by Marc Rainer
Steady for now. Good.
He felt like a regular from Cheers when he walked in, as a chorus call of "Jeff!" rang out from customers sitting around the square bar. The place was packed. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he recognized most of the patrons as DC cops, federal agents, and their significant others. The smells of fresh French fries and popcorn mixed with the scent of beer.
The layout reminded him that the place had been a chain restaurant before the economy had forced its previous owner into bankruptcy. The bar to the left had probably not required much in the way of remodeling. On the right-hand side, dining booths and tables had been removed to make room for a pool table, a small stage, and a reasonably sized dance floor. Trask saw a replica Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner. It's playing CDs instead of 45s. He recognized the oldie it was blaring. "Kicks." Paul Revere and the Raiders. Sixties. Willie always said he wanted to run a juke joint when he retired. Guess he was serious.
"What'll it be, counselor?"
Trask looked and found the source of the familiar voice. Willie Sivella, newly-retired from a post as a commander in the Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police, and most recently the chief of the Violent Crimes Division, was tending his own bar. The white shock of receding hair was a bit longer than when he had been in uniform, and a goatee was about halfway in on the former commander's chin.
"Your best clean lager on tap, barkeep," Trask laughed. "The place looks good, Willie."
Trask sat down beside a black man in a business suit. "Whaddaya think, Dix?" he asked, as Sivella slid a frosted mug across the bar.
Detective Dixon Carter shook his head. It was large, shining, and shaved. He was a massive man, almost as wide and thick as he was tall. A native of the District, he was in his mid-forties in age, and in his mid-twenties in experience investigating felonious conduct on the streets of the capital city.
"I think," Carter said, "that this was the job one Willie Sivella was born to fill all along. He's certainly more cut out for this than he was police work."
"I still have connections on the force, Detective," Sivella cracked. "I make the call and you'll be back in a squad car in Anacostia tomorrow."
"We were out there today." The voice came from the other side of Carter.
Trask leaned back around the big man and saw a tall, blond, blue-eyed figure dressed in a sports coat and slacks. He shook hands with the man, still leaning back on the stool behind Carter.
"How are you, Tim?"
"Still protecting the legendary senior detective in the department from his worst instincts," Detective Timothy Wisniewski said. "My partner tends to forget both his age and girth from time to time. He still thinks he's playing football for the turtles."
"Terrapins, damn it." Carter shook his head. "Maryland Terrapins. See what you saddled me with, Willie?"
Sivella laughed from behind the bar. "You needed a keeper, Dix, and he was the only one who could handle your sorry hide."
"I see who's handling yours now, Willie." Trask looked behind Sivella to see a petite blonde sneaking up on the bartender. She threw her arms around Sivella's waist and kissed him on the cheek. Kathy Davis, an assistant medical examiner in the District, had shared Sivella's roof and bed for a number of years. Trask guessed that she probably had both a personal and financial interest in the new establishment.
"Thanks for the favor on the senator's daughter, Kathy," Trask said.
"No problem. The private doc knew his stuff. The family hired a good one. We re-did the toxicology just to make sure, but it was a heroin overdose, plain and simple."
"Just the same, I appreciate it. I know it was a little outside your comfort zone."
"Most of your cases are, Jeff." Davis winked at him, earning a playful swat from a nearby bar towel.
"No disrespect toward our favorite prosecutor, young lady," Sivella quipped. "I think he got us all promoted once or twice."
"Teamwork, Willie. You know that." Trask waived a finger at him. "You guys do all the heavy lifting; I just talk about it in court."
"To teamwork, then," Sivella said, lifting his glass in a toast.
"Sir, do the Commonwealth of Maryland statutes allow bartenders to drink while serving others?" Wisniewski asked.
"Hell if I know, I haven't read 'em yet," Sivella said. "Shut up and drink."
Trask took a sip of his beer. It was good and cold, perfectly chilled. "I can see this place becoming the FOP East, Willie," he said, referring to the Fraternal Order of Police, the union of officers on the force in the District. "Why do you call it 'The Beverly'?"
"A thoughtful tribute to his late mother," Kathy Davis said approvingly.
Trask nodded her way, and raised his glass again. "To The Beverly."
"All law enforcement personnel are welcome to drive in to The Beverly at any time," Sivella beamed. "If they have too many, we'll find someone sober to drive 'em home. That's if we like 'em. If we don't, we'll drive 'em somewhere else. See if they can swim."
Trask laughed. A light from the opening door behind him made him turn on his stool.
"Happy Grand Opening!" Barry Doroz and Lynn Trask entered the bar together, each one carrying an end of an etched mirror that had to be five feet long. They walked through a swinging gate in the bar and hung the mirror on hooks that had been perfectly placed above the bottle shelves.
Sivella shot a knowing look at Kathy. "I wonder how those got there?" he mused, rubbing his chin in mock bewilderment.
"They knew where to go to get inside help," she said.
"Federal Bureau of Intoxication," Lynn said. "We're sneaky." She winked at Trask. "How do you like it, Willie?"
Sivella leaned back on the inside of the bar and read the lettering:
"Willie's Bar at The Beverly – Serving Those Who Protect and Serve."
