Echoes of a Distant Summer

by Guy Johnson

  Deleon thought for a minute. He realized that San Vicente’s back was up against a wall because he had to show loyalty to his hired men. Deleon deduced that if he didn’t take his offer, a pitched battle would be fought in the house. Under those circumstances, the casualties would not be limited. It was cleaner just to give up a man. Deleon nodded and then, despite knowing the answer, he asked, “Which one do you want?”

  San Vicente smiled. “You are a wise man. Give us Hardigrew.”

  “Okay, but he can’t be killed here. It has to be out somewhere.”

  “No problem. Once he is dead, the two men will catch the next flight back to Florida. Then we can get back to the real work.”

  “Before you go, I’d like to know how much you know about Tremain’s organization. Do you think it will survive the old man’s death and can either of his grandsons lead it?”

  “El Negro’s organization is well known in Mexico. He has many men and for some years he made a living stealing from drug dealers, but that time has passed. His organization can no longer compete. He cannot afford to pay the bribes that a drug lord can pay. He cannot pay the big money to his soldiers. He worked by the old system of loyalty. It is much harder to establish than greed. Almost all of his soldiers are old men. It is the end of an era. When he dies, his organization will die with him.”

  “Then you are not worried about either of the grandsons mounting a resistance?”

  San Vicente scoffed, “They are both soft American boys! They have not been battle tested! What do they know about pain? About sacrifice? About leading men in dangerous situations? What they know about bloodshed, they learned from the movies. Believe me, their hearts will come easily out of their chests. It will not even be a challenge. We only wait for the old man to die, then we will collect his grandsons like sheep in a corral.”

  After San Vicente had returned downstairs, Deleon sat by the window, musing over their conversation. Giving up Hardigrew had been the easiest part. Deleon had decided to send him out to steal cars in the Westlake District later that evening. That would give the Cubans plenty of opportunity to take him down. The issue which kept troubling Deleon was not losing a man, but whether San Vicente was underestimating the grandsons. There was a good chance of it; after all he had underestimated Deleon. Deleon shook his head in tired resignation. As far as he was concerned, the whole situation was becoming too complicated. He had begun to feel a growing sense of uneasiness about the way things were proceeding beginning with the arrival of San Vicente. This feeling was heightened when Jesse and Fletcher unnecessarily assaulted the man in the parking lot. Their stupidity was bound to be the source of trouble.

  He reasoned it would be easier to kill both grandsons now and forestall any possibility that one would assume leadership of the organization. Let others hunt down the certificates later. The longer he thought about it, the more certain he became that his earlier decision to kill the grandsons was the best course of action.

  He looked out the window toward the bay and saw that the colors had deepened. The bay was now a bluish fuchsia before the dark, burgundy-green horizon of Oakland’s undulating hills. The pink triangular sails of small boats reflecting the last light of western skies drifted on the windless bay. Monet could only have dreamed of painting something so beautiful.

  As the view faded into differing shades of navy blue, Deleon turned his thoughts back to his problem. Even if San Vicente was right and the grandsons really were soft, things were not over. There was still San Vicente to consider. He did not doubt that he and Francisco were headed toward a final conflict and he intended to show Francisco that the underestimation of one’s rivals had mortal consequences.

  Deleon pulled the curtains over the window and permitted himself to hope. Just a few more tasks and he might be sketching and painting in the Caribbean long before he planned.

  July 1958

  Twelve-year-old Jackson moved through the mesquite and manzanita, attempting to avoid the prickly branches which snagged his clothing or caught on his backpack. The morning sun was already hot. He could feel its intensity on his skin and it had not yet reached its zenith. He was beginning to perspire. He pulled a well-used handkerchief from his pocket, lifted his sombrero, and wiped his face. Jackson stepped around one of the many barrel cacti which dotted the landscape and looked up at the red sandstone cliffs in front of him, their serrated peaks jutting into the eggshell-blue sky. Behind the peaks in the distance towered the green and rust colors of the San Pedro Martir Mountains.

