by Glenn Trust
Sam was no fool. A conviction was a certainty. They would let the ranch go to waste and ruin, and then when the case was finally closed years from now and everyone, including Sam, was in prison, they would sell the ranch for pennies on the dollar. He wept in the back of the van.
Ernesto accepted his arrest philosophically. He would spend time in a North American prison. This was no big deal. He was older than most of the young roosters working for Bebé, but was fit enough to weather and survive incarceration in an American prison.
At least when he got out and was deported, he would have the pension Bebé promised. Bebé was always good on his word, and Ernesto had no doubts that he and his wife would live out the rest of their lives comfortably in a little village in Michoacán near the coast.
Still, he was not so young anymore and was not looking forward to the years away from his wife. He let out a sigh of resignation. Then they locked the van door and bumped out onto the dirt road.
Through the window, he could see a form covered with a sheet on the ground by the old truck. It was a shame about young Felipe, but the boy was exaltado—a hothead. It was only a matter of time for him.
Ernesto knew in this business it paid to remain calm. Emotion got you filled with holes. Just ask Felipe.
3.
The Munchies
“How the hell do you eat that shit?”
John Sole stopped in mid-bite, a Varsity chili dog hanging precariously out of his mouth, drops of chili and mustard falling to the napkin he had tucked into the front of his shirt.
“Like this,” Sole sputtered out around the loaded hot dog and bun.
With that, he shoved the remainder in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he turned toward Randy Travis, his face spread in a close-mouthed grin, chomping and trying hard not to laugh and spit the whole mess out on the dashboard.
It was his usual order. The Varsity ordering code for it, as every true Atlanta fast-food epicurean knew, was a Heavyweight—hot dog with mustard and extra chili. The rest of the order, a bag of rags—potato chips—and a creamy frosted orange milkshake, sat in the bag between his feet on the floorboard of their unmarked Atlanta Police Department sedan.
“Shit.” Travis shook his head. “That’s disgusting.”
“Best lunch in town.” Sole grimaced and with a final enormous gulp, swallowed down the last of the chili dog.
“Did you even taste it?”
“Every last processed pig’s tail and chicken foot of it.”
“You’re shitting me, right? No one uses that shit in people food any more, do they?”
“That’s the mystery of it. Keeps things exciting.” Sole grinned. “But no, they promise these are made from pure beef … products.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Not pig tails or chicken feet, so who cares.”
They settled back. Sole opened the bag of chips and sucked on the frosted orange shake. His partner, Randy Travis navigated the busy afternoon traffic. They had worked as partners since Travis arrived in the Major Crimes Unit.
***
“Heads up!” Clarence Pointer, commander of the unit, called out across the rows of cubicles and investigators huddled over their computers or discussing the cases they were working. “New man joining us!”
Heads swiveled to eyeball the newcomer.
“Fresh meat,” someone called out.
“FNG—Fucking New Guy—in town,” another said. “A virgin. Just what we need.”
Muted laughter rippled through the room as they waited for the introductions. John Sole stood and leaned against the side of his cubicle to better see the FNG.
“Ladies and gentlemen … and I use both terms with reservation,” Captain Pointer continued. “This is Investigator Randy Travis. He comes to us from Zone 2 burglary. Ten years in the department.”
The laughter was louder now. Tall and lean, Travis waited, the hint of a smile on his face, his brown eyes sparkling, knowing what was coming. He had been through this before.
“You’re shittin’ me,” someone called out.
“What?” Wendell Pearson said, looking around at the other detectives, who laughed louder now. “I don’t get it.”
“You never heard of Randy Travis?” Pearson’s partner Clarence Still leaned his beefy elbows on his desk and shook his head. “Very sad.”
“What? Explain Clarence before I toss you out the damned window.”
“Randy Travis,” Clarence began with a sigh. “Is a famous country singer … a legend … you know… Forever and Ever, Amen … Deeper than the Holler … On the Other Hand … and my personal favorite, Hard Rock Bottom of Your Heart.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know that shit?” Wendell held up his large black hand in front of his partner’s face. “You see that color, boy. They didn’t play that hillbilly shit in my neighborhood.”
“That’s why it’s funny,” Clarence replied. “As you can see, Detective Travis is African American, like you.” He leaned closer to Pearson, peering at his face. “In fact, I’d say he is a bit more African than you are. You look a little pale. You sure some whitey didn’t get in the woodshed somewhere back down the line.”
“Fuck you, Clarence.” Pearson rose and stepped forward, hand extended to Travis. “Welcome to Major Crimes.”
They shook hands, and the rest of the gathering took turns welcoming the new detective to their ranks.
“Alright,” Captain Pointer called out. “He needs to partner up with someone. Who’s up for it?”
“Wait a minute,” Pearson said. “First, I want to know why your mama named you after a white hillbilly.”
“Simple. She loved country music,” Travis said, smiling. He’d been through this before. “Actually, my first name is Charles, for Charley Pride. She gave me Randall for Randy Travis as a middle name.