He bent his head for a moment and dabbed at his eyes with the bar rag. "It's perfect, guys. Thanks."
La Campana, Cauca, Colombia
March 9, 2010, 1:34 p.m.
"Any problems at the borders?" Domínguez asked.
"Of course not, Ramón. Money talks, and we have more money than we can spend." Heriberto Lazcano Lazcano, "Z-3" or "El Verdugo" to his men, waved his hand to the side, dismissing the question. "How is the new crop?"
"Better than last year's. It should be an excellent harvest." Dominguez passed a pointed finger across the horizon. He could feel the cool damp air as he waved his hand through it. From the horizon, the high peaks of the Andes fell into steep hillsides covered with red, violet and pink flowers, in bloom as far as the eye could see. "The poppies love the climate here. We have about 20,000 acres under cultivation now in this area, more in Tolima state next door."
Lazcano nodded approvingly. "It is excellent work, Ramón. And your friends with the new processing methods have earned their pay as well. The Americans will pay top dollar for the white, whether it is from China or somewhere else. What they don't know is not our concern. They always like the white better than the black or the brown. That is their bias."
Both men laughed at the joke.
"It is a little more expensive to produce the white instead of the tar," Dominguez shrugged. "It should actually make little difference—the purity isn't really in question in either form. You're right, I think. The magic is in the packaging—all cosmetic."
A dark, stooped figure walked past them carrying a load of harvested flowers in a basket on her back.
"How much are we paying them?" Lazcano asked.
"The Guambianos? Almost nothing," Dominguez answered. "Certainly very little compared to our profits. The Indians here see nothing wrong with growing our crops, and the clouds from the mountains hide them from the government aircraft and their crop sprayers. The cocaine we buy is much more problematic. It is grown in lower altitudes, in big plots; it requires much more fertilizer and labor, and is easy to spot from the air. Our poppies are like weeds here. We spread a few around and they just take over."
"It has been a great venture, my f
riend," Lazcano said. "We are spreading it all over the United States, and our profits keep growing. The addicts don't turn down our rivals' products, because they are addicts. But they ask for our heroin first, and they pay us more. We have a best-seller."
"We will make even more soon," Dominguez said. "The white from Asia has been running about $115,000 per pound in the States. We've only been charging $36,000 per pound in order to get established and to steal the customers from our competition. Very soon, we'll be able to almost double our price, and the demand will remain high, with our prices still much lower than the Asians."
"You've done well, and at a critical time," Lazcano said. "The elections are coming up soon, and our friends in the opposition party have some financial requirements. If we can bring the PRI back to power and rid ourselves of that bastard Calderón and his damned marines, our lives will be much easier, and we will be free to enjoy some of the profits of your crops." Lazcano looked at his watch. "It's getting late, Ramón. We are miles from a paved road, and I'm due back in Nuevo Laredo tomorrow."
"I'll see you there on Friday," Dominguez said. "I have some payments to make, and another farm or two to buy."
Dominguez waved toward two jeeps parked up the trail. The vehicles' drivers immediately hopped into their vehicles.
"Friday then," Lazcano said. He zipped up his jacket. "It is cold here. It will be nice to get back home. We'll see some baseball when you get back."
Washington, D.C.
4:21 p.m.
Adipietro answered the phone on his desk.
"He should be there in about five."
"Great. Same price, bud?" Adipietro unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the stacks of bills.
"Yeah, for now. They tell me it might be going up, though."
"Figures. It's good shit, and my junkies love the white. Been back to the neighborhood lately, or are you just staying in Texas?"
"Nah. Too much going on down here. You?"
"Last week. Times Square, baby. I miss the buzz."
"Yeah. Me too, sometimes."
A short beep of a truck horn caught Adipietro's attention. "He's here. I'll call ya back if there's any problems."
"Yeah. Do that."
Adipietro hung up and opened the door in the rear of the building. A ton-and-a-half truck with Texas plates was parked in the rear lot, and a short man was standing at the door with a duffle bag. He handed Adipietro the bag, and Adipietro handed him another.
"Six, right?" Adipietro asked.
"Yep. See you next trip, Joe. I gotta get going."
"Sure. Tell 'em up the coast that I said hello."
The little man nodded and walked back toward the truck.
Adipietro walked to his office with the bag. He picked up the phone and made a call. He waited for the answering machine to beep and said, "See me at the spot at seven."
Tampico, Tamaulipas, Mexico
March 15, 2010, 7:15 a.m.
Captain Luis Aguilar sat at the small dining table in his quarters at the Tampico Naval Air Station, reading the morning paper. He was shaking his head in disbelief.
"What is it, Luis?"
"Cartel gunmen in Chihuahua killed three Americans from the US consulate in drive-by shootings yesterday. Probably Federation Cartel. Chapo Guzmán's thugs. Two kids were hit, too. The bastards have no fear, and no sense of shame."
"That's horrible." Aguilar's wife Linda placed her hand on his shoulder and looked at the paper. "I see that both our presidents have condemned the attack," she said sarcastically.
"At least President Calderón gave us that fifty-percent pay raise couple of years ago," Aguilar said, patting her hand softly. "I think he really wants to win this fight."
