by Glenn Trust
Shoulders shaking with his sobs, Miguel struggled to stay on his feet. There was nothing more to say. Elizondo turned to look out at the harbor and ocean through the bank of windows. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Alejandro Garza stepped forward.
It was old fashioned. There was no piano wire or steel cable to cut into the neck, sever arteries and trachea and bring a merciful, speedy death. The garrote was a simple cord affixed to two wooden handles with a thick knot tied in the middle.
Alejandro flipped it over Miguel’s head as he sobbed. He gave it a sudden jerk, the cords of muscle in his arms rippling as the traitor struggled, hands at his throat. Alejandro pulled tighter, and the knot crushed Miguel’s trachea.
Still, he struggled, feet kicking, on his tiptoes as Alejandro leaned back using all of his strength now. Spit and mucus flowed from Miguel’s nose spattering the window before him, and then his struggles became feebler, fading as the life was choked from him.
Alejandro released one end of the garrote. Miguel toppled forward to the floor, face blue, tongue protruding, a grotesque caricature of the man who had stood trembling in front of the windows a few minutes before.
Alejandro turned and nodded to the three guards, watching in silence. Their expressions had not changed. Stepping forward, they took the body of Miguel Diaz by its limp arms and legs and dragged it from the room.
After they left, Elizondo turned and motioned to a dark corner of the room. A tall man stepped forward from the shadows. Neatly pressed Capstone Italian slacks, a starched Stefano Ricci shirt open at the collar, and Gucci loafers marked him as a man of more than average wealth. A full head of distinguished silver hair contrasted with his well-tanned, ruddy complexion that had paled somewhat at the spectacle he had witnessed.
“And so,” Elizondo began with a smile at his guest. “We have our own business to conduct.”
“Why did you bring me here? To see that?”
They spoke in English although the well-dressed man’s accent forced Elizondo to pay attention to his words. It differed from the English of other Americans he had encountered. A rhythmic flow to the words pleased his ears, reminding him of his grandmother’s, lowlands Mexican drawl.
“I brought you here for you to understand the nature of our relationship.”
“I already understood. I am a businessman.”
“Oh, you are much more than that, I think. You will be my partner.”
“I know that. I didn’t need to see …”
“What? This example.” Elizondo shrugged. “It would happen whether you were here or not.” He nodded. “You were here. That is a good thing I believe. Now there can be no misunderstandings about what is expected.”
“It was savage.”
“It is interesting that you should use such a term. That is what they call us … our business, our cartel. Los Salvajes … the savages.”
The tall man refrained from commenting that the name was well-earned.
Elizondo nodded at the spit mingled with blood on the window where Miguel had been standing. “He must have bit his tongue. Please have this window cleaned.”
Alejandro nodded, and Elizondo turned back to the tall man. “Come. You will meet my family and stay here in the hacienda during your visit with us.”
“I have hotel reservations in the city.”
“Nonsense, my friend. There are no good hotels in Lázaro Cárdenas. You will stay with us.” He whirled to lead the way to the staircase. “My wife is an excellent cook and insists on preparing the family meals. A bowl of her sopa tarasca followed by a plate of corundas will bring the color back to your face.” He mounted the stairs that led to the upper room and the door to the yard. “Come! My little ones will be thrilled to meet a real American all the way from Georgia in the Estados Unidos.”
The tall American had no choice. He followed up the circular wrought iron stairs. “As you wish, Senor Elizondo.”
“Oh, call me Bebé!” Elizondo called over his shoulder. “Please, all of my friends do.”
9.
Eruptions
He was in over his head. Luis Acero felt it as soon as he walked through the front door of the Eruptions Lounge in upscale Midtown Atlanta.
In one of the wealthiest sections of the city, Eruptions was an exclusive night spot for local high rollers and affluent out-of-towners staying at the nearby Four Seasons or Ritz hotels. With four bars inside spread out over three levels and several dance floors and private seating areas, there was something for everyone at Eruptions, if they could afford it.
Luis looked around, realized he had underdressed, and tucked in his shirttails. As for the rest of his attire, there was nothing to do about it now. For a second, he considered leaving, but the words of that fucking detective rang in his ears.
Get us something … get close to the action … bring us something big … get paid up with us … get in good standing … or else.
The detective had ojos misteriosos—mystery eyes. Luis could never tell what was behind them. All he could do was take the cop at his word. Bring them something big or he would be out of business, or worse, in jail.
He was trapped. He had opened his mouth about something he knew very little about. Now, he had to find out more and hope there was something there.
That meant he had to be where the players were, and those players were far above him in Atlanta’s criminal hierarchy. They soared in the stratosphere while he crawled along the sidewalks selling drugs on a dirty street corner. The players were here tonight.
Atlanta’s beautiful people swirled by and around him in a blur of color and bling, as he considered his dilemma. He fingered the fake diamond stud in his ear and made his way to a bar on the third level. A ten dollar shot of tequila in his hand, he turned to survey the room as he sipped.
He was in the right place. Private seating areas were spaced around the perimeter of the room. All were occupied.
