by Glenn Trust
What he wanted to say was, yes, you little pissant! It’s been a long day. I want the fucking details! Don’t play coy with me. Without me, your dreams of riches, are just that … dreams.
What he said was, “Yes. Tell me.”
They discussed the arrangements he’d worked out on Ortega’s boat that afternoon. It was a simple plan but required careful management of the logistics. He asked a few questions then moved to the other related matter of importance.
“And tomorrow?”
“I have everything set for ten in the morning … made sure our usual friends will be present up front.”
“Good.” He nodded and looked out the bank of windows. The western glow had faded now, replaced by the city lights twinkling star-like all the way to the horizon. “If there’s nothing else …”
“There is one more thing,” Bettis said.
“What?”
“They wanted a meet with you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, no can do.”
He sensed the grin was back on Bettis’ face. The smug little bastard. “Good. That can’t happen.”
“I know. That’s what I told them.”
“And?”
“And they can live with it. I’ll be their point of contact in all matters. You will never be involved, at least not face to face.”
“Good. Stop by in the morning. We’ll go over together.”
He was ready to end the conversation and disconnected the call, asking no more questions. It was time for a drink.
He grabbed his bag and went to the master bedroom, tossing it on a chair as he kicked off his shoes. A minute later, he had changed into jeans and a lightweight pullover shirt. On the way back to the living room, he cranked the thermostat down so the air conditioning blew at full speed.
He stopped at the liquor cabinet, poured three fingers of bourbon into a glass and carried it to the bank of windows, sinking into an overstuffed leather chair. Eyes closed, he put his head back.
The events of the last few days passed by in a kaleidoscope of contrasting images. Bebé’s smooth face and Alejandro Garza’s hard eyes. The blue Pacific and green hills surrounding Lázaro Cárdenas. Elizondo standing tranquilly by the window while Garza strangled the life from Miguel Diaz.
The bourbon glow helped push the images away. Everything was in order, he told himself.
22.
Life Was a Blast
“Dad, are we Jewish?”
“What?” John Sole lifted his eyes from the morning news open on his tablet.
“Jewish … are we Jewish?” Fourteen-year-old Samantha Sole sat at the breakfast table, books stacked in a neat pile beside her bowl of wheat flakes and plate of buttered toast. Brow furrowed, she had the look of a person contemplating a profound philosophical question.
“Maybe.” Her father smiled, amused. “Do you want to be Jewish?”
“I don’t know.” Samantha shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Mind if I ask you why the sudden concern about it?”
“Just some things Grandpa Berman was saying last night. We went over to have dinner while you were at work.”
“So, what did he say?” John put the tablet down, leaned his elbows on the kitchen table, listening.
“Well …” Samantha looked up at the ceiling as she recalled her grandfather’s words. “Jewish tradition … law … in the Torah says …” She hesitated.
He patted her hand. “Go on.”
“Well, it says it’s not the father that makes you Jewish. It’s the mother.”
“This is true.”
“So Mom is Jewish, but you’re not.”
“Correct again.”
“So that means I am Jewish … right?”
“What did Grandpa Berman say?”
“He said I should talk to you about it. That he was just explaining things … letting me know my options.”
John smiled. Saul Berman was a wise man. There had never been any pressure to raise the children as Jews or anything else. All he wanted was for his grandchildren to know their heritage.
“Okay. So let’s talk,” Sole said. “I go back to my original question. Do you want to be Jewish?”
“Sometimes I think I do,” Samantha said and then added quickly. “Not that I don’t want to be like you too, Dad.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Sam.”
“It’s just …” Samantha folded her hands on the table and looked at them solemnly. “It’s just that we don’t have your family around. Grandma Sole …” She hesitated. “Well, I never knew her. She died before I was born.”
“You would have loved her, Sam.” He his hand on his daughter’s. “And she would have loved you no matter what choice you made.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He nodded. “It’s your choice, so you decide. If you want to be Jewish, then that’s what you should do, but be sure. It’s not something to decide on a whim.”
“I know.”
“Jews are a proud people. They have a right to be. They’ve been persecuted. People have tried to kill them, but they take it all and find a way to overcome. That’s a pretty strong heritage, and any father would be proud to have it as part of his family.”
“Okay.” Samantha contemplated things for a few seconds, quiet, the way she did when thinking through complicated problems.
He watched her, wondering what he had ever done to deserve the children that had come to them. Then he remembered. It was Shaye. She had given it all to him. Children, family, love, a home, everything that made him whole.
“Can I ask you something else?” Samantha said, her brown eyes serious. “I’ve heard things.”
“What things?”
“Things about Jews.”
“Oh.” John nodded. “I see.”
“Not very nice things,” she went on. “That Jews are dirty and cheap like Ebenezer Scrooge. That they are cowards, and sneaky.”
“Well, let me ask you some questions then,” John said. “Is anyone in this house dirty?”
“No.” Samantha shook her head. “Mom wouldn’t tolerate it.”
