Hometown Favorite: A Novel

by BILL BARTON

  Rosella had not seen her husband since the episode at the glass booth. She preferred the solitude and protection her parents could give her after the private funerals of the children. At last, her eyes took him in, and his contracting bodily state shocked her. Life had been eating away at him, and he was disappearing from sight, a disappearance that could not happen soon enough or could not be painful enough to suit her.

  She had planned to stay only a second, to pass on some information and run, but Sly had slowed her down. She was grateful for his unexpected visit. His presence would make the business quick and professional. She would inform Dewayne of her plans and be gone, and perhaps Sly would go with her.

  Rosella reached into her bag and removed some legal texts. She did not hand the papers to Dewayne. She did not want to be that close to him. Instead, she set them on the table.

  "For you to read;" she said. She had steeled her heart. She would make it through this. "The house is going on the market. I've signed the papers for a Realtor to start showing it. The other document is ... " and here she stumbled, here she encountered the emotional obstacle she dreaded. Divorce was not a part of her vocabulary, had never been an option. Of course, she never considered the recent tragic circumstances to demolish her life either. In her mind, it had all been out of the realm of possibility, but to her surprise, she had not been immune to evil.

  She had opened the door to evil, slept with evil, birthed evil's child. No prayers had protected her, no signs of warning given, no holy heads-up to the potential dangers lurking just below the surface of her perfect little world, and she had lost all trust in anyone and anything, including herself. "I want a divorce. Those are the papers. I've signed them; now you sign them"

  God seemed to have an endless supply of daggers, Dewayne thought. How many more plunges of the knife can I take?

  His wife turned to leave.

  "Rosella, please don't leave. Don't leave me. I did not do this. I could not. You must believe me. Please don't do this. I need you. I need you"

  She hesitated as if reconsidering, then she turned back, but only halfway.

  "I want nothing from you," she said, her voice hard, bitter. "I will take some personal items from the house, but that is all. I want no money, nothing. I just want to start my life over"

  She made her exit.

  The choice must have been easy for Sly. He knew whom to console, and after a brief hesitation, he began to make his departure while Dewayne had his eyes buried inside his malnourished forearm.

  Dewayne dropped his arm, the skin damp from weeping, and his words caught his friend at the door. "I've lost everything, Sly, everything. Am I gonna lose my best friend too?"

  He reached out his empty hand, but like Rosella, Sly did not hesitate. He was looking past the police officer at Rosella stumbling down the hall, her hand braced against the wall.

  "Do me a favor," he said, looking back inside Dewayne's room. "Take my name off the short list of people you wish to see.

  And he was gone. The abyss beneath which Dewayne's arm was poised began to widen, the darkness within streaked with an occasional lightning flash, revealing a wasteland of erosion. If only he could cast himself into this gulf. If only there was a force strong enough to pull him into this expansive grave, to lay him out and cover him from the pervasive sight of God and man. But when he heard from the cavernous hallway Sly's voice calling out for Rosella to wait and the faltering sound of her stumbling footsteps, he felt the surprise of hatred seeping into his bloodstream, hatred toward those who had abandoned him. A second surprise followed; a small funnel of strength, dissolving the abyss of self-pity, provided a tension against the urge to cast himself into the chasm of his vision.

  Salvador Alverez was ready to upgrade. The beachside bungalow did not provide the space needed for business purposes, and there was not sufficient room to entertain in the lavish way he was imagining. His tastes were changing as well, more refined, more educated, more in line with the lifestyle in which he intended to grow.

  Tailored clothes became the norm, vehicles were test-driven, restaurants with wine lists replaced outdoor cafes and noisy bars, art galleries replaced the ambles through outdoor flea markets. Women who frequented his home were attempting to increase their value by refusing payments in hopes of persuading Senor Alverez that one of them was worthy of a more permanent union, as permanent as something could be for someone with the evolving tastes and commitments of Salvador Alverez.

  It was now time to think about property strategically located far enough from the big city of Dominical so as not to attract suspicious attention, equidistant from the suppliers so as to avoid incriminating association, close enough to the beach for his legs to carry him, and secluded enough within the flora of a jungle terrain so outsiders would not have easy access. And when he procured the property, it would be time to look for investment opportunities in the commercial infrastructure of the local community. It would be easy for the locals to lose their hearing, their speech, their sight, and their memories when they were confident their financial prosperity was secure through generous payoffs. Once again, the international language of money would be able to satisfy the needs of everyone.

  The money Tyler brought with him to Costa Rica was about to tap out. He had invested the advance from the leadership into initiating contact and building relationships with three separate drug producers, each capable of manufacturing a respectable number of kilos of marijuana and cocaine. The producers also had associations with established shipping routes into the U.S. and Europe, and yet were still small enough to be low-level, mom-and-pop suppliers, inconsequential by large cartel standards.

  Tyler did not want to draw much attention to his growing industry early in the game. Before he became a serious competitor, he needed the muscle to back it up. He did not need the big dogs to get a whiff of his intentions, and the best way to do that was to fly under the radar of the conglomerates and local law enforcement until he had become a reckoning force. He had proven his business acumen by securing the suppliers in different locations but all within a fifty-mile radius of the jungle terrain outside of Quepos. If for any reason one of the producers were incapacitated, the supply would continue to flow.