In one, a group of young executive types, shirt collars unbuttoned to reveal tan lines and well-muscled physiques, sat buying expensive drinks for the sort of women who didn’t walk the streets like the women Luis knew, although they performed the same services for their clients. Like the drug hierarchy, these prostitutes were a class above, making more in a night than most street whores did in a month.
Similar groups occupied the other seating areas. Some were older, locals having a night away from their wives.
The faces at one table were familiar, local professional athletes. Luis recognized one, in particular, a member of the Atlanta Falcons football team, known for his expensive taste in jewelry, clothes, and cars.
The table in the farthest, darkest corner was the one he sought. Bautista Ortega, known on the streets as El Toro—The Bull—sat with his back to the wall so he could see the room. Three others were with him, including a gringo in a conservative business suit that might have been expensive but in Eruptions was equivalent to wearing a tuxedo at Mardi Gras. He stood out.
Luis sipped the tequila and focused on the gringo. It might be nothing, but a man like that, dressed like that, sitting at a dark corner table with El Toro must mean something.
“Luis, what are you doing here?”
Esteban Moya, a senior dealer and lieutenant in Ortega’s organization tapped him on the shoulder. Luis spun, nearly spilling his drink.
Moya stared at him, eyeing Luis up and down as if he were naked. A voluptuous black woman held his arm. She wore a dress cut down the front, exposing most of her breasts, the tips of her nipples just concealed, while her enormous areolas were almost entirely revealed.
Heart racing, Luis paid her no attention.
“Esteban,” he said, mind spinning over what to say next.
Moya repeated the question. “What are you doing here?”
“Here? At Eruptions?” Luis gave a shrug he hoped didn’t look too nervous. He lifted the tequila. “Just having a drink.”
“Bullshit. You come here to have a drink?” Moya shook his head. “I
don’t think so.” He leaned closer. “I saw you watching over there … El Toro. Why?”
“No reason, Esteban. I just …”
“Why?” Moya nodded to one of the goons standing near Ortega’s tables.
“Nothing … it’s just that …” Luis stammered. “I been having trouble getting inventory. You know things been slow down on my end. Just thought I’d come by and see if I could find out when things gonna smooth out again.” He tapped his back pocket where he kept his wallet and managed a weak smile. “I’m hurtin’, man. That’s all. Can’t bring home the bacon if I don’t have inventory. You know how that is.”
“Problem?” Ortega’s man stood beside Moya.
Eyes fixed on Luis, Moya shook his head. “No, I can handle it.”
“Okay.” The goon nodded toward the table in the dark corner. “He said, whatever it is, take care of it … now.”
Moya turned and bowed his head politely toward the table and to Ortega who had stopped speaking to the gringo in the suit and was watching from across the room. The gringo turned in his seat for a second to follow Ortega’s stare and then turned his back again.
“Tell him it is taken care of,” Moya said.
The goon eyed Luis for a moment, turned and went to resume his protective position near Ortega’s table. Luis struggled to keep from voiding his bladder in the middle of the floor.
Moya turned to the girl and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “Here, go get yourself something to drink at the bar. I’ll be right back.”
She smiled, took the bill without speaking and walked away, hips swaying deliciously under the tight fabric of her dress. At any other time, Luis’ eyes would have been fixed on her ass as she walked. Tonight he was trying to squeeze his bladder shut, praying they didn’t have another goon and a car waiting for him downstairs.
“Come with me,” Moya said, taking Luis by the arm, steering him to the stairs that led to the lower levels. They walked down a flight, Moya still holding his arm. On the landing, he leaned close to Luis. “Don’t do this again. Don’t come to a place like this again. You don’t belong here, and when you come around, it looks like you’re trying to start trouble.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Luis shook his head solemnly and emphatically. “I mean it’s just …”
“I don’t give a shit about your inventory, cabrón. We’re all hurting right now. There’s been problems with supply coming in. What you think El Toro is doing up there?” Moya leaned close enough that Luis felt his bourbon breath on his face. “He’s trying to work out the supply problems. You show up like that … watching … you could fuck it all up … Ortega saw you. You’re lucky he didn’t have that goon take you out and leave you in a ditch with a hole in that fucked up head of yours.”
“I’m sorry,” Luis whispered, his eyes wide. Personal attention from El Toro was the last thing he wanted. “I mean … I didn’t …”
“Shut the fuck up and get out now. Go back to your dirty corner,” Moya sneered. “You get your inventory when it comes in, just like everyone. You show up here again, and I’ll take you out and slit your throat myself.”
Esteban Moya spun and walked up the flight of stairs where a curvy woman with round soft breasts was waiting to make all of his troubles go away. Luis Acero descended the two levels to the street and managed to not fall or pass out. He didn’t even stop in the restroom to take a piss.
The fucking cop wanted something big. This might be big. He couldn’t be sure, but it was all he had.
Moya said the gringo in a business suit had something to do with their supply chain to the cartel. It could have been a lie. The gringo might be El Toro’s accountant or lawyer.
It didn’t matter. The only thing Luis was sure of was that he wasn’t going anywhere near Bautista Ortega again.