  To his right a covey of blue quail started and took to the air, veering away from him. Jackson chambered a round into his rifle. He knew that the upland terrain was not the usual habitat of the peccaries, but he also knew that the vicious little pigs ranged wherever there was food. After a minute or so, he relaxed. The flock appeared to have taken flight because of him. Up above, to his left, he could see his grandfather making his way to an angular ledge which ran horizontally across the cliff wall. The ledge slanted slightly upward toward a patch of green, which looked like a break in the rock.

  Jackson hoped that this was the pass that led to the fertile canyons on the other side of the ridge. His grandfather had spent the better part of the morning searching for this gateway. At least this break in the sandstone appeared to be an easier climb than the next two possibilities. He leaned his rifle against a cactus, removed his backpack, and checked his canteen. It was still three-quarters full. He took a small sip. He wanted more, but he knew better. His grandfather had told him that the water in his canteen might have to last him all day. Jackson turned and looked back on the lowlands whence they had come. It was a view of a broken and rough land with sharp rock outcroppings jutting up from the sun-baked clay. They had climbed between two and three thousand feet since seven that morning. The valley in which they had left their jeep was lost in the distant haze.

  They were hunting the small bands of bighorn sheep that frequented the high bluffs above the desert sagebrush and manzanita and the mountains beyond. He remembered from the night before how his grandfather had complained that the bighorns were vanishing from the Baja Peninsula. Jackson knew that the hunting trip could last up to five days if they were unable make an early kill. There was only a couple of pounds of jerked beef and dried fruit between them, but they could live off the land. Small game was plentiful. During the morning, Jackson had seen sage hen, quail, and lots of jackrabbits. His grandfather and Carlos had shown him many times how to cook fresh game with sage, wild onions, piñon, and sego lily bulbs.

  Jackson was perspiring continuously. He pushed his sombrero back off his forehead and wiped his brow again with his handkerchief. When he reached for his rifle, he misjudged it and knocked it into a yellowing patch of vetch. As he stooped to pick it up, he heard the warning sound of a big rattler hidden in a thicket of weeds. The snake had obviously retreated to the safety of the shaded thicket to avoid the killing heat of direct sunlight. Perhaps it was the movement of the rifle glinting in the sun, or the sweating presence of the boy so close, for the snake struck as Jackson pulled his rifle to his side.

  As the snake launched, Jackson leaped backward into the barrel cactus. The snake missed him by a good six inches, but Jackson landed squarely on the long spines of the cactus. The stiff bristles penetrated his clothing like the tines of a fork in a tender steak, stabbing deep into his right arm and lower back. He dropped to his knees in pain as the snake slithered off.

  He picked up his rifle. He had no intention of shooting the snake, because he had been taught that a gun was only fired to kill game or to deal with emergencies. In his grandfather’s hierarchy, snakes were not an emergency. He knew that he should have let the snake leave unmolested, but he was angry. He wanted to retaliate for the pain he felt. He popped out the rifle’s magazine and removed the shell from the chamber. He then followed the snake through the brush, looking for an unobstructed shot at its head. When the snake wriggled across an open space of ground, Jackson brought the butt of his r
ifle down on the snake’s head. He struck the snake until it no longer moved. When he was sure that it was dead, he stopped to view his handiwork. It was a big diamondback rattler, perhaps five or six feet long.

  Jackson was happy with his kill. He had never skinned a snake before and he decided that this would be his first. He reached down to pull its body further into the clearing of brush. As his hands closed around its thick body, the snake’s head snapped back and its fangs stabbed deep into the fleshy part of his forearm. Jackson stumbled backward in pain and surprise. Without hesitation, he popped the magazine back into the gun and chambered a bullet. He emptied his magazine into the snake, obliterating its head. He looked down at his wound. There was blood dripping from it and it had already begun to burn. He shivered in fear. This was a mistake that could end in death.

