GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “But I thought we were going to jump in the bath together, break out the good wine...you know, pick up where we left off?” I grabbed Marisa's hips from behind while smooching her neck.

  “Hey, mister, you closed the deal and then some the other night.” Marisa turned and gave me a kiss that would tide me over until later. “Now let's go pretend to be good hosts.”

  I took the lead, and she smacked my ass on the way out of the kitchen.

  Mama Emilia had taken her regular seat on the chair next to the couch, leaving the comfy sofa for Marisa and me. The look on her face seemed less at ease than her last visit.

  “I have some stew heating up for a late dinner,” said Marisa, who let out a sigh as her bottom hit the sofa. “Work has been really hectic with tax time approaching. I think I need to get my mind off work. Anyone open to watching American Idol? We have it on TiVo.”

  “I'm game if Mama Emilia is game,” I said, looking forward to a stress-free evening.

  Emilia didn't answer initially. She took a sip of her drink, calmly rested the glass on the coffee table, and appeared to struggle with what should have been an easy answer.

  “You're not a fan of million-dollar judges bickering about which young singer is a true artist?” I asked sarcastically, as I searched for the popular show under the recorded programs.

  I shot a glance at Emilia. She rubbed the palm of her hand. Her lips parted a couple of times, but no words came out. Was she about to have a stroke?

  “Mama, I almost forgot, you said there was a real reason you wanted to visit with us this time, other than watching us work and play,” said Marisa, trying to keep the mood light. “Mama, are you okay? You're not saying anything, but you look like you want to.”

  A heavy sigh.

  “I have some information that might be somewhat helpful for you, Michael, and Arthur, as you soon leave for Puerto Vallarta to pick up Trudy.” Emilia pursed her lips.

  “I'm sorry...you said what? How would you have any information related to Trudy and our trip to Puerto Vallarta?” I stopped playing with the remote. Four eyes focused on Mama Emilia.

  Another shoulder lift and release.

  “Michael, I know the person who is going to fly you down to Puerto Vallarta.” A crease formed between her eyes.

  “What? How?” asked Marisa, a puzzled look on her face. I was right there with her.

  Emilia held up her hand so that she could provide more insight before we peppered her with more questions.

  “We believe Trudy's kidnapping is, from what we can tell, associated with people who are in the drug industry,” she said, causing two jaws to drop. ”I know you're wondering how I know all of this.“ She paused, wringing her hands. ”Marisa, I need to tell you something about your father.”

  I rested my hand on Marisa's knee, and I could feel the pace of my heartbeat pick up.

  “You use the term 'drug industry' like we're talking about Eli Lilly or something,” Marisa said, her voice growing more agitated. “Are you saying Dad was connected to the illegal drug world?”

  I quickly determined this conversation was well beyond the knee-holding stage.

  Mama Emilia kept her tone on even keel, as if to moderate her own stress as much as her daughter's. She held her head high as she spoke.

  “You know that we moved a lot when you were young, mostly along the border. Your father tried so many other jobs, but none seemed to last, and they brought us so little money. We wanted a better life for you, including going to college,” she explained. “Without even trying, your father began making connections to people who were smuggling illegal drugs into the states. As you recall, your father worked on getting his pilot's license.”

  Marisa's initial agitation turned into outright anger. “You're telling me that Dad was a drug runner, flying drugs into this country?” Marisa's eyes squinted laser beams, trying to confirm the unbelievable truth.

  Sweat began to form on Marisa's upper lip, which was her tell-tale sign of increased anxiety.

  “I never knew any of this,” Marisa said, shaking her head. She suddenly burst into tears and stormed out of the room. I shot a quick glance at Emilia, who was now looking at the floor, then I followed my wife.

  “Are you okay?” I walked into the bathroom as she was blowing her nose.

  “Did you just hear what my mother told us? She said my dad was a drug runner!”

  “It's hard to fathom. I'm sure you feel like you've been lied to your entire life.” I rested both hands on her shoulders. “I'm so sorry.”

  Marisa put her head against my chest, as sniffles turned into sobs. Her body shook. I wanted to take the pain away, but I knew I couldn't. I could only console her for the sudden change in the way she would now view her dad, possibly both parents.

  A few minutes passed.

  “Do you want to go back out there, or should I tell your mother that you've had enough for the night and you're just going to bed?”

  “It's okay. I still have more questions. She's not getting off that easily,” she said, as she led the march back into the living room. There, waiting patiently in the same spot, sipping her drink, was Emilia. Marisa didn't sit down.

  “Mother, why didn't you say anything? You just let him do this?” Marisa crossed her elbows and stuck out her jaw like she was grilling a witness.

  “Marisa, life was complicated. This was not something he wanted to do. It's something you may never understand, but he truly struggled with his decisions.” Mama Emilia exchanged glances with Marisa then back down to the carpeted floor. “The only reason he could look in the mirror was because he knew it would allow you to go to college, get a good job, and never have to deal with this world.”

  “I went to school on drug money, Mother! It makes me feel dirty. I think I'm sick to my stomach.” Marisa wrapped her arms around her waist now, shaking her head.

  “Your father loved you very much,” Emilia said plainly.