“How about cheap? Is Grandpa Berman cheap?”
“No.” She looked up thinking. “One time I was with him, and he stopped to buy breakfast for a man with a sign at a corner.”
“How about cowards? Think your mother is a coward?”
Samantha laughed. The idea of Shaye afraid of anything was too ridiculous to consider.
“Anyone sneaky in this family?” John asked.
Again, Samantha laughed. “No. Everyone around here always knows what everyone else is thinking.”
“Right.” His face hardened for a moment. “As for the assholes who say those kinds of things about Jews, they can go to hell. They’re idiots.”
Shaye walked in trailed by Bobby just as he finished. “Watch your language with the kids, John.”
“Oh, Mom.” Samantha shook her head. “Dad was just telling me about the people who say bad things about Jews.”
“Oh,” Shaye patted John on the shoulder, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Those people can go to hell. They’re all assholes.”
Breakfast ended, and the kids went off to catch the school bus. Samantha kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the talk, Dad.”
“Welcome. Have a good day.”
“See ya, Dad.” Bobby waved.
“Bye, Big Guy.”
The kitchen door slammed behind them. Silence settled over the house as Shaye sat down at the table, sipping her coffee.
“What’s on your agenda today, Detective Sole?” she asked peering at him over the top of the cup.
“Gonna go in later. We’re trying to follow up on a tip from a CI, but it’s going nowhere. Might hang out at Eruptions to see what we can see.”
“The night club?”
“Yeah. Word is some out of place white dude met with a suspected drug lord there.” He shrugged and picked up his cup, gulping down the last of the lukewarm coffee
. “Didn’t fit the profile so there might be something to it … or the CI might be playing us. Either way, we need to put it to bed and move on.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“How about you?”
“Same old stuff. Afternoon shift at dispatch.”
“Afternoon, huh?” He placed the coffee cup back on the table. “Does that mean we have a little private time to … maybe time to firm up our marital relationship?”
“Detective Sole, are you propositioning me?” Shaye said grinning as she stood. “Follow me.” She reached out and took his hand, leading him to the bedroom. “I know just the place to firm things up.”
Afterward, she dozed against his shoulder while he stared at the ceiling, contentment washing over him as he thought about his family. The talk with Samantha had surprised him. She was becoming an adult, and he couldn’t help feeling it was happening too fast.
Bobby was still young though. He’d never known a happier boy, mostly thanks to his mother. Bobby’s perpetual grin broadcast to the world the pure joy of just being. Rain or shine, to Bobby, life was a blast.
He smiled. It was another lesson from his children. Life was indeed a blast.
23.
Good Drama
Wilson Bettis knew his place. It was clear from the way he walked two paces behind his boss and one to the side.
He didn’t mind though. He would soon be wealthier than he could ever be after a lifetime of service as the chief aide to Senator James Sillman.
They rode together in the black limo Bettis had arranged for the event. Seated beside the senator, the short trip from midtown passed in silence. On arrival at the Georgia State Capitol, the driver pulled into a secured private entrance away from the press and visitors.
The senator exchanged pleasantries with the few dignitaries waiting for them, then proceeded along a back hallway to an elevator and up a level to the main floor under the rotunda. Bettis peeled off to one side as his boss strode alone to the center under the dome.
Cameras held on the shoulders of their operators whirred. Flashes lit the room in bursts like miniature novae exploding in their faces.
Those gathered had been promised a major announcement. To underscore its importance to the State of Georgia, the senator would meet with them here and not under another capitol dome six hundred and forty miles to the north.
Members of the media, other politicians, and invited guests leaned forward, curious and expectant. Senator Sillman beamed, pointing here and there to a familiar face, giving a wink to one, mouthing a greeting to another, sending unspoken messages but saying nothing.
He took his place in the precise center of the rotunda, standing alone under the vast expanse of the dome, two hundred thirty-seven feet and four inches above. All eyes focused on the lone figure, erect, distinguished, a god in this small universe. He spoke.
“Thank you all for being here. I wanted to address a topic today that has become a plague on our society. It affects Georgians as much as it does the rest of our great country. That is why I came here, back to my roots, to my home to share with you my thoughts and make an announcement.”
Except for the soft hum of the video cameras, the crowd remained silent. Reporters leaned forward speaking into their personal voice recorders or making notes.
“It is no secret. The sale, distribution and use of illegal narcotics affect every corner of our state. They destroy families and kill our children, robbing them of their futures. Efforts in the past have done little to curb the spread and availability of these poisons. Almost every American family …” He paused and looked into the cameras. “Every Georgia family … has been exposed to them at some level.”
Jaw set, eyes sincere, his voice took on a determined tone. “Any school child can find access to illegal narcotics.” His head bowed, lips turned down in a grave expression of sorrow. “Sadly, many do.”
It was classic Sillman, a master at manipulating the emotions of his listeners. The mention of the children had heads nodding around the rotunda. After all, who doesn’t love children? A problem that plagues them must be eliminated, and James Sillman, the savior of children, was just the man to do it.
