by Glenn Trust
“Here you go.” She smiled again. “You look like you have something on your mind.”
The hotel bar in the Buckhead neighborhood of Atlanta, was upscale and trendy. It had become Klineman’s primary hangout when he wasn’t meeting with Swain or reporting to Budroe and receiving instructions from the man who held his balls in his fat fist.
He raised his head. “What?”
The smile softened showing just the right amount of concern. Alexandra Simmons was an excellent bartender. Her pleasant smile and buxom figure had coaxed many a lonely patron into sharing their cares. She gave them a willing, listening ear, and kept them drinking. It was what she did and she was very good at it.
He tried to focus on her through his bloodshot eyes and read the name badge on her chest. Yeah, there was something on his mind, all right. How was he supposed to get out from between the proverbial rock and a hard place?
If they lost the case against Mackey, Swain would see to it that Klineman was ruined, destroyed. In Swain’s words, the former sheriff would have a hard time getting elected dogcatcher. Swain was the hard place.
The rock was Roy Budroe. If they failed…if Klineman failed…losing his career would be the least of his concerns. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered how far he could run on his small savings.
Still smiling, Alex leaned against the bar, friendly, concerned, happy to listen to her customer’s woes. “I just said, you look like you have something on your mind. Wanna talk about it?” The smile broadened. “I’m a good listener.”
“Go away.” He looked back down at the wet rings on the bar top.
Smile still in place, Alex nodded and moved away. “Dick.” The word was spoken softly and sweetly as she moved to a group of men at the other end of the bar. They were all too happy to have her company, and in seconds, Richard Klineman was alone again.
It was time. He reached for his cell phone and pressed the numbers carefully with trembling fingers. Normally, he would make the call in private from his room, but tonight, the sound of people around him gave him some moral fortification. The thought of being alone with Roy Budroe, even over the phone, was terrifying.
“About time you called. Talk.” Budroe’s voice held its normal gruff slightly irritated tone. It was the tone he always used with Klineman.
“Met with Swain today. He’s concerned.”
“I don’t give a shit about his concerns. You, on the other hand, had better be concerned.”
Klineman nodded without speaking into the phone. He was definitely fucking concerned. He managed to croak out the details of his discussion with Swain and relate the need for something more, something that would put Mackey away for good…the need for a witness who could tie him to Budroe’s crime ring.
“You want me to turn fucking state’s evidence…be an informant? Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
The deep rumble of Budroe’s voice was like thunder rising in the distance. It made Klineman’s balls contract involuntarily. “N-no. Not you. Not really. What I told Swain, suggested really was that…uh…that I could get evidence…from a confidential informant…that showed that Mackey was part of the sex slave deal last year…you know, in it with you, and he killed Stimes when he got too close and was about to discover Mackey’s involvement.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds followed by a rumbling laugh. “Dick, you really are one devious son of a bitch. Stimes was dirty, all the way up to his ass, but we make it look like Mackey was the deputy on the take, turn the tables.” Another laugh. “I like it.”
Klineman felt his scrotum relax a hair. “We just need to come up with a statement from someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know…someone in your organization…someone not too close to you, but who could be credible.”
“I thought you said confidential informant. Why can’t we just make up the story, you turn it into a written statement?”
“We can, but Swain will want to meet with the informant at least once to make sure the story is legitimate, have him swear to it. After that, he can…uh…disappear.”
“Disappear? What are you saying Dickey boy?”
“Nothing…just that once the informant’s statement is recorded…he won’t be needed anymore…his identity stays confidential…anything that happens to him after that is…uh, irrelevant. We have his testimony. That should be enough.”
“Shit, you’d do anything to protect your own ass, wouldn’t you Dick?” There was silence while Budroe thought it over. “I like it. I might have someone in mind. If that someone disappears, it won’t matter much to anyone.” There was another brief pause. Klineman could almost hear the wheels spinning in Budroe’s head. “Right. I’ll set things up and get back to you.”