  Jackson knew he had to conserve energy and limit his movement, otherwise he would assist the poison that was coursing through his body. He opened his pack and took out a white T-shirt, which he tore into strips. He tied a few of the strips to the highest branch of the mesquite that he could reach. The white material would show his grandfather his location.

  He knelt to clear himself a space underneath the mesquite. He turned over several nearby rocks to see if there were any other unwelcome visitors, and a yellow and orange millipede scuttled off to the darkness of its burrow. He sat down and began to tie a series of tourniquets above the bite. His whole arm had begun to swell and sweat trickled down his face. He lay back in the shelter of the bush and waited for his grandfather to come.

  When Jackson awoke, he was in a hospital, or what served as a hospital for a small village. There was one doctor and two nurses. All other medical attention was provided by nuns, who moved quietly from room to room whispering novenas and psalms of condolence. He was informed by the doctor that when his grandfather had brought him in three days before, he had been suffering from a raging fever and they had not thought he would live. He learned that his grandfather had sat with him until the fever broke and then he had disappeared.

  Jackson rested in the hospital three more days. At first, he was a little woozy when he walked, but each day brought renewed strength and energy. And, of course, his appetite was raging. When the nuns saw how much food he was able to eat, several of them wondered out loud as to how soon his grandfather would return for him. On the evening of the third day, his grandfather appeared. When he came into Jackson’s room, he had a package under his arm wrapped in brown paper. He set it on the bed and waited for Jackson to open it. Jackson opened the package and saw that it contained a new rifle: a 30.06 with a scope.

  His grandfather said, “I saw me a big ram up there with horns yea big.” He gestured with his arms to indicate the size. “He got your name on him!” His grandfather went to the closet and retrieved Jackson’s clothes, which he threw on the bed. “If you got the vinegar, let’s go get him.”

  Monday, June 28, 1982

  It was three o’clock on Monday afternoon. Paul DiMarco was standing in the kitchen of his restaurant, chopping piles of fresh garlic and parsley. He had given his prep cook, Mickey Vazzi, an assignment to get the addresses of Jackson Tremain’s friends. Paul minced the garlic quickly and efficiently. He was an old hand with the cleaver and had spent many hours in his youth working as second cook. He had just finished tasting the minestrone soup for flavor when Dominique entered the kitchen and told him that his cousin Edward was in the front, waiting to talk with him. Paul wiped his hands tiredly and went out to meet his cousin.

  Edward DiMarco was tall and debonair. His thick brown hair was layered in a razor cut, his tailored Armani suit fell without a wrinkle, and his soft white hands had never done a day’s manual labor. There was a slight family resemblance between him and Paul, but after that initial likeness, they were worlds apart.

  Edward was swishing some Chianti around in a goblet, taking occasional sips when Paul appeared.

  “How’s it going, Ed?” Paul asked amiably, even though he was thinking that his cousin was a pretentious bastard.

  “I’m all right, Paul,” Edward answered in measured tones. “How’s your family?”

  “The family’s fine, Ed. But you didn’t come down here to ask about my family. We both know you don’t give a shit about my family.”

  Edward sighed. “There’s no reason for hostility, Paul. I had hoped that we could complete our discussion without resorting to diatribe and anger.”

  “Dia-who?” Paul asked sarcastically as he went behind the bar and poured himself a tumbler of grappa.

  Edward followed him to the bar and sat on a barstool. “We have to talk. We might as well keep it pleasant.”

  “Do we now?” Paul challenged as he took a long drink from his glass. “The only time you ever come down here is to hassle me. You’re not family! You didn’t come to my son’s wedding or my daughter’s First Communion! So what do you want, Mr. Big Shot?”

  Edward contained himself and smiled. “All right, Paul. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Let’s,” Paul answered, swishing the grappa in his tumbler, scornfully parodying Edward and his Chianti.

