by Glenn Trust
Elizondo nodded. “We were lucky.”
That Bebé could be philosophical about the loss of almost eleven million dollars of inventory and count himself fortunate was a testimony to the enormous success of his business. The international sales of his products brought in billions in U.S. dollars each year, with most of that coming from the North Americans.
“Still,” he continued. “We have a problem.”
“Yes.” Alejandro nodded. “Once the norteamericanos discover one of our methods of transport, they are relentless. They will cut off other crossings … find everyone who is willing to work with us.”
“So …” Elizondo smiled. “We must stay ahead of them in this little game of cat and mouse.”
“Hmm. I would rather be the cat,” Alejandro remarked. “Mice get eaten.”
“Alejandro, my friend. Remember the cinema when we were young … the Tom and Jerry, from the States … the mouse was much smarter than the cat and was never eaten.” He nodded, making his point. “We must always be smarter than the cat.”
“You are right.” Alejandro sat in the chair across from Bebé. “Perhaps I worry too much sometimes.”
“That is a good thing, I think. It makes us good partners. You worry for both of us, and I don’t have to.” Elizondo smiled and changed the subject. “And the men?”
“Three arrested plus the rancher. We lost one killed.”
“Killed? By the gringos?”
“Yes. He was young … high strung. He tried to use his weapon during the arrest.”
“Un tonto.” Fool. Elizondo shook his head. “He was there as a protection against other cartels and bandits. How did he expect to win a fight with the Americans?”
“As I say, he was young and hotheaded.” Alejandro shrugged. “He learned a hard lesson.”
“Yes, he did.” Elizondo nodded. “Make sure his family receives ten thousand dollars as compensation for their loss.”
“So much?”
“It is a trifle to us. For a peasant and his family, ten thousand dollars is a fortune.” Elizondo gazed at his lieutenant the way a patient teacher eyes a willing student, taking the time to explain beyond giving instructions. “In the greater scheme of things a few thousand dollars will reap great rewards when we require loyalty, new recruits … or silence.”
“I’ll see to it.” Alejandro nodded.
“And the driver?”
“It was old Ernesto. You remember him I think.”
“Ernesto. The one who drove trucks across Mexico?”
“The same. They arrested him. No doubt, he will spend a few years in a North American prison before being deported.”
“His wife should receive his pension now. I think Ernesto’s days driving for us are over. He has been loyal. I think fifteen thousand U.S. dollars a year is reasonable.”
“Very generous,” Alejandro agreed. “I’ll have it arranged for the old woman.”
“Good.” Elizondo mused, leaning back in his leather chair, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “The Yanquis are getting better. They find our tunnels with their listening equipment and ground radar. Their drones patrol in places where we least expect, and now …” He shook his head. “Now, they have compromised a major point of entry … one of the few that could handle the tonnage we must send over the border to meet the demand.” His eyes moved to the blue sky outside the window and the ocean beyond. “We must move things forward with the American.
“I sent him with a driver to tour our port facilities.”
“Good. He will eat with the family tonight. After, we will complete the arrangements. Tomorrow we send him home. In six months, we will be at full operation.” Elizondo sat upright, his mind made up on something else. “Suspend further deliveries over the border for now. If they discovered this rancher and the arrangement we had with him, they might be aware of the others.”
“That will hurt the dealers who depend on our deliveries.”
“It is only a temporary suspension until we have our new arrangements in place. It would hurt them worse if the gringos shut us down.” Elizondo smiled, hands extended palms up, raising them in front of his face. “Inconvenient as it is, a brief suspension will drive prices up and that, my friend, is very good for business.”
12.
Paid Up
It was a separate phone, a burner, ownership untraceable. They used it for contact with their informants. The last thing they needed was a snitch with a hot tip having his cover blown because one of his upstanding criminal associates noticed that he had been making calls to the Atlanta PD Major Crimes Unit.
It sat on the edge of Randy Travis’ desk when it vibrated and chimed. Travis grabbed it before it vibrated itself off onto the floor.
He answered. “Yeah.”
John Sole looked up from his neighboring desk. The afternoon had been too quiet. He was ready to do something besides shuffle papers.
The voice on the other end spoke. “It’s all good, bro.”
It was the code. Any other words would alert them that someone was listening on the other end or that the informant was in trouble. Leave off the ‘bro’ and it was a tip-off that things were turning to shit, and the CI needed someone to pull his ass out of the fire. Luis Acero said the words in the correct sequence.
“What d’ya got for us?” Travis got down to business.
Sole motioned him into an adjacent interrogation room. Travis, nodded, followed, closed the door and put the phone on speaker.
“You said big …” Luis hesitated. “I got something for you.”
Sitting on the bed in his one-room, third-floor apartment on the Southside, Luis Acero leaned over, holding the phone tight against his ear, whispering. His eyes darted around the small room as if someone might have crept in a while he slept, waiting to catch him ratting.
Esteban Moya’s warning at Eruptions had given him a case of the shakes. Worse, Bautista Ortega—The Bull himself—had noticed his presence. A lump of bowel-loosening fear settled into his gut.
