“I am,” Carnicero said as he dug into the platter. “Will you join me?”
“No. I’m not hungry.” The Padre lit another cigar. “Besides, a lion runs fastest on an empty stomach,” he added, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “And this lion has something to catch.”
• • •
Avery bobbled his way down the staircase of the big white house in Austin owned by his stepfather, Bennett. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he stubbed his toe as he stumbled off the last step. Avery proceeded to string together a collection of profanities that would make a sixty-year-old Bangkok whore blush.
“Avery,” Bennett’s voice called from the kitchen, “that you out there, crying like a baby shitting peach pits?”
“Shut up, doctor,” Avery gruffly replied as he hobbled into the kitchen and grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge. Bennett and Kip, Avery’s stepbrother, were at the table drinking their morning coffee. Maximilian, Bennett’s beloved white French bulldog, was curled up under the table. Max raised his head off his paws and sniffed at the stinky, bearded man.
“When did you get back?” Kip asked.
“Late last night.”
“I thought I locked the doors in case you did,” said Bennett as he peered over the top of the newspaper he was reading.
“Your primitive security device is no match for my superior intellect,” Avery said as he drained his soda. “Hold my calls — I’ll be back later.”
“Where you headed?” asked Kip, as he noticed Avery was wearing his yellow tracksuit instead of his usual in-house attire of a dingy bathrobe.
“I have an appointment this morning with my legal counsel.”
“Who’s suing you now?” Kip asked he got up to refill his cup.
“Everyone. You haven’t really made it to the big time until jealous competitors quit trying to out-achieve you and resort to hiding behind sham legal suits as a strategy.”
“Well, if that’s your yardstick for success, I reckon Time magazine should be calling anytime for a head shot for their Person of the Year issue,” Bennett said as Avery barged out the back door.
“Like I said, hold my calls,” Avery yelled over his shoulder as the door slammed shut.
“I swear to God,” Bennett said, “if that boy ever has an intelligent idea, it’ll die of loneliness.”
It took Avery close to an hour to reach his destination with all the backtracking and sneaking among trees to avoid being tailed. Avery knew that the inevitable moment when the men in black suits rappelled down out of their helicopters to kidnap or assassinate him, it would be at the moment he’d least expect it. As usual, he was taking no chances. Eventually, he made it to his appointment. The sign outside the small office nestled between a dry cleaner and a Chinese restaurant identified it as the Law Office of Gregory Kennesaw Mountain, Esq.
Gregory Mountain wasn’t born as much as he was wrung from a bartender’s rag. He ran a one-man law practice in town, at least when he was sober. He got his middle name from the historic Civil War battle that took place at Kennesaw Mountain in late June of 1864. Gregory’s great great-grandfather, Rufus Mordecai Mountain, served as a colonel in the Army of Tennessee, commanded by General Joseph Johnston. A fortuitous misunderstanding by Rufus Mountain of a direct written order from his commander, a misunderstanding partially caused by the fact that he wasn’t a strong reader and partially because Rufus was knee-knocking drunk at the time, resulted in Rufus leading his men to the wrong spot on the battlefield. In hindsight, it turned out to be the right spot tactically, and the Confederates were able to drive back General Sherman’s Union forces. For his part, Rufus missed the bulk of the battle, as he passed out shortly after the first volleys were fired. His last words to his men before falling face down in the dirt were a series of long, low belches as he pointed his saber at the advancing enemy troops.
“Wake up!” Avery demanded as he stormed into the cramped legal office overflowing with scattered documents and legal journals.
“Don’t shoot!” Mountain called out as he popped up from his face-down position on his desk with both hands raised in the air, leaving a small pool of drool behind on the surface of his desk. “Howdy, son, you’re early for once!” The large attorney wore a red plaid blazer, a yellow paisley tie over a wrinkled white shirt, dirty blue jeans, a seriously gaudy gold pinky ring, and cowboy boots with actual spurs attached. “Who we suing today?” he asked Avery as he wiped off his desk with the palm of his hand. Mountain had been last in his law class, but first in regard to opportunity.
“I’m in a hurry today — let’s make this fast. First order, new business…”
“Slow your britches down, Avery, we’ve got a little old business to attend to first,” Mountain said as he held up a stack of folders. “Patent infringement,” he continued as he began to pick through the pile. “Defamation of character.” He tossed another file aside. “Cease and desist, libel, and the latest one, a restraining order from the mayor of Austin,” Mountain said as he held it up.
“She’s a nobody.”
“She’s the mayor, goddammit, and you can’t keep picketing on her cotton-picking front lawn anymore.”
“Not until she submits to my demands.”
“Son, you can’t put a personal parking meter in front of your stepfather’s house.”
“Quit thinking like a loser,” Avery said as he lifted an unruly pile of legal documents off the split and torn leather couch located against the back wall of the office so he could sit down. “Per my request, did you search your office for listening devices this morning?”
“Look, she says she’ll drop the restraining order, if, for once and for all, you’ll stay off her begonias.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Be reasonable, Avery.”
“I want to sue her.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“What are the maximum damages I can ask for?”