  “I spoke to Joe Bones in Las Vegas recently,” Edward began. With the mention of Joe Bones’s name, he noticed that he had Paul’s undivided attention. “He told me that a month ago you had asked for some help in Mexico City from some people in his international organization. He said he gave it to you because of your father.” There was silence as Edward waited for an explanation.

  Paul took a long look at his cousin and said, “So?”

  “Well, it appears that the men assigned to help you have disappeared and last night one of Joe’s buildings in Mexico City was destroyed by a bomb.” Edward swished his Chianti and watched Paul for a reaction.

  Outwardly, Paul remained calm, but he was stunned. The last he heard was that King Tremain and his grandson had been located. With the plans he had set in place, he had been confident that it was only a matter of time before King was killed and his grandson was in hand. He could not imagine what could have gone wrong. He wondered briefly whether old Joe Bones had assigned professional-caliber men; not that Paul would dare ask, but it was a concern. He returned Edward’s rather sardonic look with one of his own. “What’s all this got to do with me?”

  “Joe asked me to come over and get an explanation.” Edward spoke casually, finishing his Chianti. “He wants to know what you’re doing and who’s involved.”

  “Why didn’t he call me if he had questions?” Paul snapped. He resented having to explain anything to his egghead cousin.

  Refusing to get embroiled in Paul’s anger, Edward answered as if he were speaking to a child. “He doesn’t want you to call him again. He has honored your father’s memory with a favor. That’s the end of it. If you need more favors, you come through me.”

  “Through you?” Paul exploded. “Who the fuck do you think you are? What makes you think that I would waste my time with you?”

  “I’m your only link to Joe Bones,” Edward said with a smile. He was enjoying himself.

  “We’ll see about that!” Paul declared as he came from behind the bar. “I’ll call him myself!”

  “Do that,” Edward said, setting his glass on the bar and standing up. “Then you can come to my office and give me the details of your current enterprise.” Edward straightened his jacket and pulled his shirtsleeve cuffs down to the prescribed quarter inch of visibility. He gave Paul one last smile and said as an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, before you come to my office, make sure you have an appointment.”

  “I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to come to your office and tell you anything!”

  Edward gave Paul a toothy grin and said, “That’s fine with me. I’m sure Joe Bones will love it.” Edward turned to leave.

  Paul, unable to believe that his cousin had such high stature, demanded, “How’d you get to be Bones’s pet, huh?”

  Edward turned and looked at his cousin questioningly. “Is that really
all you see? You think that Joe is just playing favorites?” Edward shook his head sadly.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me, Ed?” Paul said, pulling out a chair at a nearby table for Edward. Paul sat down on the opposite side of the table and waited for his cousin to join him. Normally, Paul would not have wasted his time with Edward, but it had occurred to him that it was very likely that his cousin was telling the truth about representing Joe Bones. But why old Bones had chosen his white-bread cousin as his point man was beyond Paul’s understanding. It was worth it to him to listen to what Edward might say.

  Edward pulled out the chair that had been offered, still watching his cousin questioningly. “If you’re serious, I’ll give you a rundown of what’s happening, but I don’t want to deal with a lot of interruptions or spend time arguing with you.” It was business necessity that caused Edward to sit down and talk with his Neanderthal cousin. As of this moment, Paul was at worst a nuisance. Edward hoped that his explanation would prevent his cousin from becoming a full-time problem. He pointed a finger at Paul and said, “No interruptions!” Paul exhaled disgustedly, but nodded his head.

  Edward took a moment to compose himself. The DiMarco family had some big plans, beginning with the mayorship, and with the right business deals substantial wealth could be secured for the family’s future generations. If the mayorship was achieved, then without doubt there’d be a political future for Edward as well. But these plans could brook no smudge, no hint of criminal doings or connections. Everything had to be squeaky clean. He began expansively, hoping that his historical references would broaden Paul’s perspective. “In less than seventy years, this family has evolved from being illiterate immigrants to being a political force in the Bay Area.”