by Josie Brown
As if reading my mind, Ryan whispers in my ear, “It’s all good, Donna. Remember, we’re playing a long game.”
I know better. I’m not playing at all. The stakes are much too high:
Jack’s life.
Chapter 8
Jack’s Diary, Day 4
Dear Donna,
It’s been two days since I was tossed into El Maestro’s hellhole—an apt name, considering how hot it is in this part of Mexico. One would think that, twenty feet beneath the earth’s dry crust, it would be at least a few degrees cooler, but no. I am inflamed by gusts of scorched air, as if I’m stuck in an inferno.
Perhaps El Maestro is right, that this is a fitting penance for the death of a nun.
Sound also travels to my underground chamber. Both the prisoners and their guards forget I am down here below the grate, as invisible as a ghost. Their gossip floats down to me on acrid waves of heat, muttered in hushed tones.
From the guards, I learn that El Maestro is now one of the top drug lords in the country, and is honing in on territory currently held by the Sinaloa Cartel, which is Mexico’s biggest drug organization and the world’s biggest meth supplier. Apparently, he has recently found the funding to buy enough political clout to make a dent in their monopoly.
My guess is that the Quorum is his new bank. Otherwise, why would I be here, and why would he have stopped Oscar from executing me?
Some of my fellow prisoners are born and raised here and used to work in El Maestro’s poppy fields. The pods of this colorful flowering plant are harvested for its sap, which hardens into goma—gum-like balls. Their crime was to get caught smuggling out goma in the hope that its sales would allow them to leave the region and make a new life for themselves and their families, whose world never went beyond the tiny villages located in these remote valleys tucked deep in the Sierra Madre Occidental Mountain Range, on the western coast of the Gulf of California.
Others are narco foot soldiers who found themselves on the wrong side of El Maestro’s territorial battles with the other cartels. He tortures them for intel on his enemies. If the price is right, he trades them to their leaders. But even those who leave do so with his mark on them: he carves his initials into their feet with a knife.
The lives of these men are living hells. But likely, not for long. They know that, eventually, they’ll pay for their crimes with them.
Today, one of them—once a highly ranked lieutenant in the Juárez Cartel—was accused by another prisoner of being a snitch. He admitted he was taken to El Maestro’s palace, on the other side of the plaza. There, he was given an ultimatum: sell out his chief, or lose an eye.
He chose the eye, he declared. “But I still have the nose.”
“What does that mean?” his accuser asked.
“It means that I know a meth lab when I smell it. Like vinagre, sí?”
“Ah, sí.”
“Well, guess what? He has one in the bowels of his palace.”
“¡No mames!” His newfound admirer was dumbfounded at that thought. Most of the narcos grow, produce, and distribute far away from their private palaces. In other words, you don’t shit where you eat.
“¡Es un pendejo! To his mind, he doesn’t make product. He is making art! He calls it ‘Paraíso Azul’.” One-Eyed Juan snorted at the thought. “And all artists need a studio. His laboratory is right there. It is why we…”
Suddenly they stopped talking. A minute went by before Juan kicked the grate high above my head. In English, he asked, “Are you still alive, Gringo?”
I didn’t answer.
A stream of piss arched its way down between the rails of the grate, catching me in the eye. After One-Eyed Juan emptied his bladder, he shouted down to me: “Your life will be worth nothing when you get out. Better you should die in the hole.”
He’s right. Every day, someone vows to kill me. An angel was murdered because of me. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I might as well have.
Chapter 9
Teamwork
Wives, a relationship takes both of you to make it work. Or as the saying goes, there is no “I” in “teamwork.”
Let me spell out a few other things for you:
There is no “you” in boys’ night out, so get over it. Or else give him a better reason to stay home.
There is no “be” in “reality”—as in, “It may not be all you hoped, so make do with what you’ve got.” If you feel you can train him to be different, sure, give it a try. (Helpful Hint: This is where a whip and a cattle prod come in handy.)