“I’m not going to sue the mayor of Austin for you, at least not until you pay me. That reminds me,” Mountain said as he pulled out another folder. “You’re being sued for failure to make payment.”
“By who?”
“By me.”
“Outrageous! Counter-sue back.”
“On what grounds?”
“Legal incompetence. Is the reason you call your business a practice because you aren’t very good at it? What are the maximum damages I can ask for?”
“Don’t push your luck, city boy,” Mountain said as he balled his meat hook–sized fists.
“Did you even go to law school?”
“See that little piece of paper on the wall over there!” Mountain pointed to a crooked frame on the wall next to a taped-up torn-out page of Miss October. “It says ‘Vanderbilt’ on it!”
“My good man, I can get you one from Harvard from a Russian online auction site in ten minutes. Want to time me?”
“Son, if crazy were dirt, you’d have enough to cover half the King Ranch,” Mountain said with a chuckle.
“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Avery said, scratching his unruly beard. “Then I could make claim to the mineral rights underneath. Look into it and get back to me.”
“Avery, I can’t keep representing you like this.”
“Of course you can. I’m the perfect client. I’m highly litigious and soon to be wealthy beyond imagination.”
“Did you find financing for Project Alpine yet?”
“I’m still working on it,” Avery replied as he chewed on his fingernails. “Are the articles of incorporation ready to go?”
“Get the money lined up first.” Mountain pulled a fifth of whiskey from his desk drawer and took a slug. “Want some?” He offered the bottle to Avery as he coughed into his sleeve.
“No, thanks. I came by to let you know I’m going to be leaving the country for a while.”
“Son, I hate to be the one to point out the fly in your buttermilk, but that’s not a real good idea, considering th
e terms of your latest probation. What the hell were you doing breaking into that research lab, anyway?”
“I’ve always wanted a pet monkey.”
“Avery, let me remind you, your probation officer is a real asshole. He’s as mean as rattlesnake with an elephant standing on its tail. Can I give you a little advice, son? Never kick a turd on a hot day. One more slip-up, and you’re headed to the pokey.”
“You don’t intimidate me.”
“I’m not trying to intimidate you, Avery. I’m your friend. I’m trying to advise you.”
“I can walk down the street and get all the advice I need, and for free, I might add. What I’m looking for is counsel, imaginative counsel, courageous counsel, and, most importantly, the kind of counsel that’s slightly left of legal. You know, the kind that actually works.”
“Well, then, as your attorney, I strongly advise you not to leave the country.”
“Duly noted. By the way, what are the documents currently needed for entry into Mexico?”
“Mexico? Sweet Jesus, Avery, you’re so damn nuts I swear I can see the squirrels juggling chainsaws inside your head.”
“And what’s the current exchange rate these days?”
“Please tell me you aren’t really going.”
“Okay, I’m not going.”
“Really?”
“No, just trying to make you feel better. Is it working?”
“No,” Mountain said as he took another pull from his whiskey bottle. “Why the hell is going to Mexico so important? You do remember that little incident a while back at Bennett’s house with that cartel hombre, don’t you? South of the border might not be the safest place for you.”
“The Mexican assassin? I’m sure he’s forgotten about me already. It’s tequila under the bridge.”
“What do you plan on doing there? Vacationing? You know, they’ve got some really nice beaches around Galveston or Corpus.”
“My search for the chupacabra must continue. I have strong reason to believe that the perfect time to observe and capture one is at hand.”
“Dammit, son, how many times do I have to say this? There’s no such thing as a flipping chupacabra!” Mountain pounded his bottle on his desk for effect.
“That’s what they used to say about witches.”
“Witches don’t exist, either!”
“Of course they do. Austin elected one mayor.”
“For the record, I think this is a really bad idea. Typically, with someone like you, the law down there won’t be on your side. If you get in trouble, I can’t promise I can get you out. But if you insist on going, take this,” Mountain said as he wrote down a phone number on the cover of a racing form sitting on his desk before tearing the page off. “When, not if, things go tits up, you call this number and ask for Enrique Montalban. Mention my name. He’s an attorney in Mexico City. We go way back. When we were still just kids, we used to run rum out of Havana to the Keys. He’s pretty handy in a knife fight, too. But whatever you do, don’t play cards with him. He’s a world-class cheat.”
“Explains why you two got along. Hey, you aren’t billing me for this, are you?”
“Of course I am. But don’t worry about it — I’ll just tack it onto my lawsuit.”
“Well played, Mountain. Well played.”
“So exactly where in Mexico are you headed?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Hell of a plan.”
“It’s in progress. I like to marinate an adventure before cooking it.”
“Well, boy, you’re headed straight into the hot oven. It’s shit-ass crazy down there right now.”
“Your shirt looks like crap.”
“At least I’m wearing one. What’s the deal with yellow, anyway? You look like a fat banana with a beard.”
“Yellow? Did you miss Fashion Week this year?”
“Unfortunately,” Mountain said as he spit in his trash can. “I, too, was busy shaving my chest and bleaching my...”
“Yellow is the new black,” Avery interrupted.