10.
On the Edge of Manhood—1990
“John Fitzhugh Sole, you have been found guilty of felony motor vehicle theft.” Winscombe County Superior Court Judge Carl Burlson sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’ve heard the evidence. Do you have anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”
Burlson eyed the seventeen-year-old standing before him. He was a boy really, not able to vote or buy a beer legally, but the State of Georgia considered him an adult, in the matter of taking cars for joyrides.
“Your honor.” The young public defender swallowed down the lump in his throat. “My client has nothing to say.”
John Sole gazed into the judge’s eyes, ramrod straight and defiant. It wasn’t in him to beg, never had been. He may have taken the Reverend Mason’s car, he may have been driving it when the sheriff caught up with them, but he damned sure would not beg, and he’d damned well spend the next ten years in jail before he’d plead with the damned judge to lighten the damned sentence.
Behind him, Clara Sole sobbed in silence.
“Your honor,” the public defender continued. “We would like to ask for leniency in sentencing.
Judge Burlson put the glasses back on his nose and regarded the young man standing before him awaiting his fate. He’d seen too many young men like John Sole, on the edge of manhood, no father to guide them and a future destroyed by a thoughtless act.
Yes, technically, he had been driving the stolen car. The sheriff had asked old Reverend Mason to consider dropping the charges to criminal trespass, a misdemeanor. It was just a joyride, after all. Mason said no. The boys needed to be taught a lesson. Right was right, and wrong was wrong, and he wanted no confusion on the matter. Charge them with theft and let them pay the price for their crimes. They would come out of prison better men for it, Mason had said.
Burlson’s experience told him that the opposite was more likely true. John Sole would come out of prison a well-trained young criminal, facing a lifetime of self-destructive brushes with the law until one put him away for good.
Yes, he had confessed to stealing the car, but he hadn’t been alone. Billy Siever, a sixteen-year-old friend—one of John Sole’s only friends—was there. Siever, still a juvenile under the law, had taken part in the crime. From what Judge Burlson knew about him, Billy had probably planned it, but he would not face the same penalty. In fact, because his father served on the County Commission and played golf with the district attorney, he would face no punishment at all.
“Humph,” Burlson rumbled as he shuffled the papers before him.
Billy Siever was a bad apple, spoiled rotten. For all his defiance, John Sole had more character than the whole Siever clan put together in one squirming lump. Burlson made up his mind.
“Taking into account the defendant’s age, I will exercise my prerogative here to delay sentencing for one hour.”
For the first time, John’s eyes twitched. Clara held her breath.
Burlson nodded toward the courtroom window where the sun shining in made crosshatch patterns on the wood floors. “Across the court square, you will find recruiting offices for every branch of the armed services. If a defendant before me were to present evidence of their impending enlistment in the armed forces of this country, in the branch of their choosing, it would provide some mitigating reason to consider leniency.”
There was no mistaking it now. The defiance disappeared from John’s eyes. Clara gasped and whispered a prayer of thanks. The public defender stood open-mouthed and amazed.
Burlson picked up the gavel and slammed it down once, sending a resounding bang through the courtroom. “Court recessed for one hour!” He stood and exited through the door into his chambers.
John turned. “Does that mean …”
“It means you best get across the square in a hurry,” the public defender said and turned to Clara. “You’ll need to go with him to sign and give consent. He may be old enough to go to prison, but he’s sure not old enough to serve his country without your say so.”
Arms interlocked, they marched across the square and stood before the recruiting office looking through the glass at the trim young
uniformed man seated behind a desk. Clara looked at her son. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’m sure.”
It didn’t take the full hour to complete and sign the paperwork. Clara fought back the sense of foreboding. Would the military change John as it had his father? No, she shook her head at the thought. It was early 1990. There were no wars now. Viet Nam was a distant memory. She pulled his arm closer, wrapping hers around his waist. John would be fine, she told herself.
With proof of his enlistment in the Marine Corps, Judge Burlson suspended John’s sentence. Court was adjourned, and three weeks later John shipped out to the Marine Corps Recruiting Depot, Parris Island.
There was no war in 1990. In 1991 there was.
By June, John Sole completed Boot Camp and the Marine Corps School of Infantry. In August, his unit began preparing for participation in Operation Desert Shield. They were deployed to the theater of operations before the end of the year.
Serving with the fabled 3/3, 3rd Marine Battalion, 3rd Marine regiment 3rd Marine Division, John saw action at the Battle of Khafji and was with the battalion at the Kuwait airport when the conflict ended.
Judge Burlson had done John and Clara a great favor. John Sole had found a home in the Marine Corps, and unlike his father, he thrived on the military life and Marine camaraderie.
11.
Good for Business
“How much?” Eyes narrowed, Bebé Elizondo looked up from the newspaper that Alejandro had placed on his desk
“Altogether, ten and a half million U.S. dollars.”
“So little?” Elizondo sat back, chin resting on his hands folded in front of his face.
“It was a mixed load. Cocaína … about ten million. The rest was hierba … grass. Lighter but takes up more space in the truck, not as high market value.”