And finally, there is no “see” in “flaws.” We all have them. If his get on your nerves, cut him some slack. You may not think so now, but as time goes by, they’ll grow on you.
Either that, or your aim will improve. There is a “u” in gun!
I’m quiet the whole way back to Los Angeles. Had Ryan not been covertly involved, I’d now be at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List.
Eric is too smart to bother me. However, he takes out his frustration on Varick. Slapping him hard, he growls, “You fool! Exposing your firearm to the man! What if he had shot the client? Worse yet, what if he’d shot me?”
“Oh, give it a break, Eric! Of course his jacket was off. It was hotter than Hades on that tarmac. Besides, all’s well that ends well.” I know I shouldn’t get involved, but I’ve just saved his life and his biggest account, so he owes me.
Time to collect. “I’ve successfully completed the second assignment. Put me on the phone with my husband, like you promised.”
Instead, he slaps my face. “How dare you talk to me like that in front of my underlings!”
My head reels back from the blow. It split my lip. A few drops of blood fall onto my suit jacket.
Fuck, it’s ruined.
For that matter, so is any hope I have that Eric will keep his word to me.
This new reality must be reflected in my face because Eric’s fury dissipates almost as quickly as it appeared. In its place is a benign calmness. “Demerits, my dear. Yours have earned you one more assignment before I allow you to talk to your beloved.”
He heads toward his private suite, closing the door behind him.
“Think of Jack.” Emma’s whisper puts everything in perspective again.
“Hand me your jacket so that I can dab it with an ice cube. The blood will come right off.” Varick holds out his hand for it.
His concern is touching. Still, I know better than to presume I have an ally in him.
I turn around so that he can unbutton the jacket for me. When I turn back around, I notice that he’s not admiring me, but the cut of the jacket.
Figures.
On the other hand, Gunter’s eyes narrow in on my knockers like heat-seeking missiles.
It’s as close as he’s going to get to them. From the way he’s drooling, I guess he knows this too.
Only after we’ve received notice from the cockpit that we’ve gotten clearance to land at Van Nuys Airport does Eric come out of his lair. “Lady and gents, we have a traitor in our midst. I’ve just learned that one of our operatives is a double agent—”
I may be able to keep a poker face, but I feel my heart sink into my gut. The Glock I stole off Konstanin is hidden behind my bed, so at this moment, it does me no good. If Eric calls out the dogs, I’ll have to steal Varick’s, again.
But this time I won’t be hanging around to see him get bitch-slapped.
“—and he happens to be here tonight.”
Eric said he.
Works for me. It can’t be me he suspects.
“Mrs. Craig, you have your third trial.”
“And what would that be, exactly?”
“His extermination.” Eric changes the television’s channel from Gunter’s never-ending soccer game to Entertainment Tonight. The host, Nancy O’Dell, is interviewing Daniel Parker, the star of a movie: “The Lorne Conundrum,” the latest release in a very successful film franchise about a superspy who has been burned, and must t
ravel the world to escape the wrath of old colleagues and enemies.
Talk about art imitating life.
“Damn it,” Ryan mutters in my ear. “Daniel is one of ours!”
Yikes.
“It looks as if he’s touring with the release of the movie,” I point out to Eric. “When will I have the opportunity?”
“Tonight, in fact—prior to the premiere which is happening tonight, at the Kodak Theater.” He tosses me a small vial filled with a clear liquid. “It’s Propranolol—a beta-blocker. Too much—that is, the amount in here ingested—and he’ll be standing at the Pearly Gates.”
“How will I pass it to him?”