He found a dive bar on the way home and had a drink to settle his nerves. One drink turned into many. He drank until Ortega’s stare faded from his memory. Then he cabbed it back to his apartment, stripped to his undershorts, collapsed on the bed, and slept through the day.
He was awake now, shivering on the edge of his bed, goosebumps on his thin, bare chest. He sat hunched over the phone, wearing nothing but his dirty gray tighty-whities.
“Spit it out,” Travis said impatiently.
Luis looked at the yellow stains down the front of his shorts where he had not quite managed to open his fly before taking a piss at the bar the night before. He took a deep breath.
This might get him paid him up with the cops for a long while, but if Ortega found out he was a rat, he would disappear from sight. There was a street legend that El Toro chummed the waters of Lake Lanier, taking the body parts of those who had betrayed him out on his boat and dumping them overboard to attract fish. Luis believed the legend.
“This could get me killed. You got to be careful.” Luis’ said, his voice barely audible.
“Why the whispering? Where you at?” Travis looked up at Sole, eyebrows raised. Luis had something, and it had him scared shitless.
“Shit, I’m whispering ‘cause I don’t wanna fucking die, man! That’s why.” Luis looked around the apartment. “Home, man. That’s where I am. What difference does that make?”
“None. What do you have for us?” Travis spoke quietly now, trying to calm their informant.
“I was at Eruptions last night … the club over on …”
“We know where it’s at,” Travis said. “Speak.”
“Well, I … I sort of saw …” Luis struggled to force the words from his mouth.
“Let’s have it, asshole!” Sole said, losing patience with the jittery informant
“Who this?” Luis said pulling his head away from the phone for a second, startled by the new voice.
“You know who it is.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah. You that hard-ass white cop. Put the black dude back on.”
“I’m here,” Travis said, grinning at Sole.
“You said you wanted something big. I went to the place where the people that do the big shit go. Thought I might pick up something to get you the fuck off my back.”
“Did you?” Travis asked.
“Yeah … yeah, I did … I think so, anyway.” Luis paused, standing to part the slats on the window blinds, peeking out at the street below. In his mind, each passing car held a band of El Toro’s thugs, coming to bind him with duct tape, throw a blanket over him and cart him off to some secluded spot where they would start slicing off parts of his body.
“Gonna have to do better than that. ‘I think so’ doesn’t cut it, Luis,” Travis said. “Let’s hear it, and we’ll tell you how whether you’re paid up.”
“You know this man, Ortega … Bautista Ortega?” Luis asked.
“El Toro … The Bull.”
Sole and Travis exchanged glances. Actionable information on Ortega might get Luis paid up for a long while.
“What about him?” Travis kept his tone indifferent, masking their interest.
“He was there … at Eruptions.”
“That’s not news. We don’t have any charges on Ortega now. He did eighteen months on an assault charge a couple of years ago, but that’s it, and there’s no law against partying at a club. You’re gonna have to do better.” It was time for a little tough cop. “Stop fucking wasting our time, Luis. I think we’ll just end this and drop a dime on you with the narcs. They can go check out your little corner drug mart.”
“That’s not all, man,” Luis whined, lowering the blind slat and stepping away from the window. “He was there with someone.”
“Who?”
“White dude. In a suit … he didn’t belong there … kinda dude that should be having drinks in the lounge at the Ritz, not a club … not at Eruptions.”
“Still, not good enough, Luis,” Travis said, his voice tinged with mock regret. “I think our association may be coming to an end.”
“Wait!” Luis’ voice rose in pitch, pleading. “The thing is …” He hesitated. “Thing is they was talking about the supply coming in.”
“You heard them talking?” Sole asked, leaning toward the phone.
“Naw, not me, but I was told what it was about.”
“Who told you?”
“Dude named Esteban.”
“Esteban Moya?” Sole and Travis looked at each other. Moya was known to them and every other detective in the city.
“Yeah, that’s him. Works for Ortega.”
“We know him,” Travis said. “So, Moya told you this white guy in a business suit, who didn’t look like he belonged at Eruptions talking to a drug lord, was discussing how to bring illegal narcotics into the States. That about sum things up?”
“Yeah … yeah. That’s it.” Luis sighed over the phone, relieved that they understood. “I’m paid up now … right?”
“I’m not feeling it, Luis,” Sole said.
“Why not? This is big! A white dude dressed like that talking to Ortega about running drugs … that got to lead somewhere.”
“Or nowhere,” Travis said simply.
“I’m telling you … this is my world … the street … I know what feels right and what don’t. You got to believe me,” Luis pleaded. “You had to see the look in Esteban’s eyes. This was big. They didn’t like that I saw the white dude there. Fuck, if it wasn’t a public place, they woulda stuffed me in the trunk of a car and slit my throat.” His voice rose in pitch. “Shit, they still might!”
Travis punched the phone’s mute button. Luis peeked out the blinds to scan the street once more.
“What do you think?” Travis looked at Sole.