  Tyler looked forward to giving the LA leadership the full tour of the three production facilities in their remote jungle locations. He would awe his homeboys by what he had been able to accomplish in such a short time. He would fly them down, first class, and not only would they get to see firsthand the innovative ways he had parleyed their development capital, but they would be able to taste the firstfruits of their investment. Tyler had not squandered one dollar, and the leadership would see he had vision, determination, and a developing skill to handle the multilayer drug business. Once they had bought into the capitalist dream of what their puny investment had procured and what luxuries a successful business could provide for them back home, they would all succumb to his submission.

  Although Tyler was quite capable of being cold-blooded, out of respect for his roots and recognition of the need for a qualified and trustworthy U.S. distributor, he would not foolishly wield his power. Slowly, beguilingly, he would draw in the leadership first and then the gang's regular members, making them feel a part of his organization, a part of something greater than themselves. If any of them showed separatist tendencies, however, they would become expendable. In the normal course of running a company, Tyler expected he would have to make an example of a few independent thinkers, but believed when his associates saw his capacity for ruthlessness, those times would be rare. It was all a part of his plan.

  It was time to invest personal capital. Tyler selected a Realtor, and after an exhaustive search of virtual online tours and a dozen-plus on-site palace tours with the leading contender for number one courtesan in the Alverez harem attached to his arm-Tyler liked the feminine touch in picking a house and the level of legitimacy it gave him to the outside world-he settled on a $2.5 million mansion on a thirty-five-acre
plot just outside Quepos. It came equipped with a fence and security system, a winding quarter-mile drive from gate to mansion through dense jungle, a quarter-mile hike along a path through the manicured gardens and down a cliffside opening onto a private beach, a view from the house high enough above the landscape and ocean to observe miles in all directions, and a servants' bungalow housing an older Dominical couple who spoke no English but could provide all domestic services from landscaping to preparing dishes of local cuisine.

  The final step was for the Realtor and Alverez and the number one courtesan to go to the bank, do the necessary paperwork, and make the financial transfer. Around $5 million from his Bahamian account was enough to begin with. That amount would purchase the house, stock the kitchen, buy a couple of vehicles, secure the initial funds for the three suppliers to begin production, schedule flight plans for the leadership to come in from LA, including paying back their investment with a nice profit, and allow the number one courtesan to furnish and decorate the rooms. He should not need any more than this initial investment. He fully expected to be turning a profit from the business within six months or less. He might not have to touch the remaining millions for a long time. After writing multiple signatures on the appropriate documents establishing the Sea Breeze Corporation with Salvador Alverez as CEO and president and a few minutes on the computer punching in the numbers on the account, Senor Alverez had instant access to his money. He shook hands with the bank executive of the Costa Rican National Bank and his assistant in charge of offshore account transfers, amidst smiles and laughter on all sides, and Salvador Alverez received the keys to his kingdom before the ink was dry on the Realtor's contract.

  The e-mail announced "For Your Eyes Only:' When Detective Hathaway opened the electronic message, it read, "Funds moved ... Costa Rican National Bank, Dominical, C.R., $5,220,000. This is how we catch tax cheats and terrorists. Good luck" Hathaway hoped to add a murderer to that list.

  Because of Treasury's relationship with the international banking community to trace suspicious accounts, his pal at Treasury had been able to come through with the information, and if he could catch this guy, he would send his friend a case of Johnnie Walker. The date of the transfer was four days ago. Hathaway began to rub his stomach when he realized the gut feeling he had from day one was beginning to ease. This should be enough to go on, but was it enough to change minds, to authorize a new investigation, to perhaps divert the attention of the powers that be from their prime suspect and open their minds to other possibilities?

  Hathaway made an appointment with the police chief that morning. He played on their partnership of years before, on his reputation for being a pit bull with difficult cases, on his outsmarting too many bad guys, on his gut belief that the man now in custody would possibly die without ever exercising his legal right to the due process of justice.

  "Besides, I'm due," Hathaway said. He stood. He was tired of sitting. Standing made his argument feel stronger.

  "Due?" The chief swiveled back and forth in his desk chair.

  Hathaway took a chance. "When you and Mary were breaking up, who bought you the shots of bourbon?" They were friends, former partners. Buying shots of bourbon for a friend whose marriage was breaking up was what Hathaway did, the only kind marriage counseling he understood. Playing the friendship card was almost like he was pulling rank.

  The squeaking in the chair stopped and the chief dug his fingers into the soft leather of his armchair. Maybe playing the friendship card was not a good idea.

  "Now you're getting personal"

  "What we're doing-when is it not personal?"

  The chief eased up on his grip of the leather arms. He made all the arguments the DA would make against playing this hunch, but with a lesser degree of passion about what the embarrassment might do to his political career.

  Hathaway detected his friend was weakening. "The DA stuck his head on the chopping block at the press conference, giving Jobe last rites in public. You just stood behind him and smiled for the cameras. You can still run for mayor of Houston and this not be held against you."