Aguilar pulled his wife to him and kissed her. He had met her on a joint training exercise with the Americans in San Diego four years earlier. She had been an ensign on a U.S. Navy ship used by his marines to stage an amphibious landing. Their relationship had quickly gone beyond the professional to very personal when they had discovered they had grown up just a few miles of each other, on opposite sides of the Rio Grande. Linda Avila was from southern Texas, just south and east of Laredo, and Aguilar had grown up in the Mexican border town of Nuevo Laredo.
They found that they shared a love of the river, boats, fishing and diving, and each other. They had married as soon as her completion of her ROTC commitment allowed for her to be discharged.
"What do I smell?" he asked her. "Are you cooking this early? It's not even seven-thirty yet."
"Nothing much. Just some enchiladas for Sergeant Vaca's family. His wife has a fever, and his little ones need to eat. I need to get going. I was trying to get these over there before Vaca left for work."
"I love you." He kissed her again, and watched as she returned to her cooking.
She had been shocked by their domestic conditions at first, even though he had tried to prepare her for them. She had expected the same officer's salary, the commissary and medical benefits that she had enjoyed in the American navy. Instead, they had to manage on the equivalent of less than twelve-hundred dollars per month, even after the raise, and their on-base housing might have been condemned in some American cities.
She had made the best of it after the shock had worn off. The holes in the walls where the roaches lived had been patched with plaster while he went off to fight the cartels, and she had fashioned some respectable curtains for the windows out of bolts of cloth she had bought at a flea market.
As rough as their own situation was, Aguilar felt even worse for his men and their families. Most were from the poorest parts of the country, and had to make do on less than half his salary. Many were from Catholic backgrounds and had large families. They had little or no medical care, lived in squalor, and still went out every day to risk their lives for the Republic.
"That smells delicious. I know they will be appreciated." She deserves all the encouragement I can give her She has sacrificed a career for me, for us. 'Vaca's a good man, and you are an angel to help them."
She wiped her hands on an apron and came to the table to sit beside him. "They worship you, Luis, because you lead them by example and don't abuse them like so many of the other commanders. The least I can do is to help them on the home front."
He nodded. "I do my best." We are outnumbered, outgunned, underpaid, and are still asked to fill the void that the corrupt police and politicians have left for us. But I love my country—our country—and cannot just stand by and do nothing.
"I know," she said. "Did you see the billboard outside the gate when you came in last night?"
"Yes. Another damned Zeta recruiting poster. They taunt my marines where they live in these slums and promise them better pay and new cars if they will desert their country and join them." He shook his head again. "We've had over a hundred-thousand desertions since the Zetas created their cartel. The better pay we get now helps a little. Before the raise our NCOs were only making three hundred of your dollars a month—less than the corrupt policemen we've had to replace."
She saw he was looking at the editorial page. "How are the polls?"
"It doesn't look good for the next election. The country is tired of the killing. They think that if the Institutional Revolutionary Party—the PRI—returns to power, there will be fewer deaths. Maybe they're right. The cartels will just kill each other and any innocents in the crossfire, while the government looks the other way. The PRI has always had a soft spot for cartel campaign contributions."
"Will that put you in more danger?"
"We'll see. I will do my duty, but if the government does not support us, we—you and I—will have some decisions to make. I will not put you in harm's way."
"I am here with you. You are always in harm's way." She was wrapping up the enchiladas.
"Be very careful outside the base, my love. Los Zetas will not hesitate to hurt you if they know you are married to a marine."
"I will," she said, kissing him. "Don't worry."
8 Amwich Court
Waldorf, Maryland
7:42 a.m.
Trask stirred two teaspoons of sugar into Lynn's coffee—a light blend—while he waited for the Keurig to finish brewing his own cup, a dark roast. He felt a massive, furry head slide between his legs. He didn't have to look down. It had become a daily ritual.
"Morning, Boo," he said, scratching the big dog's head as he pulled his own cup from the machine and dumped in two packs of an artificial sweetener. He carried both cups to the table and looked at the morning edition of The Washington Post while he waited for Lynn to come out of the shower. More trouble in Mexico. Our embassy folks are getting shot now. What a mess.
The big dog was joined now by a smaller one. Trask now had one on each side of his chair.
"Hello, Nikki," he said, rubbing her head with his left hand while he continued to pet Boo with his right.
"What a nice family portrait." Lynn stood in the doorway, wearing a robe.
"I fed 'em already."
"Anything in the paper?"
"More trouble on the border."
"At least it's not close."
"Yeah. Don't need any gunfire here at the moment. Bad enough to have Ross and two senators breathing down my neck on a case with no leads."
"You'll come up with something. You always do."
"I wish I shared your confidence." He thought about his left hand and grabbed it instinctively under the table. It was good for now. He hadn't mentioned it to her yet. "Maybe I'll resign and do something else."
"Right. Like what? We have a mortgage, you know."
"I know." He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, pretending to be deep in thought. "I've been considering becoming a writer."
"Go for it. You've certainly got some plot lines in your case history to work with. You could probably crank out some good thrillers, and we wouldn't have to live in red-alert status."