“The new black. Who knew? Well, I suggest starting in Matamoros. I know this one little sugar shack down there — you can really wet your whistle, if you know what I mean,” Mountain said with a wink. “Seen some things there that words just don’t do justice. You ever seen one of those shows with the donkey and the two…?”
“Thanks, but this is a business trip. Just a heads-up, I’m having all my mail forwarded here while I’m gone,” Avery said as got up to leave. “Pay the bills, throw out the ads, and save the coupons. I’ll reimburse you, obviously.”
“Sure you will.” The attorney rubbed his aching head. “Adios, amigo.” Mountain waved and drained his bottle while watching Avery exit his office. “Stay out of trouble,” he called out before violently vomiting in his trash can. “And get the Project Alpine money!” he shouted before ducking down and vomiting again.
• • •
After leaving his attorney’s office, Avery sneaked along for several blocks before finding what he was looking for. Approaching a postbox at the corner of a busy intersection, he looked left and right to make sure he wasn’t being watched before dropping a letter into it.
• • •
To: Loan Department
7th National Bank of Austin
Dear Money Lenders:
I’m writing to express my desire for a small business loan. I’ve closely reviewed your institution’s loan forms and documents, and have found them cumbersome, redundant, and completely useless. Personal information is called “personal” for a reason. I’m sure you understand. Please accept this correspondence as a more than capable replacement. For the time being, I cannot divulge the entirety of my business plan for competitive reasons. The global business markets are savagely cutthroat. Secrecy is the devastatingly long lever of the first mover’s advantage.
Executive Summary:
Give me ten million U.S. dollars immediately.
Top Secret Plan Overview (that can be revealed at this time):
Question: What are America’s two favorite snacks? Answer: Mountain Dew and pork rinds. Curiously enough, no one has ever considered combining the two. Well, the time has come, and I plan to dominate the world’s market for Mountain Dew–flavored pork rinds. Of course, I could just directly approach the manufacturer of Mountain Dew with this dazzling concept, but I’m looking to maximize my personal fortune by going it alone. Besides, it would deprive your institution the opportunity to be involved in financing this groundbreaking concept from its infancy. Trademarks and copyrights obviously prevent me from using the Mountain Dew name in my project, so I’ve developed an alternative concept: Alpine Condensation. But my marketing genius only starts there. Alpine Condensation Pork Rinds will be marketed through a partnership with a well-known hip hop performer. My preference is for someone who has spent time incarcerated. It’s essential for the product to have some street cred with the kids. Now, it may be difficult to find a rapper who has actually gone to jail, but I’m trying. If I can’t find one, I’ll hire a suitable entertainer and compensate them with discount coupons for future product purchases for time spent behind bars on trumped-up charges. Preferably drug charges. The target market for Alpine Condensation is the late-night snack consumer returning home from the club. Nothing refreshes like a bag full of crispy, salty, sweet, tangy, caffeine-loaded pork rinds after a long night of dancing and partying. The product can also be marketed to athletes, as pork rinds are naturally rich in protein. Can you envision the Stanley Cup or Claret Jug filled to the brim with Alpine Condensation Pork Rinds? I can. But we have to move fast! The genius of this plan is in its simplicity. It’s only a matter of time before someone stumbles onto to it. Production plans for the product are simple. First, I’m going to need pigskin, and lots of it. Fortunately, China is one of the world’s largest producers of pork. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Quality. Yes, the U.S. and the Dutch raise a higher quality of pork, but we’re talking about skin here. Ribs
and chops are not of concern. Cheap Chinese pigskin it is. Second, I’ll need to hire the services of a team of ninjas to break in and steal the secret formula for Mountain Dew. I already have a team picked out and training in the Gobi Desert. Third, I’ll require access to the massive facilities at Analytical Food Laboratories in Grand Prairie. There I will create a crystallized version of the flavoring agent for my pork rinds. I refuse to allow them to do the testing themselves, as someone may figure out where I’m headed with my analysis. We will need to pay them to shut down and send the staff home for several days. There you have it. Three easy steps, and the food invention of the century will rise from the ashes of defeated snack manufacturers from around the planet. Consequently, Alpine Condensation’s packaging will prominently feature a flaming phoenix rising from the ashes of defeated snack manufactures from around the planet. In order to maximize profits for myself, corporate staff will be kept to a minimum. I will assume the duties of Chairman and CEO, while my compatriot Ziggy will serve as a board member. It’s always a good idea to keep some deadwood on your staff in case the economy turns and you have to lay someone off. As a financial institution, you should keep that in mind. While the sole intention of my project is to create mind-boggling wealth for myself, I am aware of the backlash in this country regarding disproportionate financial excess. Therefore, in an act of goodwill, I will reach out to the world’s humanitarian community. Because of the incredibly long shelf life of pork rinds, they are perfect for humanitarian aid. I will offer global aid groups a two-percent discount on purchases, but only for bulk orders, and payment must clear before shipping. I’m currently busy with an outstanding research project that has me traveling internationally. Please hold all loan committee questions until after product launch. Please mail the check for ten million dollars to my attorney. His name is Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. He’s in the book.
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2) Page 9