“Good. I’ll let Swain know.”
“You know Dick, every time I start wondering why I keep you around, you come up with something like this…you just keep the ideas coming.” The call ended.
Klineman fumbled with the phone and managed to get it back in his pocket. At the far end of the bar, the group of men laughed at something Alex said. They all stared, smiling and nodding at her bottom as she turned to pour them another round.
Klineman’s lungs expanded like a man who had just clawed his way to the surface after being dragged under water. He could breathe again.
50. A Piece Of The Pie
The sun behind his back, Marques Peña cast his long shadow over Ramón Guzman as he stepped from the grass onto the stone patio tiles. Looking up at the man’s backlit silhouette, Guzman nodded and spoke into the cell phone at his ear.
“I must go now, Armando. Senor Peña has come to visit.” He smiled and disconnected the call. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a patio chair across the small glass table, where his coffee cup sat beside a heavy glass ashtray.
“You speak to Soto?” Peña sat stiffly in the offered chair, his back straight, both feet on the ground.
“Yes, doing what I was instructed to do, making arrangements.”
“And what arrangements are those?” Peña’s eye never left Guzman’s.
“Setting up transport and delivery of the first shipment of…uh, inventory.”
“And the inventory, you have seen it? It is in place now?”
“No, not yet. I will be making a visit to Pickham County in Georgia to meet this Lonna MacIntyre that Budroe has assigned to work with me.” He smiled, curious. “You are checking on me, aren’t you?” He nodded at the house where, no doubt, Budroe sat, his large frame stretched out on the sofa, cigar clenched in his teeth, air conditioner blowing full blast, watching through the glass door. “For him?”
“I am checking on you.” Peña nodded seriously. “For me.”
“For you? Please explain.” Guzman leaned forward opened the humidor on the table, retrieved a cigar and turned it to Peña who declined with a simple shake of his head..
“I have duties. I have explained that to you before. I will fulfill those duties.”
Guzman nodded and puffed the cigar until the tip glowed bright red. “Yes, I recall. And one of those duties now is to ensure that I am loyal.”
“Yes, there is that. You have earned trust…to a point. He thinks that you can be of great value, so do I.”
“And that is the point of your visit to my little patio here?”
“In part.” Peña nodded. “But also to tell you that I will do my duty, fulfill my contract with Senor Budroe.”
“Yes, so you’ve stated.” Guzman blew smoke into the air watching Peña’s face, knowing that more was coming.
“I will do my duty, until there is no further reason to perform it.” He said nothing more waiting to see the understanding in Guzman’s eyes, if there was any.
There was. “Until your services are no longer required by him?” Guzman nodded, calmly, while his brain whirled rapidly. Was this an opening for partnership as long as nothing he did required Peña to protect Budroe? Or was it a trap, Peña baiting him to
test his loyalty to Budroe? He took the safest course of action. “I understand.”
Peña stood, gave a brief, formal incline of his head to Guzman and moved off towards the dock to speak with his men posted there. Guzman watched factoring this new part of the equation into his plans.
Whether it was a test or not, Peña’s words were plain enough to understand. He would not dishonor himself by abandoning Budroe. He would protect him and fulfill his contract…as long as there was a need to. That could mean that Guzman and Soto could do what they wanted as long as it did not require Peña to intervene. Guzman had no doubt that if Peña did intervene the consequences would be deadly for anyone who posed a threat to his client. It was a warning.
But hidden behind the warning was an offer. Ensure that whatever happened to Budroe, whatever action they took, did not require Peña’s intervention and they could do what they wanted. He was using a very fine line to define his sense of duty, but it was a line, clear and definite. Guzman had no doubt that the payment for that offer would include a substantial share of profits from the affairs that he and Soto were arranging. Peña would want his slice of the pie.
Guzman thought it over. It was a very large pie. Giving up one slice in order to avoid the unpleasantness that Peña could cause might not be such a bad idea.
