Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

  “Come in!” He shouted, staring fiercely at Armondo.

  "Que pasa, Patron?" Armondo asked anxiously with a dry mouth, entering the dimly lit room illuminated by candles, a tiffany lamp, and small lamps with cowhide shades decorated with horseshoes.

  "Come in, Mondo," Manny answered, standing in front of his desk wondering whether to kill Armondo. "Don't move!" Manny ordered, drawing a .45 caliber pistol from his rear belt holster.

  "What's this about?" Mondo asked surprised, standing motionless.

  "You need to suffer like Tony! You need to be shot in the same shoulder so you never make the same mistake again!" Manny shouted in rage, his eyes filled with fury, aiming the cocked weapon at Mondo's left shoulder, as he stood unflinching. Manny slowly squeezed the trigger, then suddenly the hammer hit against the firing pin with a loud metallic click.

  "Next time you're dead! Don't let there be a next time! Don't let Nick get hurt or go in alone," he yelled, throwing the heavy steel pistol at Armondo. Elena watched the spinning pistol slam against Armondo’s collar bone with a loud crack, then turned and lit another candle making the sign of the cross.

  “I’m sorry,” Armondo apologized, his head bowed in shame.

  “Sorry don’t get it!” He screamed. “Son of a bitch! This is family here!" Manny yelled, as Elena watched a small blood stain soaking through Armondo’s white shirt.

  "You should've had ten men. It was poor planning!" Manny screamed, pointing at him, his face exploding into a red rage.

  “Yes sir,” Armondo replied, wiping his dry mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Poor planning! I expect more from you!" Manny shouted, shaking his clenched fist. Withstanding the pain, beads of sweat gathered on Mondo’s forehead as he stood with macho virility. Elena watched the blood stain expanding into a wider pattern soaking through his cotton shirt, and then looked at her father’s eyes. Again there was a knock on the door. Manny paused, taking several deep breaths. Mondo, trying to relax his tense body, bent over and picked up the weapon, then placed it in the small of his back.

  "Come in!" Manny said, irritably.

  "Hello everyone. Sorry I’m late." Dr. Fortino Canales said smiling, entering the large den-like office. Dr. Canales, a middle-aged man with short cropped salt and pepper hair, sensed the uneasiness, and began mentally gathering his senses by focusing on the .38 Colt revolvers and matching Winchester rifles hanging on the red brick wall. Dressed in a gray sharkskin suit with a white shirt and black silk tie, Dr. Canales turned his eyes toward Elena.

  “Nice to see you, Elena,” he greeted her sincerely, and then glanced at Armondo.

  "How's Nick?" Manny asked abruptly, as he began pacing the floor with his hands behind his back.

  "His recovery is uncomfortable, but that is expected. He'll be fine," answered the general surgeon with a plastic surgery specialty. “But the recovery will take months," Dr. Canales replied, bending over to wipe the dust from his brown Iguana boots with his brown handkerchief while watching Manny pace.

  “I don’t have a few months,” Manny responded, standing still. “Can he use his arm?” he asked impatiently, looking into the doctor’s green eyes. Elena observed her father trying to be patient knowing that he was emotionally boiling inside, and he could become violent at any moment without the slightest provocation.

  “Yes, he can use his arm,” Dr. Canales answered quietly, putting the bandana in his back pocket.

  “Any permanent damage?”

  “No, just ugly scarring.”

  "Good. So you'll stay a few more days to follow up?" Manny asked, rolling up the sleeves of his white charro shirt.

  "If you wish," Dr. Canales replied, when another knock was heard at the door.

  "Come in!" Shouted Manny, as a crew cut Elmo Robles entered the room removing his dusty black sombrero. Strapped to his side was a .38 black pearl-handled pistol seated inside a black Mexican leather holster. His faded, dusty black Levis covered the top of his dirty black boots with small spurs that clinked as he walked. Elmo's thin physique complimented his trimmed and waxed thin handle bar mustache, and tapered goatee.

  "Hello Manny, Elena, Dr. Canales, Mondo. Sorry I’m late." Elmo said with a friendly smile, picking the whip off the floor and hanging it on the door’s wooden hook, exposing his tattooed knuckles with bold black letters spelling out E-L-M-O. Elmo had a good sense of humor and enjoyed a good fight; he could take a punch and deliver one.

  "Thanks for coming, Elmo," Manny said, pouring shots of mescal Mexican liquor distilled from fermented cactus juice, into four large, thick shot glasses. Elmo caught Mondo's eye, then looked at the large spot of blood on Mondo's white shirt. Elena moved away from the altar, sitting down at her father’s desk as the men stood quietly while Manny finished pouring the mescal.