“My pet, like most of us, he’s a creature of habit. He and his wife, Isabella, like to stay at the Chateau Marmont when they come to Los Angeles. Part of his red carpet ritual is to order a celebratory martini at the Marmont’s bar. You’ll be there to put it in his drink. He’ll drop dead before they roll the opening credits. Should make for quite a Tinseltown legend.” He nods toward the bedroom. “The regular barkeep has met with an unfortunate incident. We’ve arranged for you to take his place. You’ll find your uniform in your bedroom closet. By the way, Varick will be sitting at the bar, so should you get cold feet—or for that matter, try to run—you won’t get very far.”
Varick bares his much-too-white teeth at me.
“Duly noted,” I assure them.
I hope Varick orders a drink. I’ve got just the perfect chaser for it.
“Team, any thoughts?” I ask, standing in front of the closet door’s mirror. The white shirt that is part of my uniform fits tight across my chest. I’m to wear it with black pants, a bowtie, and suspenders.
“I like you better in brighter colors,” Abu weighs in.
“Not about my ensemble, smart ass. I mean about how I keep our man alive.”
“We substitute your vial for another,” Ryan declares. “Emma will also be behind the bar. Donna, put the vial in the right hand side of the ice chest. Emma will leave the fake Propranolol on the left side. She’ll toss it down the bar’s sink. That way, there can be no mix-up.”
“Will do, boss.” I can tell by Emma’s hurt tone that she’s still smarting over the mix-up with the thumb drives.
“I’m sure Daniel Parker can pull off a fake heart attack, but what happens when the medics are called to revive him?”
“I call dibs on being the onsite doctor!” Arnie begs. “Ryan, what do you say? I have to revive him anyway, right? And besides, I know every episode of Grey’s Anatomy by heart—”
“Sold—but only because beggars can’t be choosers,” Ryan mutters grudgingly.
“One last question.” I sigh. “Won’t dying in public put an end to his acting career?”
Everyone is silent.
I wait a full minute. Then: “Um…hello?”
“Fake death beats the alternative,” Ryan mutters.
He’s got a point.
I’m glad I won’t be there when Ryan breaks the news to one of the world’s most celebrated actors that his career is over.
Daniel’s eyes are just as blue in person as they are on any sixty-foot-tall movie screen. When he asks for a dirty martini, I just have to ask: “Shaken not stirred, am I right?”
He chuckles as he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, it’s not as if I’ve never heard that one before. Sorry, that’s the other guy.”
I reach for a martini glass. “You’re all dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“Tonight is my movie’s premiere. I’m celebrating.” His smile is grim. The sadness in his eyes is proof that he’s been told the news that he’s been burned. He puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell my wife when she gets here, but I’d like a double.”
“No problem. In fact, since you’re celebrating, I’m sure management won’t mind me breaking open our most expensive vodka: Imperial Collection Super Premium.” I wink, as if I’m keeping his secret.
From the code word—the vodka brand—he knows who I am.
Varick, however, is clueless—nothing new there. He sits a few stools down, nursing an appletini that Emma made for him. She wanted to slip him a roofie, but calmer heads prevailed: Ryan’s.
As planned, the second vial is in the top left corner of the ice chest. Before picking it up, I shove the real stuff deep under the shavings on the right.
He turns so that Daniel can’t watch me make his drink, but Varick can. He watches as I pour the contents of Emma’s vial into a martini shaker. Next, I add the vermouth, the vodka, and a splash of olive brine.
I nod at Varick before turning around with the shaker in order to pour the concoction into Daniel’s glass.
At the same time, Emma pours the Propranolol down the sink.
Daniel holds up his glass to me. “Here’s to knocking them dead,” he declares, then takes a sip.
“Amen,” Varick mutters.
By the time Daniel’s wife, Isabella, joins him, he’s on his second drink. The raven-haired beauty’s gown is Givenchy. Her jewels are Tiffany. Her smile is genuine. I presume that’s because he hasn’t yet broken the news to her that his acting career is dead.
Well, better it than him.
By the time Daniel’s publicists comes to whisk them away to the theater, the film’s premiere is already under way. The red carpet stops where the sidewalk meets Hollywood Boulevard, but the line of fans for Daniel Parker and the Lorne movies goes several blocks in either direction.