“Like you told him, might lead somewhere or nowhere.” Sole nodded, thinking. “Still, he’s right. It is suspicious … straight-laced looking white male meeting with El Toro. One thing is sure. Luis is shitting himself that they might be after him, and that makes me think there could be something to it.”
“Agreed. That’s no act. We have to check it out.”
Travis unmuted the phone. “All right, Luis, we’ll check it out.”
“That means I’m paid up now, right?”
“Maybe. We’ll be in touch.”
Travis disconnected the call. Luis stared at the phone in his hand for several seconds. Fucking cops. Be in touch, my ass.
13.
Death and Life—1998
It was the call. He might have stayed in the Marine Corps if it hadn’t been for the call.
Staff Sergeant John Sole grabbed the mail from the box outside his Kaneohe Bay Marine Corps Base housing apartment, unlocked the door and dropped it on the coffee table. First things first. He unbuttoned his uniform shirt as he walked, went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge.
Brew in hand, he plopped on the sofa and picked up the TV remote, flipping the channel to ESPN. A boring discussion about tennis was in progress, but the attractive female anchor held his attention for a few seconds.
After a minute, he dropped the remote on the cushion beside him and reached for the mail, flipping through the envelopes in quick succession. All junk. He had expected nothing else. The only letters he received were from his mother.
He kicked his shoes off and leaned back, one arm behind his head, sipping the beer and admiring the woman on the television talking about tennis, a sport with scoring that totally confused him. He was just drifting into a nap when the phone rang, and his world changed forever.
He reached for the phone and sat up. “Sergeant Sole.”
“Sergeant John Sole?” There was a pause before the husky voice with an unmistakable Georgia drawl continued. “From Cassit Pass, Georgia?”
“Yes.” John looked at the phone display and saw the Georgia area code. “What’s this about?
“This is Detective Gerard with the Winscombe County Sheriff’s office, and you are John Sole, son of Clara Sole?”
“Yes!” He was fully alert now, erect and taut. He rose from the sofa, the phone clamped to his ear. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry to have to inform you that your mother has passed away.”
The walls seemed to close in around him. He stood staring but seeing nothing.
“Sergeant Sole? Are you there?”
“Yes,” John whispered. “How? She was only …” His voice trailed off.
“It was unexpected. A neighbor hadn’t heard from her for a few days and stopped by to check on her. The doctor said it was a heart attack, unusual for a forty-six-year-old woman without a medical history, but not unheard of.”
“I talked to her two weeks ago. She seemed fine. I was going to call this past weekend, but we were out on training maneuvers. I don’t …” He squeezed his eyes, blinking to clear away the tears that clouded his vision.
“I understand,” Detective Gerard said, and then waited in silence, giving the young Marine time to process the information.
He had made more than a few death notifications throughout a thirty-year law enforcement career. They were never easy, but he had learned that silence was better than filling the air with unwanted words.
Seconds passed before John spoke. “What … how do I handle things?”
“We can help put you in contact with a funeral home to make arrangements. If you can come home, it might be easier, but if not, we can take care of things over the phone. Do you …” Gerard hesitated. “Is there someone else? Another family member … someone we should call who is closer to home?”
“No.” John’s answer was abrupt and emphatic. “No one.”
His father disappeared from their lives twenty-five years earlier. In all that time, he had done nothing, made no contact, provided no support, had been nothing more than a blank space in their lives.
Clara told John that Monty Sole was the only true love of her life, that war changed him, that he was good and kind, but somehow,
he got lost. One day he would return to them. She never allowed John to speak ill of his father. Out of respect for his mother, he never did—to her face. But in his heart, a deep hatred burned for the man who had abandoned them on the day of his son’s birth.
A cloud of anger darkened his face. He shook his head and said. “There’s no one. My grandparents passed several years ago. I’m coming home.”
***
Two days later, he was in Cassit Pass on a thirty-day family emergency leave. The funeral home had handled all the arrangements by the time he arrived. He picked a simple casket, as his mother would have wished, and then stood near it during the viewing, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with his mother’s friends.
There were a lot of them. Cassit Pass was not a large community, but many of those in attendance were unknown to him. He never realized how few people he knew in the place he called home, or how many his mother knew and called friends.
An uneasy idea crept into his mind as he greeted and accepted condolences from the never-ending line of mourners. There might be more of his father in him than he cared to admit. His mother had often said it to him
Billy Siever stepped forward and took his hand. “John, it’s good to see you.” He nodded at the casket holding the remains of Clara Sole. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He had not seen or spoken to Billy in the eight years since the day Judge Burlson gave him the option of enlisting or going to prison.
“You look good.” Billy patted the shoulder of the Marine Green Class A uniform coat. “Filled out some too,” he added with a smile.
“You too.” John smiled and nodded at the slight bulge of belly pushing Billy’s suit jacket open at the waist.
“Too many beers.” Billy patted his stomach with a grin. “Bad habit I picked up at UGA.” He looked around at the line waiting behind him. “May not be the right time, John, but don’t be offended if I say when this is all over, I’d really like to have a beer with you … sort of catch up.”
“I’d like that.” John nodded.
“Good.” Billy smiled and moved away.