  "Here we go," Manny said, handing the powerful drinks to the men. “Salud,” he snapped, holding up his glass. Elmo held up his glass to Elena then to Manny, revealing a small tattoo cross in the indentation between his thumb and forefinger.

  "Salud," they replied in unison, as Elena smiled at Elmo as he intensely looked at her through his blue eyes. Elmo was Manny’s all-around man, his factotum, trusted Lieutenant and enforcer for the Nogales family. Elmo supervised all security operations and executions. His presence made Armondo extremely nervous and paranoid.

  "Let's get right to it," Manny said agitated, gathering the empty glasses and setting them on his desk. "That bullshit cocaine deal the Colombians gave Tony was a setup. Armondo had the presence of mind to take a bag and it had less than one percent of cocaine," he said warlike, raising his clenched fist as he began pacing. "If one bag was less than one percent pure, they all had to be short. It was a cheap swindle. I don't play that game," he said, as the men remained quiet, watching Manny's emotions go up and down.

  "Here's the plan. We're going on the offense," he said, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand. Elena, sitting at the desk, pulled her hair back, holding it in place with a silver and onyx hair clip, then opened a stenographer’s notebook and began taking notes in shorthand.

  "Elmo, I want you to get sixty-four men and divide them into four teams. Then I want scouts sent to Mexico City, Tijuana, and San Diego. They are forward observers to ensure effective communication and verify the Colombians’ hideouts. Then notify the police on our payroll to stay out of that zone. I want the Colombians killed and their hideouts burned. It's a very simple order," Manny stated with intensity.

  "What’s my job?" Armondo asked nervously, with his blood coagulating between his skin and shirt.

  “Your job is to find Nick's girlfriend," Manny shot back angrily. "And help Elmo." he said sharply, pointing at Elmo through dark eyes. "You're an extra gun on this job.”

  "It’s difficult to find her. Most of the time Nick can't even contact her," Armondo answered cautiously. "She doesn't tell him where she's at. He just waits for her call. I don't think I can contact her, Patron," he said, feeling frustrated.

  "I want results, not excuses. Find her! What's her name?" Manny shouted, squinting at Mondo, shaking his hand in the air.

  "Sasha Nakamura," Mondo replied quickly.

  "Yes, Sasha, Na, Sasha Nak, Naha, Naka something, just find her!" he shouted frustrated. "Go to Little Tokyo in L.A. and contact our Japanese friends in the travel business. Make some contacts. Snoop around. It's important that we broaden our base with Yakuza gangs. Market conditions in Japan are attractive, and independent Japanese gangs want to spread their activities beyond their country. And I aim to help them!" Manny said emphatically, tapping himself on the chest with his thumb.

  "Do I make any deals?" Armondo asked.

  "If you can make a sweet deal, then make it. But if you fail, that will be your last deal," Manny said with a stern face, looking at Elmo, nodding. Armondo saw Manny’s nod, indicating the he would be watched closely and murdered if he failed. Shifting his eyes to Elmo, he watched him scratch a vivid colored tattoo on his forearm of Jesus Christ bleeding fr
om a crown of thorns. Elena studied Elmo’s stoic response listening to her father.

  "I understand, Manny," Armondo said, turning up his lips in a determined manner.

  “No more screw ups,” Manny warned.

  “I understand,” Mondo answered dutifully.

  "It's important that we import black tar heroin and cocaine into Asia and the States. I don't want the Colombians to get the jump on us. Asia, Hawaii, and the West Coast West Coast will be our zone," Manny said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his right hand.

  “I understand,” Armondo repeated, glancing at Elmo who stood poker faced, intensely watching him.

  “Armondo!" Manny yelled, startling him into readjusting his posture, pulling his shoulders back, and standing straighter. "Wear a damn suit and tie. You're a businessman. Be neat. You represent me. And don't forget, work here on the ranch is one thing. Work out there is different. Japanese guys go to sleep in their suits; even make love with their ties on," Manny growled, wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand.

  "Yes, yes, right, right, okay. I understand," he answered, brooding. Dr. Canales observed Armondo's gestures, watching him struggle with his inner voices. He knew Armondo had defiant features and suffered from an antisocial personality disorder. Yet, guys like him were needed to regulate the system; he was afflicted with serious anti-social features, limited empathy, and was unpredictable, idiosyncratic, impulsive, and needed supervision.

  "One more thing," Manny said in an agitated voice, "It's one thing to use recreational drugs on the ranch. But it's out of the question when you're in the field. If you get high, you die. And that's a promise. I'll kill you myself if you screw up. Your relationship with Nick won't save you. I'm not Nick!" Manny shouted, shaking his finger at him.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” he said antsy, breathing heavily, with his attention span nearing its end, his focus waning and his mind beginning to wander.

