuben calling to inform him that he had received several faxes marked urgent and that they would be delivered shortly. Jackson would be able to send his responses any time after six o’clock until midnight. After he finished speaking with Reuben, Jackson immediately called Corazon at home and inquired as to what had transpired in his absence.
Corazon’s tone was concerned when she said, “You really lit a fire under Bedrosian. He has contacted every one of your council subcommittees looking for mistakes or somebody with a grudge, and it seems he found someone. He convened an emergency meeting of the waste management subcommittee Friday night.”
“On what basis? The chairwoman was out of town. Did he get a quorum?”
“Just barely. He had allegations of toxic dumping that weren’t included in your report. But we’ve outsmarted him this time. I’ve sent you his report so that you can cut and paste it into yours.”
“As soon as I get it, I’ll work on it. Mexico City is two hours ahead. I’ll have it faxed off tonight before midnight. It’ll be there waiting for you tomorrow morning.”
Corazon sighed. “I can’t guarantee that I’ll be the first one in there in the morning. You better make sure that you send it tonight and I’ll go into the office around nine-thirty this evening and stay until ten waiting for it.”
“Corazon, you are a sweetheart and a lifesaver! I really appreciate this. Your husband doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
“He knows. I don’t let him forget it. Just remember, my mother is coming from Manila in two weeks and I’ll need time off.”
“If I’m still employed, you got it.” After he hung up the phone, Jackson slid down on the floor and petted the puppy’s wiggling body as it tried to lick his face. Once it saw that he wasn’t going anywhere, the puppy slumped against him and lay down on the floor next to him. Jackson continued to run his hand along the puppy’s side as he let himself ruminate over his future in the city manager’s office.
Ten minutes after Jackson had hung up the phone, the limo driver brought the fax documents that Corazon had sent. There was a brief note from her indicating that she didn’t think he should change his recommendations because lengthy police surveillance had not confirmed any of the allegations. He sat down at the table in the dining room and studied the faxes. In twenty minutes he had made the necessary corrections and had written the new wording for his report. This part of the work came easy for him. In fact, he enjoyed preparing reports and resolutions for council review and approval. But for Bedrosian, Jackson would have loved his job. He would deflect this particular attack, but his long-term problem was that he was down the slope from Bedrosian and shit would continue rolling in his direction until he got tired of dodging or was covered with it. Jackson set his jaw grimly. He would possibly consider a severance package if it was the right amount and it was offered without any attempt at character assassination. Otherwise, he would not go quietly.
Jackson went into his bedroom to get ready to see his grandfather. He washed up and changed shirts while the puppy alternately prowled underfoot or attacked its bone with furious little growls. There was a knock at the bedroom door. The puppy was at the door in an instant, growling threateningly. It was Mario. He informed Jackson that th
e limo was ready. Jackson picked up his leather jacket and his edited report then headed downstairs. On the way out, he put the puppy back in the kennel. He heard its disappointed yelps until he closed the front door.
Carlos was in the car waiting for him. As the limo pulled out of the gate, Jackson asked him to have the driver take his report and get it faxed back to his office. Carlos nodded and they sat back and watched the traffic of early evening thicken with daily commuters. The clinic was located in a well-to-do suburb on the western outskirts of Mexico City. All the houses along the street which led up to the clinic were mansions set well back on large, manicured lawns behind wrought-iron gates. The clinic, which had originally been a private school, was constructed on a hill overlooking the surrounding environs. There was a small guardhouse at the entrance gate. The limo was waved through without scrutiny and continued up the driveway, which arced in front of the main building.
The inside was cool and pale under the fluorescent lights. There was a thick carpet and numerous overstuffed chairs and couches placed throughout the lobby, which appeared to be crowded with both patients and visitors. Carlos ushered Jackson upstairs to his grandfather’s room without checking at the desk. They walked up two flights and turned down a corridor which seemed to lead to an unoccupied wing of the clinic. Carlos gestured to a door that had no number or other visible insignia on it. Jackson opened the door and stepped into the room. Immediately, a short, stocky man emerged from behind the door with his hand under his jacket. He saw Carlos behind Jackson and stepped back. Carlos gestured for the man to leave with him, and Jackson was left alone in the room with his grandfather.
The old man had the back of his bed raised slightly and was looking directly at him. No words passed between them as they stared at each other for several minutes. Two men connected by blood, but separated by nearly fifty years. Jackson was shocked at how the changes wrought by age had affected his grandfather. Where once there had been a big, broad-shouldered man, there was now a shrunken husk. Wrinkles hid the face that had once struck fear in so many hearts. Only the eyes gave a hint of the man within the atrophying flesh. Jackson broke the silence with “Hello, Grandfather.”