“Then why don’t you go by Charley or Chuck or Charles,” Clarence Still asked. “At least that would make sense … black face … black country singer.”
“Because I enjoy seeing how it fucks with you white boys when you hear my name and see my face.” Detective Charles Randall Travis grinned. “Any other questions?”
“I’ll take him.” John Sole stepped forward and put out his hand. “Glad to have you on board, partner.”
***
That was three years ago. It was a perfect match, despite Travis’ lack of appreciation for fast food.
Traffic had thinned in this part of the city. Dusty storefronts lined the street, some abandoned, plywood replacing the plate-glass windows on many. Others, covered with iron bars, showed the hazards store owners faced here. Some had hasps and padlocks, for additional after-hours security, although their effectiveness was doubtful.
John pointed to a corner three blocks ahead. “That’s our boy.”
“Got him.” Randy wheeled into the curb lane, maintaining speed.
They passed the corner where a tall, thin man stood, hands in his pockets, head down, face partially concealed by the ubiquitous hoodie prevalent in this section of the city. The man ignored them as they passed.
“He saw us,” John said.
“Okay.”
Travis continued for a half mile then turned from the main street into a side alley. Halfway down the block, they found a spot beside an overflowing dumpster where he backed the car in, concealing it from anyone who might glance down the alley from the main street. Sole opened his door and moved to the back seat. Travis remained behind the wheel.
It took Luis Acero twenty minutes to make his way from the corner that served as his storefront for the sale of marijuana and the occasional eight-ball of cocaine. He slouched down the alley with the same bent posture he had standing on his corner. Hoodie pulled low over his forehead, he pivoted and opened the rear door of the sedan taking a seat beside Sole. To anyone watching from the street, it would have looked like he disappeared into a back door or was standing next to the building taking a leak.
As criminal informants went, Luis was above
average. Information he provided had led Sole and Travis to several significant felony arrests. For that reason, they had advised the narcotics division of his status as their CI.
It was a mutual working arrangement between the two investigative divisions. The narc squad had their own informants, some of whom were sought by the major crimes detectives. As long as the CI provided valuable, actionable intelligence about more serious criminal activities, the detectives from both divisions cut them slack.
They couldn’t ethically ignore blatant violations of the law, but they could be selective about which violations they focused on. Smart CIs took the hint and kept a low profile. Dumb ones went to jail. Natural selection tended to weed out the dumb ones. Luis Acero had always been one of the smart ones.
In his case, that meant that he could sell street-use quantities of drugs to his customers on the corner and the narcs looked the other way. If at some point, he failed to provide useful information, or it turned out to be unreliable, the deal would be off, and they would look hard at his operation.
He lived life on shaky ground under terms that would make most people perpetually paranoid. Criminal informants like Luis thrived on it, considering paranoia a cost of doing business.
It was also a risk. Over the years, more than one CI had been found out to be a rat and had gone missing or turned up with a bullet hole through the head or throat slashed and left in a dumpster to rot.
“What do you have for us?” Sole asked as Luis settled in.
“Not much.” Luis reached for the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his hoodie.
Travis sighed and rolled down the window. He hated going home smelling like an ashtray after one of their meets with the CI. Sole pulled out a lighter, spun the wheel with his thumb and lit the cigarette for Luis.
“Not good enough,” Travis said from the front seat, watching him in the rearview mirror.
“He’s right.” Sole nodded. “Been a month since you gave us anything. Time to pay up or lose your good standing.”
“What about the pawn shop on Moreland fencing stolen shit? That paid off.”
“Small time.” Sole shook his head. “We hit it. Couple of flat screen televisions and an old Ruger pistol. We closed the shop, but nothing much came from it. I’d say your account is in arrears.”
“Fuck. I ain’t got nothin’ right now.” Luis moved his hands in front of his face holding them palms up to show how empty the criminal information industry was at the moment.
“Got to be something, Luis, my man. Think. We don’t want to be forced to revoke your get out of jail free card.”
“Shit.” Luis lowered his head and took a long drag on the cigarette. After a few seconds, he looked up, letting the smoke swirl from his mouth and nose to encircle Travis’ head. “There might be something.”
“What?” Sole asked. “Let’s have it.”
“That’s the thing.”
“What’s the thing?” Travis said from the front. “You’re making it sound like we might have to call in your debt.”
“There’s something …” Luis shook his head, turning to look Sole in the eye, trying to indicate his sincerity. “Thing is I don’t know what. There’s talk about some new players coming to town.”
“What kind of players?” Sole’s mouth twisted into a doubtful smirk.
“Drugs. Not your kind of shit. It’d be for the narcs.”
“We’ll take it and see how it turns out. If it’s good info, it might clear the books for you, for a while.”
“But it’s like I told you. I don’t know what, but the talk is big.”
“You playing us, Luis?” Sole’s eyes narrowed.
“Naw, man. I ain’t playin’ you. Uh, uh. No way I’d do that. It’s just that the rumors are these big players are comin’ in … gonna change things … but I’m not close enough to find out who they playin’ with.”
“Get closer.”