“I, for one, am not going to stand by. I intend to do something about it.” His voice took on a good ole boy tone. “With your help, we are fixin’ to put a whoopin’ on those who think they can break our laws and poison our youth.”
Smiles spread through the crowd. Heads nodded. Sillman was one of them.
“I will not stand by any longer.” He slammed his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. “That is why next week I am introducing a bill on the floor of the Senate of the United States that will target and eliminate the drug traffickers. We will do more than give it lip service. No more talking about a war on drugs. We are going after the enemy, and we will defeat him … bring him to his knees until he screams for mercy.” He pointed a finger at the crowd, jabbing at them with each syllable he spoke. “But there will be no mercy. We will accept nothing less than the total destruction of those who would murder our children with their poison.” He lifted a fist to show that the final victory over drugs was in sight. “We will win!”
Sillman turned to stride from the rotunda as the voices of reporters called after him.
“Senator Sillman, can you tell us more about your plan?”
“Senator, give us some specifics about the legislation you are introducing!”
“Senator, what makes your bill different from the war on drugs Nixon declared in 1971?”
“Senator …”
Hands raised, the media turbulence crashed around him like a storm. As Sillman waded through the crowd, the waters settled in his wake, and some of the more skeptical media representatives tried to decipher what they had just heard. Looking at their notes to decide what they would report back to their respective news publications and networks, they realized he had said nothing new.
Drugs certainly were not new, and the so-called war on drugs was not new or of itself, newsworthy. A few were already thinking maybe that was the story, that this was another political stunt by a seasoned politician to garner votes and fill the media void with drama in order to remain in the spotlight.
Wilson Bettis stepped forward from the side and raised a hand. “Ladies and gentlemen. Senator Sillman has another pressing engagement, but he wanted me to tell you that all of your questions will be answered when you see the bill he brings forward in the Senate next week.”
“Do you know what’s in it?” A reporter from a local radio station called out.
“Thanks for your time today,” Bettis said and turned to follow his boss.
By the time he made it to the elevator and down to the VIP entrance, Sillman was seated in the back of the limo. The engine was running, and as soon as Bettis had climbed in, the car moved down the drive and out onto Capitol Square to merge with traffic.
The Senator from the Great State of Georgia leaned back in the seat, loosened his tie and smiled.
“How’d it go, Wilson?”
“Masterful.” He smiled at his boss. “Left them with more questions than answers but put you at the front of the anti-drug fight. A lot of the press will want specifics, but specifics won’t matter so much to the public. They want to see the man out front, and that’s what you gave them.” He nodded. “It was good drama. Everyone loves good drama.”
24.
I Knew It
The rumble of street noise from busy Ralph David Abernathy Boulevard rose and then ebbed like a tide as the door swung open and shut. Mid-morning sunlight accompanied the sound, flooding into the dark interior of the bar, forcing Luis Acero to squint.
Crouched over a tumbler of cheap whiskey he turned his head to the side to see who had entered. It was no one, at least no one he knew. That was good.
The beer and booze joint was not one of his regular hangouts. He’d been avoiding those for the last few days. In fact, he had been avoiding everyone and anyone who might let Esteban Moy
a know they had seen him. He had no idea if Moya was looking for him, but Luis was not one to take unnecessary chances.
He held no illusions about himself. He was a rat, and he knew it. He accepted being a rat the way the scurrying rodents in alley trashcans did. It was their life. There was no reason to question why they were rats. They just were, and they lived with it. The dilemma was he didn’t know if Esteban Moya knew he was a rat.
Had the fucking detectives figured out who the white dude in the suit was? Had they confronted Ortega and Moya? Would Moya put two and two together and figure out that Luis was the rat?
Too many questions. Best thing for his ass was to lay low like the alley rats when the cat is prowling.
The cops could take away his street corner livelihood. Moya would take his life if there was even the slightest concern that Luis posed a threat to him or to Bautista Ortega.
It wouldn’t even take a deliberate thought. A simple passing remark by El Toro, a slight irritation while Esteban was taking his morning shit and the word would be out. Luis would be history and his spot on the corner taken over by another dealer.
Luis would simply cease to exist, and no one would ask questions. No one would dare. Then business would get back to usual while what remained of Luis became dinner for the fish in Lake Lanier.
Huddled out of sight in his apartment, he eventually ran out of booze. Then he ran out of cocaine and pot. After several jittery hours peeking from his apartment window, he decided it was safe enough to go out and get something to calm his nerves.
That’s how he ended up in a bar he’d never heard of before, in the west side Mechanicsville district of the city. It was far from his usual turf, and he felt safe enough to sit and have a drink, and then more drinks.
Even so, he cringed every time the door opened. The old woman who had just entered shuffled around the bar in a bathrobe and slippers to sit in the dark at the far corner.
She must have been a regular. Without speaking, the bartender poured a tall glass of bottom shelf gin and sat it on the bar in front of her while she scratched under her arm and then down the front of her robe.