Varick waits fifteen minutes before giving me the high sign that it’s time to move on. I excuse myself to Emma, claiming the need for a bathroom break. She waves me on. She’s pouring tall goblets of red wine for a couple of reality stars. They pose in the hope that someone will recognize them. When Varick walks toward the door, one of them waves him down. “Don’t I know you?” she asks coyly.
As he preens, it’s on the tip of my tongue to say, be careful what you wish for.
Hugo has the limo waiting outside for us. Eric is in back, dressed in a tux. With his imperious bearing, he could pass for a movie producer or a studio head. Noting my bartender garb, the hotel’s valet gives me a strange look. I guess he thinks I’m getting my big break. For all the acting I’ve done since Jack’s kidnapping, I should be up for an Academy Award.
Eric has the town car’s television tuned to the live telecast of the premiere. Daniel’s swan song happens just as he’s made it to the end of the red carpet. From when he first stepped from the limousine until he reached the first step on the theater’s tall staircase, he was the consummate star. His grin is joyous. He took his time with the paparazzi, allowing them to take lots of shots of him with his arm around Isabella. The few times his arm left her waist, it was to clasp his hands in front, humbly. He ambled over the red velvet rope in order to talk to fans, sign autographs, and pose with them for selfies.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he knew this was his last time to walk the red carpet,” Eric murmured.
I did know better, but he wasn’t hearing it from me.
The heart attack happens when he is halfway up the theater’s grand staircase. It isn’t too theatrical: a stumble, a clutch of the chest, then down on one side.
Isabelle stares. Suddenly, she screams. Kneeling beside him, she flips him onto his back so that she can loosen his tie.
In no time, Arnie is beside them. He wears a white medic’s coat and quickly pulls a stethoscope from his pocket. He goes through the paces of checking for a pulse and trying to resuscitate the star.
Arnie is soon joined by Abu and Dominic, who are dressed as EMTs. They put Daniel on a stretcher, and carry him out a side entrance, leaving the crowd hysterical and the reporters babbling excitedly with their eyewitness accounts.
By the time we get back to our hotel, the L’Ermitage, Daniel’s death has been formally announced.
“The box office receipts should go through the roof,” Eric proclaims. “I’m so glad I invested in the movie.”
I can’t believe
my ears. “Is that the real reason you killed him?”
Eric chuckles. “No, of course not! But, this is a wonderful example that things are better off not left to fate.”
I can’t wait for the chance to prove to him that he’s not really God.
Gunter is guarding the door to my room. We are on the top floor of the hotel, so Eric is pretty sure I won’t jump out the window.
Why should I? I’d much rather take a nice warm bath.
As the water runs, through my earbuds I listen to Ryan explaining to Daniel and Isabella that he’s sorry about the demise of Daniel’s career.
“Me too,” Daniel grunts. “It was what I lived for. With plastic surgery, I can go back undercover—”
“No, no, no!” Isabella shouts. “No more spycraft! Don’t you see? We’re being given a second chance!”
“What am I supposed to do, exactly?” he counters. “A spook is what I am, damn it!”
“You’re an actor, first and foremost,” she insists.
“You’re wrong! I grew to hate it!”
“No! What you hated was being a star.” Her voice is calm and true. “Just think, Danny: no more exhausting premieres and silly interviews. You’ll no longer be tied to one iconic role with endless, unrealistic plots! Best of all, you can do theater again, and small independent films.” Her sobs choke her words. “Darling, finally, we can live like normal people who love our art for art’s sake, no matter how successful or challenging it may be!”
“But, Isabella, dearest, as an actor, I’ve got an even shorter shelf life. I’m too old to start over—”
“Isabella is right,” Ryan interrupts. “You can start over again, in, say, Australia. It’s a wonderful pipeline for actors. And besides, plastic surgery will shave a few years off your age.”