  "Is it wrong to have ambition?"

  "If not for ambition, the world would still be flat:'

  Sure, it would be risky to authorize Hathaway's intuition, as good as it was; he would be sanctioning the mission behind the DA's back, and though Hathaway would fall on his own sword if he failed to nab the suspect, there would still be hell to pay that might imperil the police chief's political ambitions.

  Hathaway understood what he was asking of his friend and sweetened the proposition with a reduced risk factor.

  "I'm due some vacation;" he said. "I'll cash it in on Costa Rica, but you pay the expenses, and if I bust the guy, you have to double my vacation time."

  The chief did not think long about that offer. If need be, Hathaway could cover the true nature of his visit in the guise of a Panama hat and Jimmy Buffett shirt. The chief had access to discretionary funds to finance the trip-Hathaway swore to keep every receipt-and if the detective was successful, everybody would win except for the DA. All's fair in love and war, and as slick as the DA was, he might get some political mileage out of a surprise turn in this open-and-shut case.

  By the time the sun was setting in the west, Hathaway was sitting in the middle seat between a woman who snored like an asthmatic and a teenage boy who beat on his tray table with his fingers to whatever percussive tempo he was hearing on his iPod. He studied for the umpteenth time all the evidence that went into the making of the Jobe case.

  What he did not know and would never know was that in a few hours he would be going through customs in the San Jose airport the same time as the LA leadership.

  The leadership stared at an array of treats displayed for them on the large glass table in the dining room of Tyler's furnished house. There was a punch bowl of cocaine, a tray of prerolled joints-both examples of the quality of merchandise the local producers would be able to generate-individual jars of condoms with each member's name inscribed on a card tied around the neck, and stacks of cash that Tyler proudly pointed out were the leadership's original investment plus 25 percent interest for the short time the gang had been separated from their principal. Tyler stocked the bar like a five-star restaurant, and he provided enough food to have eased the starvation of a small village, and the full Alverez harem had turned out in force.

  It was difficult to concentrate with all of the distractions, but the host got everyone's attention, and before he lost them to a night of revelry, he wanted a preemptive strike to begin the process of establishing his alpha male status. Before the leadership knew what hit them, they would become Tyler's lieutenants or be expelled into the outer darkness. But tonight after business, it would be all smiles and pure indulgence.

  While leaving the leadership to wonder about the funding source for his palace and all the toys that had come with it, Tyler told them that with his connections and their LA distribution center, the gang had the unique opportunity to be elevated to the title of cartel. That designation would give them great power, but with great power would come great responsibility. He would invest his own capital to get production started; tours would be set up to each of the three production facilities.

  The leadership should begin using the Houston model to establish outlets in major cities all over the United States. He had already been laying the groundwork for the routes they could use to get the product into the country, but not every shipment could go through LA. He mentioned other cities chosen to accommodate the different shipping lanes.

  Maintaining security was vital, and recruiting new blood should begin once they were back on their native soil. He would require gang members to become a part of a rotation system that would send them to Costa Rica and other parts of the world to serve as soldiers to protect product and personnel as the business expanded. All of this would require initial outlays of cash he was prepared to invest, but within a short time of operation, he believed all balance sheets would be in
the black.

  "Gentlemen, the risks are great, personnel and product will be lost from time to time, but the rapid growth potential is global and the profit margins are astronomical. The question is, do you have the courage and the commitment to live the dream?"

  The leadership looked at Tyler Rogan, a.k.a. Salvador Al- verez-CEO and president of Sea Breeze Corporation and perhaps a future underworld kingpin-and bowed to him in reverence. They would align their future with him, and Tyler opened his arms to his brothers.

  "Welcome to my home."

  Dewayne's eyelids felt glued together. He was sure his fingers were rubbing away the crust, but he could not get his eyes to open. There were voices in the room. He heard medical jargon, all too familiar language. This was soon interrupted by the arrival of the next meal, perhaps the last meal; whatever the number, any meal would be another wasted effort. All meals, for how long he could not remember, returned untouched. Then everything was silent, which was his preference. If he was going blind, the sound he cherished most was silence.

  His eyelids trembled at the cool drops of liquid, which began to loosen the hardened seal. A damp cloth was dabbed over each lid. He was surprised by the gentle strokes, but more surprised his own hand had not initiated them. He thought the doctors had left. They always flitted in and out like darting birds, barely civil in their daily diagnosis, and always left their patient with a prognosis of physical and spiritual condemnation. He thought an attendant had taken pity ... must be new.

  After a few more strokes, his eyes were able to take in the first rays of sunlight coming through the window, but they were too potent, and he turned his head away. The damp cloth plopped onto his chest. He heard footsteps, then the pulling of cords, and the rays of sun replaced the shadow. He straightened his head on the pillow and prayed the hand would reanimate the damp cloth and remove the rest of the coating dissolving on his eyelids. How wonderful; answered prayers-he had come to expect no prayers to ever be answered-and the cloth brought its healing coolness to his eyes.