  "Alright, enough! Enough! Now, let's drink," Manny suggested, turning and picking up a bottle of Mescal from his desk. Refilling each shot glass with the potent drink, the men stood with uncertainty, fearing Manny's sudden bursts of violence that reinforced his reputation as the leader of the fierce clan.

  "Salud," Manny said, impatiently raising his glass and holding the bottle in his left hand.

  "Salud," the men answered in unison with their glasses raised, then swallowed the golden drink.

  "That's it! Don't let me down," Mr. Nogales said in a commanding voice, waving them away.

  "I'll take care of everything Manny. Don't worry," Elmo answered confidently, narrowing his eyes with a determined look. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  "Good luck, Elmo," Elena said with a gentle smile, sitting in her father’s chair as Elmo turned to leave the room.

  "Gracias," he said smiling at her, adjusting his sombrero to his eyebrows. "You can come along. I can always use an extra gun," he suggested grinning, handing his glass to Fortino, and walking toward the door as she waved goodbye.

  "The job will get done," Mondo grumbled, feeling embarrassed and degraded by his encounter with Manny.

  "Mondo, you're forgetting something," Manny said firmly.

  "I didn't forget," he answered, pulling the revolver from the back of his belt and handing it to Manny grip side first.

  "Adios, Patron," Armondo said feeling angry, ashamed and insulted, handing his glass to Fortino leaving the room. Pausing on the wooden porch to put on his sunglasses, he caught a glimpse of a chubby pocket gopher eating a desert millipede. The responsive gopher sighted Mondo and scurried behind large brown clay pots filled with over grown cacti. Standing on his short powerful limbs, its large claws held the squirming millipede and with its enormous front teeth bit and tore the coiled reddish-brown body in half. In that moment Armondo suddenly stepped forward and in one easy natural movement, pulled a sharp throwing knife from his snakeskin boot. Looping through the air, the knife violently felled the gentle, large headed animal with a loud screech. With feelings of animosity at being run over and humiliated by Manny, Mondo walked toward the rapidly breathing gopher bleeding in the hot sand.

  "You little turds dig too many holes anyway," Mondo grumbled on bended knee, pulling his knife from the gopher’s furry body. Whimpering in pain, the animal's small dark eyes blinked in fear, staring at Mondo.

  "You’re having a bad day!" He shouted looking down at the plump gopher while savagely stabbing the animal repeatedly, releasing his fury, anger, and violence. Mondo plunged the knife into the hot sand, cleaning the razor-sharp steel blade against the coarse sandy crystals. Standing, looking toward Manny's office, he returned the stained knife into its sheath. Overhead, a Harrier Hawk with its owl-like face flew in circles, tilting its head, listening to the gopher’s dying squeaks with its sensitive ears. The two-foot long hawk crooked his slim, long, black tipped wings, slowly descending, and circling closer to a brownish-black desert tarantula feeding on the squirming millipede trapped tight in the dead gopher’s jaw.

  "I can’t trust Mondo anymore," Elena said, peering from behind the white-laced curtains. "He's a sick man."

  "Monitor his actions. Keep a close eye on him," Manny suggested. "He's dangerous as it is. But when he's on drugs, he's an unreliable mad man."

  "What's your sense about Mondo?" she quizzed her father, moving away from the window.

  "He could get killed on this assignment, but, we're near the end with him," he told her, changing his tone with a quick warm smile that disarmed the defenses of anyone who spoke with him. This engaging style of speech and manners was a key to his persuasive skills.

  "He gives me the creeps," she said, turning up the volume on the radio listening to the song, Besame Mucho, by Trios Los Panchos.

  "Keep close tabs on him. And monitor Nick's calls; if you need help, let me know," he stressed in a caring tone.

  "You know, Patron, sometimes life defies comprehension," Dr. Canales interrupted with a warm smile, as Manny shifted his attention to Fortino. "Try not to get your blood pressure up," he suggested, setting the thick shot glasses down on the old wooden desk. With his pulse slowing down, a tipsy Manny looked at Fortino while slightly rocking back and forth, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, as his liver processed the alcohol while depressing his central nervous system and affecting every cell in his body.

  "Listen Doc, it takes more than courage to survive. I want to stay on top and it pisses me off when people make mistakes. Now, Nick is a fugitive from the U.S. Justice system," Manny said bitterly.

  "Things will get better," Fortino said in a soothing tone, setting his hand on Manny's shoulder.

  "But I have the responsibility to force choices based upon my experience and knowledge of human nature," Manny said with intoxicated conviction.

  "Just let it happen. Don't hold on so tight," he said, removing his hand from Manny's hefty shoulder.

  "I've got to lead this group," Manny stated, clenching his fist in determination.