“I’ll try, man. I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, Luis. Trying isn’t worth shit. You get as close to the action as you need to bring us something … something big … something that will get you caught up with us and keep you in good standing. If you don’t …”
“Shit, man. You ain’t got to say it. I know about the ‘if I don’t’ part.”
“What do you think, partner? A week?” Sole spoke to Travis up front.
“Yeah.” Travis nodded, looking into Luis’ eyes in the mirror. “I think a week is about right.”
Sole turned to the CI. “You hear that, Luis? You have a week to get close and bring us something.”
“Shit. I can’t make no …”
“A week,” Sole said and reached across Luis to push the door open. “Get close. Bring us something … something big.”
“Fuck, man. I’ll do what I can do.”
Luis got out as Travis cranked the car and put it in gear. Sole stepped out of the rear passenger door and looked at him over the top of the vehicle.
“Do this right Luis, and if it’s big enough, you might be paid up for a while.”
“Shit, man,” Luis repeated his favorite phrase for every difficult situation. He shook his head and turned away, heading back down the alley to the street.
“What do you think?” Travis asked as Sole sat down in the front seat.
“He was nervous.”
“Yeah. More than normal.” Travis shrugged. “Maybe because we threatened to take away his status?”
“Yeah, but it felt like more than the usual street jive nerves.” Sole nodded. “There could be something big going down, and our boy might be afraid of the fallout if he gets too close. Just have to wait and see.”
“Story of our lives.”
“Hey,” Sole said, energized. “Let’s swing by McDonald's. I could use a bag of fries and a Diet Coke.”
“You ate that shit from The Varsity an hour ago.” Travis shook his head in disgust.
“Yeah, but jerking a CI always gets me high. I got the munchies.”
4.
Beginnings—1973
He was gone. That was no surprise. Monty was never around when she needed him.
Her back arched, front teeth biting down on her lower lip, Clara Sole’s hands clawed and clenched the sofa cushions until her knuckles turned white. The baby was coming.
“Monty!” she shrieked through the contraction. “Where are you?”
She knew where he was. Elvin Lamont Sole was lost. He had been that way since returning from Viet Nam, a twenty-two-year-old veteran of a foreign war that had taken his life as surely as if he had died in a jungle ambush.
Gaunt and hollow-eyed, he returned to Cassit Pass in the mountains of North Georgia. Clara had written to her high school sweetheart while he was away, had continued writing even when his scribbled letters stopped coming.
The homecoming was simple. There were no fanfares, parades, or welcome committees. There was a hesitant knock on her parent’s front door. Clara opened it and stared in shock. Monty had come home.
Still dressed in his Marine Green Class A uniform, duffle by his feet, he was suddenly there. No letter. No phone call. One day, he just appeared on the doorstep.
Her parents, her friends, his friends even, told her she should move on. Monty was damaged goods. Viet Nam had taken something from him, sucked it from his soul. Monty never spoke about it.
Clara did not move on. She wrapped her arms around him. Over time, she tried to bring him back from the dark place where his thoughts wandered. A glimmer of the happy boy who had gone off to war would flash across his face. She hoped, prayed, that he was coming back to her, leaving the unspoken pains behind.
The hope was enough. Clara loved Monty, and over the objections of her parents, they scheduled their wedding. For a while, her love was enough. He improved, smiled more often, pushed the darkness from his eyes.
He took long, solitary walks through the mountain passes, following the game trails that switch-backed across the hillsides. When he showed up at the smal
l home they rented five miles out of Cassit Pass, he would sit quietly beside her on the threadbare sofa. Clara would take his hand into her lap and hold on to it, cling to it. When she did, Monty turned his head and smiled. Then his eyes would wander off to the ceiling, and he was away, again, as gone as if he were still out roaming the hillsides. He was out there tonight, somewhere in the hills, lost to her when she needed him most.
She groaned. It wouldn’t be long now. No one had coached her on how to give birth, but instinctively she panted and pushed. Legs spread, she leaned back in the sofa, bracing her heals on the cushions. She clenched her eyes shut, unable to pant, the contraction taking her breath away.
Then it was over. In a final torrent of blood and pain, John Sole came into the world.
5.
A Man at Peace
Juan Manuel Elizondo was a man at peace. That is not to say he was a peaceful man. He was not. He had learned over the years that there was no profit in peace.
On this bright morning, he stood on the tiled patio of his expansive home in the hills behind Lázaro Cárdenas. The sun rising behind him cast a soft orange glow over the city below and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
The bustling activity in the port pleased him. From above, he could see the trucks service the ships, cranes lifting cargo containers to swing them out over the decks of the giant vessels, men scurrying like ants to secure and ready the cargo for shipment overseas. Some of that cargo was his, and that pleased him more than anything.
The day below brightened all at once as the sun made its final lunge and lifted over the surrounding hills. He smiled at the favorable omen.
Soft footsteps approached from behind and then stopped, waiting for him to turn.
“Yes, Alejandro,” he said, his eyes fixed on the activity below.
“It is time, Jefe.”