He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Armando Soto’s number. They had a business decision to make. How big a piece of the pie were they willing to share?
51. Not From Around Here
The Harley rumbled into the parking lot of Pete’s Place in the early afternoon. The longhaired rider gunned the throttle as it turned off the pavement, spitting gravel from under the rear tire as he roared up to the front of the building.
Three men huddled in conversation outside the front door turned their heads towards the newcomer.
“One of yours?” Henry Schulls eyed the stranger, waiting for some reaction to his stare.
“Nope. Never seen him before.” Luke McCrory eyed the bike, not the man.
“How about you?” Schulls’ glared openly at the biker as he kicked the stand down, took his helmet off and stood up.
“Me?” Stu Taggert, still adjusting to his forced role as the new guy in Budroe’s organization was uncomfortable at being included in the conversation. “Never seen him before.”
“What you worried about?” McCrory turned to Schulls.
“Just a lot of new faces around, and we got some serious shit goin’ down.”
“Yeah, well most of them new faces were sent here by Budroe. That’s just some biker stoppin’ for beers or some other business...local business. What we’re here for, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“How you doin’?” The biker walked towards the front door. Tall, but not as tall as Luke, he wore jeans spotted with grease and oil, an equally soiled tee shirt and tattered denim vest. The only thing out of the ordinary was his New York accent.
“You ain’t from around here. Where you from?” Henry bluntly skipped the preliminaries.
“Up north.” The biker stopped, turned and faced the three men standing to the side of the door.
“Yeah, we can hear that. Where?”
“New York. That a problem?” The biker returned Schulls’ stare evenly, waiting.
“Naw, that ain’t no problem.” McCrory grinned taking the tension from the moment. “Thought you might be someone we knew.”
“Uh huh. Well, I ain’t nobody you know. Heard about this place.” He looked around the gravel lot. “Humph. Not much to it. Thought I’d have a beer and check it out though.” He looked back at Budroe’s men. “They got beer here, don’t they?”
Luke smiled. “Sure they got beer. You got money?”
“Enough.”
“Then go on in and make yourself at home.”
“Yeah, you guys really got a way of makin’ someone feel at home.” He turned and pulled the steel door open and stepped into the gloom, the door clanging heavily shut behind him.
“He’s all right,” McCrory said, turning to Schulls. “Just a drifter.”
Marco Santoro looked around the dim interior, taking note of the other patrons. A group of bikers sat talking loudly around three tables littered with beer bottles. A couple of more stood at one end of the bar sipping whiskey, not saying much of anything. Scattered around the rest of the room were an assortment of laborers and farmworkers, judging by their dress.
There was no sign of Gary Poncinelli. Santoro knew he wouldn’t come in for several hours, they had planned to stagger their arrival so as not to attract attention. That plan kind of went to hell, Marco boy, he thought, considering the little confrontation by the front door. Couldn’t have attracted much more attention if he tried.
He stepped up to the middle of the bar, where the back mirror provided a view of the room behind him and the door. He didn’t want any surprises.
“What can I get you?” A large woman in spandex wiped the bar top with a dirty rag.
“Gimme a Bud.”
“You got it.” She turned to the well behind the counter and pulled out a bottle. Santoro realized she must be Lonna MacIntyre, the woman Sharon Price mentioned in the briefing file as one of Budroe’s lieutenants.
“Here ya go.” Lonna plopped the bottle on the bar in front of Santoro. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
Marco lifted the bottle, took a long pull and set it back on the bar smiling and shaking his head. “Sure seems to be the topic of conversation.”
“What’s that?” Lonna leaned her elbows on the bar so that her too-small tank top revealed the mounded tops of her breasts.
Santoro’s smile broadened. “Me not bein’ from around here.”
52. Focus
“Santoro’s there.”
“Confirmed?”
“Yeah. Confirmed. Mike Darlington was waiting in an old rest area on the state highway as he passed by on his Harley. He gave Mike the peace sign.”