  “I have loved him all these years. I've missed him. But I don't know what to feel right now.” Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, obviously wishing the story wasn't true. I guided her to the sofa.

  “He died in a plane crash. Was he running drugs on that flight?”

  Emilia's eyes looked left and right. “Yes.”

  Time passed, but the only sound came from the ticking faux antique clock in the room. I stared at the motionless TV screen, still stuck on the TiVo search screen. No one cared at this point. I finally broke the silence.

  “So, Mama Emilia, while you've told us a great deal about Marisa's father, you said there was a connection to you learning more information about Trudy?”

  “Being around Arthur last week, I could see his pain. I decided to call one of your father's old friends.”

  “Great, now you're sucking us all into this drug business? Jesus Christ, Mother, what the hell are you thinking?”

  “I know this is very difficult for you to hear, which is why I struggled in telling you this, and even why I hesitated in calling this person.” Mama Emilia lifted both hands. “But I'm glad I did. In a very strange turn of events, this person was called by the kidnappers to be the pilot to fly Arthur down to Puerto Vallarta.”

  “Which is why you were able to assume the kidnappers were connected to the drug industry?” I asked.

  “Yes, although I must tell you that he says he hasn't moved drugs in many years. He now flies for corporations and other wealthy people. In fact, he even went out of his way to tell me he was sober,” she responded. “Apparently, it was an old business associate across the border who recommended him to the kidnappers.”

  I could see Marisa trying to soak all this in, as I was, knowing we were connected to this unpleasant world.

  “Marisa, Michael, I see the love you share, and it makes my heart warm. Seeing you together, knowing how much you did on your own...Marisa, I don't want anything to happen to your husband.” Mama Emilia used her finger to wipe wet makeup under her eyes. “Your father's old friend and I ar
e concerned about this trip back into Puerto Vallarta to rescue Trudy. I really wish you wouldn't go.”

  I shook my head when Marisa turned to look at me, knowing now more than ever I couldn't let Arthur do this alone.

  Emilia nodded her head. “I knew you'd feel this way, which is why I asked your father's old friend to help. He knew how much your father loved you, Marisa. And because of that, he said he would make this journey into his past, this one last time.”

  Marisa's shoulders lowered, apparently releasing some of the tension. She turned and looked at me and touched the corner of her eye.

  “Mama Emilia, this is good information for us to know,” I said, adjusting my focus from mother to daughter. “Thank you for sharing it.” I knew that was difficult for Marisa to hear, but it was true. “By the way, what's this gentleman's name?”

  “He is Francisco.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I cut between two trucks and hurdled a couple of puddles. Unfortunately, my third step landed directly in a four-inch-deep, muddy moat. "Ah, crap," I called out. No one could hear me over the driving rain, as I finally made it through the front door of our local pancake house. I searched the bustling breakfast joint, looking for a slender, distinguished looking man, mostly bald, aside from matching patches of hair on both sides of his head.

  “May I help you?” asked the gum-smacking, redheaded hostess.

  “I don't think my friend is here yet.” I shook my wet head like a dog, causing the hostess to lean back.

  I slid into the assigned booth and ordered a cup of coffee. The previous night had been emotionally exhausting for everyone in the rented Doyle home. After our gut-wrenching discussion, Marisa tossed and turned all night. I kept one eye open, concerned about her emotional well-being, but also trying to predict the future. How would Arthur and I approach our trip to Puerto Vallarta? Should we rethink our decision not to bring in the authorities? Was this Francisco fellow someone we could really trust, given his background?

  On the verge of creating an endless loop of unanswerable questions, I glanced out the wet window and saw Arthur walking briskly toward the front door, although he was smart enough to be carrying a large umbrella.

  “Hey, Arthur, good morning,” I said, standing up. He attempted to fold up his umbrella, but instead flung water across the diner. The gum-smacking hostess dropped by and offered to keep it up front.

  “Good morning, my son.” He arranged his all-weather coat on the booth seat. While not back to normal, Arthur's circles under his eyes were less prominent, and he wasn't as jittery as the last time we'd met.

  “Any new calls about our pending trip?” I asked, knowing I needed to update him on last night's eye-opening conversation with Mama Emilia.

  “Nothing since we had that late night meeting at my office and we called to tell the kidnapper about having to make smaller deposits.”

  We made a bit of small talk, focused mostly on the nasty spring storms that were typical for North Texas this time of year. In the back of my mind, I thought through how I would summarize last night's revealing information.

  “Arthur, last night Mama Emilia came back into town. She shared with us a rather unexpected, shocking story about Marisa's deceased father.” Even in the middle of his own trauma, Arthur immediately had a sympathetic look on his face. I continued, “Apparently, Marisa's father, Edgar, was a drug trafficker. He used his pilot's license to move drugs from Mexico into the states.”

  Arthur froze midway through stirring the cream in his coffee. He was stunned, as any sane person would be.

  “There's more.”

  “I...I can't imagine what Marisa is feeling right now.” Arthur released an audible breath.

  “Mama Emilia, when she met you and saw the pain you were going through, really felt an urge to do something, so she contacted one of Edgar's old flying buddies, a partner in crime, so to speak. She asked him to look into this kidnapping of your wife and the ransom.”