  "Then lead. Don't tell. Trust your gut instincts," he suggested. Manny turned away and walked to a small altar built into the wall. Fixing his gaze, he lit a small candle in front of Our Lady of Guadalupe; making the sign of the cross, he folded his hands in silent prayer. "Amen," he said after several moments, making the sign of the cross. Turning, he walked up to a wire cage in the corner of the room that was home to a tiny striped squirrel known in Spanish as Juancitos or Little Johnnies. With no fear of man, the tame, acrobatic animal was jumping inside the large wrought iron Victorian Cage.

  "Are you hungry, amigo?" Manny asked the Juancito tenderly, as it jumped and flipped inside the cage.

  "Here try this," Manny said warmly, handing the bushy tailed animal tid bits of cheese.

  "Hey, little guy," he said smiling, putting his plump finger through the cage and petting the chipmunk's small, soft, furry head.

  "Shake hands. Come on, shake hands," a slightly intoxicated Manny said, wiggling his index finger inside the cage. "Come on now. Shake hands,
" Mr. Moctezuma Nogales suggested lovingly, as the helpless animal put his tiny paw on top of his fleshy finger, gently swaying in trusting and compassionate tenderness in a silent discussion serving as the connecting link in the universal vibration of life.

  Reflection

  13 July 1964. Iriomote Island. In the morning stillness, the transitional grandeur of nature slowly unfolds. Acres of glorious pink patrinia, covered in a blanket of moisture, slowly bloom in natural profusion in the predawn light. Bulky rock-dwelling sea lions are barking in the surf of the ocean’s photosynthetic zone as diatoms and other members of the phytoplankton family are converting the sea’s inorganic salts into the protoplasm of their cells. In the 70-degree water, barracuda and flying fish blaze past spring puffers and porcupine fish in a panorama of underwater beauty. Spanky, unable to sleep, paced in the temple courtyard, sniffing nesting monkeys and morning glories. The reddish brown Akahige bird sings its beautiful song while hiding from the gentle warm morning rain. The black night had set thousands of creatures free but the faint morning light sent them scurrying back into dark caverns.

  Inside the temple, Marco completed radio contact with an intermediate radio operator sitting in a distant ship, serving as a fuel station for seaplanes flying over the Pacific Ocean.

  "Any news, Marco?" Rita asked as he walked past her sleeping bag to re-kindle the fire.

  "A mild storm front is approaching which is creating high winds, heavy rain and turbulent seas," he answered, solemnly.

  "But an aircraft is out there in case we need help, right?"

  “Yes.”

  "What type of aircraft?" Justin asked getting out of his sleeping bag.

  "A Martin Marlin," he answered, preoccupied with tactical planning.

  "That's good," Justin said, affirmatively. "That P5M-2 can go at least two thousand miles and has the best rough water hull ever designed. It's packed with electronic gear and radar. It'll get here if need be. But, it’ll take a crack pilot to navigate in bad weather,” Justin stated, shifting his frame of mind to a somber reality of the skills needed to fly in a tropical storm. Rita rolled over in her sleeping bag, and swallowed three mood altering Dexamyl tablets, a mixture of Dexedrine and Amobarbital commonly prescribed against chronic fatigue, depression, and used as a diet aid. The Dexamyl elevated her mood, while the barbiturate ingredient countered the side effects of the amphetamine. Within moments she began feeling euphoric, alert, energetic, and calm. Zipping her sleeping bag tighter, she closed her eyes, surrendering to fantasy projections of private moments yet to come with her warrior mate. Across the room and from inside his sleeping bag, Butch created his own niche in a small dark corner. Pulling a torn letter from his pocket, he opened the wrinkled paper reviving intimate moments of months ago. Reading the letter stirred him into a different reality and increased his deep belonging needs he harbored for his wife: "My Darling Butch, Only you can share with me, relive with me, our private moments. Let's rejoice in our love and embrace each other in pleasure. Our separation has turned my heart into an ache of never ending wanting you. I love you with every heartbeat. Come home. I have lost your familiarity." With disquieting uncertainty about his feelings and the murky ambiguity of future events, Butch thoughtfully folded the letter and smelled in vain for the scent of her perfume. Although their marriage had been arranged, Japanese style, he had grown to love her. Closing his eyes, he curled up in the corner thinking about being held in her tender and loving arms. She was always there. She always loved him. She always supported him. She was a devoted wife. That was hard to walk away from. Slowly he drifted into a sexual fantasy thinking of her while rubbing himself to liquid relief, releasing an inner energy that lay like a nut inside a shell. In his solitude, he revived a window to that other dimension of the self that longed to be expressed in harmony with his soul mate. Some things just don't go away, he thought. His yearning for love and belonging needs kept him in emotional turmoil. Coming to terms with self-understanding, his unknown-self, his hidden self, his demons, and the otherness within him, was a struggle toward subconscious awareness. But, it was his unwillingness to submit to vulnerability that diluted his true emotions and hid his authentic self.