Perry Boyd sitting across from Andy’s desk laughed. “That would definitely be Marco.”
“Couple hours later, Mike did a routine patrol drive by Pete’s Place. Saw Santoro’s bike outside, New York plates and all.” Sharon’s voice was somber. The undercover op was real now. Marco was on Budroe’s turf, and he was not above making someone disappear, especially if the someone were a cop.
“How are you doing, Sharon?” Andy heard the concern in her voice. With Marco and Ponce in the thick of things, they needed everyone sharp. He knew that the possibility of George spending the rest of his life in prison weighed heavily on her mind. She had to get past it. They could not afford mistakes.
“I’m all right, Andy. He’s only been gone a day, but I already miss his redneck ass. Things start up in a couple of weeks. Jury selection then the trial, after that…” She was silent not wanting to think about after that. “Anyway, he’s meeting with that lawyer, Trenton Peele, preparing the case.”
“He’ll be all right, Sharon. Couple of months from now it will all be history.” He wished he could believe what he said, and knew that Sharon did not believe it, but it was all he had.
She made no reply. Andy’s words were left dangling in the air suspended by the lack of conviction from both ends of the phone line.
“There’s something we can do, Sharon, until things get worked out.” Andy waited a few seconds. When there was no response, he continued. “Focus, Sharon. Focus on the case. Bring Budroe down. Forget the governor, the politics the bullshit.” He paused. “Bring him down, for George and Bob.”
She fought down the urge to scream. Focus! How was she supposed to focus! Their lives were being ripped apart by a system that saw political expediency as justice?
She hated them all…the killer, Leyland Torkman…Colton Swain…Richard Klineman…the governor. Inside, she raged.
On the outside, she took a deep breath. “Right. Focus.”
53. I Don’t Lose
Marques Peña drove the Escalade. Roy Budroe sat
in the front passenger seat. Ramón Guzman sat in the rear, behind Peña, where Budroe could turn and speak to him.
A quarter mile ahead, an SUV with four of Peña’s men led the way, alert to any threat to their Jefe or his client, Roy Budroe. A hundred yards behind the Escalade, five of his best men in a van were ready to surge forward and provide armed backup if necessary.
“When we get there you meet with Lonna, get things set up for the inventory to start coming in.”
Inventory…the girls, drugged, kidnapped, taken from their lives…but not raped…that would come later, if you considered forced prostitution rape. Budroe always called them inventory, never girls or women. A nice euphemism, Guzman thought.
He supposed it was better that way. After all, they all had mothers and sisters, he, Peña’s men, even Budroe himself had a mother. Inventory…Budroe was right, much as Guzman hated to admit it. Better to think of them as inventory, merchandise to be sold, nothing more.
“Is it safe? You going to your base of operations.” As much effort and money as Budroe had expended to avoid capture, he wondered about the wisdom of returning to Roydon. It was like a fox returning to his den after he thinks the hunters have gone, and the hunters wait in the bushes.
“Safe as can be.” Budroe, scowling. “You think I’m stupid? Not gonna waltz in in broad daylight. We’ll take care of the risks before I do that.” He looked at Peña. “Right?”
The chief of security nodded, eyes remaining on the road.
“I see.” It still seemed unnecessarily risky to Guzman. Budroe’s ego would be his downfall.
“I thought for a while about, staying out of the country permanently…run things from Puerto Rico or somewhere else. But if I do that. I’ve lost.” He looked at Guzman to see if he was following the thought. “I stay away and they win. Don’t matter how much money I rake in, I can’t go home, I’m not free…I lose.”
“I see,” Guzman said again. It was the safest thing. The man was a narcissistic megalomaniac. Guzman had known others like him, obsessed with their own power, and importance, incapable of compromise or defeat. With Budroe, there was an added personality trait…the capacity for immense cruelty and a desire to inflict pain as part of winning. He was a sadist.