  “God bless that lady,” he said earnestly, taking a sip from the stained white coffee cup.

  “He's a pilot as well, though apparently out of the business now. He called her back almost immediately after he'd been contacted by Trudy's abductors, who have asked him to fly us down to Puerto Vallarta. They got his name apparently from a past contact in the drug world.”

  “Good Lord, are you kidding me? How ironic.” Arthur brought his hand to his chin, studying this latest development.

  “The pilot friend believes that this whole abduction of Trudy is somehow connected to the drug world, which makes our trip down there even more dangerous,” I said.

  “My dear God.” Arthur's chest heaved. I thought he might start hyperventilating. He drank some ice water and took some deep breaths to calm down.

  I went on to explain Edgar's relationship with his old partner, and how Edgar's affection for Marisa had led his old friend to agree to help us on this hopeful rescue mission.

  “He's been a legitimate pilot for years, carrying executives and others who can afford such luxuries all over the world, so this is a big deal for him to agree to help us,” I said, trying to stay positive.

  “What's his name?” he asked.

  “Francisco.”

  “You're kidding? This sounds like the gentleman who flew me back last time, just after Trudy had been kidnapped,” Arthur exclaimed.

  I nodded my head in agreement, then hit the question treadmill again. Was Francisco more involved with the so-called drug world than he let on to Mama Emilia, or was it truly a mere coincidence, given the intersection of his current line of work with his previous career choice? I couldn't wrap my head around the different angles and the motivations of people whose morals were driven by a greed I couldn't comprehend.

  “We need to figure out—”

  I was interrupted by Arthur's ringing cell phone. Quick on the draw, Arthur identified it as the same international number as our previous call with the lead kidnapper. He held out the phone from his ear so I could eavesdrop.

  “Yes, this is Arthur Spanarkel.”

  “We have confirmation on the final deposit into the account,” said the same Spanish-sounding voice we'd heard in previous calls. “Do you have the remaining cash ready for the trip?”

  “Yes, I have it. Can I speak with my wife?”

  “Not now. But you will soon get to see her if all goes well,” said the voice.

  “I have the information for your trip down to Puerto Vallarta. Go to the Collin Country Regional Airport on Sunday. Be there at nine forty-five a.m.—no earlier, no later. The pilot's name is Francisco. He will know what you look like. Please put the money in a gray backpack of your choosing. Nothing else should be in the backpack except the cash. Understood?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Arthur. “I'm assuming we will turn over the money and leave with my Trudy immediately?”

  I was surprised that Arthur was able to think so spontaneously, but then again, he was a former journalist.

  “Uh, yes, si. We will have Trudy, and you can take her home.” The Latin man seemed to stammer on his response.

  Then the phone line went dead.

  Arthur's head dropped to his chest. Even though this call was more informational and, in fact, brought us potentially closer to seeing Trudy, he still was emotionally drained. Momentarily, I saw images of that murdering thug, Tony, abusing my Marisa only fifteen months prior. It was horrific, but helped me comprehend the anguish and helplessness Arthur felt.

  Arthur and I agreed to speak once more before the trip. Hopefully, we could include Francisco in that conversation. We needed to understand every possible scenario that could take place once we landed in Puerto Vallarta, and Francisco would be our best hope—likely, our only hope—for making it through this experience unscathed. Still, the question lingered like the aroma of bacon in the air—could the former drug smuggler be trusted with our lives?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Emilia pretended to be asleep when Marisa and
Michael milled about earlier the next morning in preparation for the final workday of the week. Sound sleep had been hard to come by the previous night, and she imagined the same had been the case for her daughter.

  Once they'd left for work, Emilia strolled around the house, staring out the windows of her daughter's home. She pondered the sad irony. She'd been less involved in her daughter's life the last few years. Unfortunately, it was out of sight, out of mind. She'd become too wrapped up in her own world, full of self-indulgence and outright gluttony. She'd lost herself in it, hidden behind the pompous facade of her historic, antique-filled home. Her initial trips to her daughter's home were an escape from the so-called visitors to her home, who used it as a drug stash house. She was paid well. Extremely well. But, now, here she was, extending the olive branch, putting her reputation, her ultimate secret, on the line, all for her daughter.

  Emilia had fooled herself into believing the money would eventually help her daughter and son-in-law, and hopefully a future grandchild. A baby boy or girl...so innocent, so lovable. She recalled the joy and love in her heart when Marisa was born in El Paso, just across the border from what would eventually be the most violent city in North America, Juarez. She winced, thinking about how a baby and drug warfare could be in the same train of thought.

  How would life have been different if she hadn't offered her services to her current employer? Less money, for certain. But fewer regrets. She couldn't relive her decisions, though. None of them. What's done is done. But when—how—would she get out?

  Her cell phone buzzed. She paused just for a second, then her instinctive business mind took over. She answered and heard Enrique's voice.

  “Hola, Emilia, this is Enrique, your new business partner,” he said. “We have a situation. We need to push through a small amount of product earlier than expected, which is good news. It's more or less a test run to ensure all of our distribution points work as expected.”