Target Down

by Glenn Trust

  They chuckled and sipped their coffee, staring vacantly at the passing throng of weekend shoppers. Like men castaway on an island watching ships pass in the distance, they hoped for the return of the one that would take them to safety and home.

  Meanwhile, in the bridal department of a well-known department store, an important debate regarding wedding attire ensued.

  “I’m just not sure,” Isabella said, looking at herself in the mirror outside the dressing room. “Maybe something simpler and less … white.”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. You look beautiful in that gown, and of course, you can wear white,” Vera said to Isabella and looked at Jacinta, adding, “You too Margarita. Forget that baby bump. It just makes you look more beautiful. For heaven’s sake, it’s the twenty-first century. Those old traditions are for … well, the old folks and neither of you qualify as old, believe me.”

  “So you think I should buy it?” Isabella said, looking in the mirror and smoothing the silk fabric over her hips.

  “I love it,” Jacinta beamed.

  “Heavens no!” Vera interjected. “We just started. Lots more shopping and more gowns to try on before you make a selection. This is just a warm-up stop to get ourselves ready for the game,” She beamed at them. “We’re in this for the long haul!”

  An hour passed, and then another. At noon, Billy suggested they order a burger for lunch as the cafe management eyed the coffee-sipping customers occupying prime table real estate on the concourse.

  “I could eat a burger,” Sam said. “Is it too early for a beer?”

  “Not for me.” Billy looked at Sandy, teasing.

  They ordered the grill’s famous half-pound burgers for lunch. Sandy drank a Coke while Sam and Billy sipped beers. When the server came to clear away the plates, Sam stretched and started to stand.

  “What’s the hurry?” Billy asked.

  “Thought I might go find the ladies … see what’s keeping them.”

  “What’s keeping them? You really have been a bachelor for a while haven’t you?” Billy laughed. “Sit down and relax. They’ll be a while.”

  Billy’s phone chimed. He carried two, his personal cell, and one for clients and his law practice staff to reach him.

  “We’ve got this young man as our designated driver if we need one, and judging by how long the ladies have been gone, we just might.”

  The call came in on the business phone. He looked at it, wrinkled his brow, and put it back in his pocket without answering.

  “Somebody you don’t want to speak with?” Sam asked.

  “928 area code. Probably a robo-caller.”

  “Arizona,” Sandy said between sips of Coke.

  “I’ll let it go to voice mail. For now, the ladies are not in sight and I’m having another beer.”

  Safe Words

  The trip through Flagstaff was a quick one. At first, he thought the city at the foot of San Francisco Peaks might be a washout, a waste of time, more an attraction for tourists, hikers, and skiers than a hotbed of gang activity and drug use. He was wrong.

  Exiting I-40 onto Old Route 66, he only wandered the street for half an hour before cruising through the Sunnyside district. The indicators were all present. Low rent housing, much of it dilapidated intermixed with blue-collar businesses—plumbers, contractors, body shops. Three blocks from an elementary school, he noticed three young men standing along the curb in front of a run-down house.

  As he watched, a car with three teenagers pulled up. The pass was quick, two of the men kept an eye on the street in both directions, while the third made the pass through the window and received the money. The transaction took no more than fifteen seconds, and the car left with the teens laughing and chattering loudly enough for him to hear as they rounded the corner and left the area.

  Good enough, he decided and fell immediately into character as he climbed out of the pickup. Head slumped forward with his chin almost on his chest and a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, he began his shuffling, ambling walk toward the three dealers.

  “Shit, man. What the fuck we got here?” The dealer who handled the drugs and money bent down to get a better look at his face.

  Sole stood up straight, pulling the Colt from his waistband as he rose to his full height. He smiled.

  “Afternoon, boys.”

  “Who the fuck you callin’ boys?” the dealer snapped back. “And what you think you gonna do with that? Best put that thing away before we shove it up your ass.”

  It was a good effort at bravado, but the dealer’s eyes never left the pistol. His two companions maintained a much less confrontational demeanor, clearly more intimidated by the yawning muzzle of the .45. Sole had their complete attention.

  One of the watchers said, “Shut the fuck up, Fonso. Man’s got a gun.”

  “He’s right,” Sole said. “Shut the fuck up Fonso.”

  “So what you want, cabrón?” Fonso said. “Money?”

  “Sure, I’ll take the money and whatever drugs you’re holding.”

  “The fuck you will!” Fonso glared at him over the end of the pistol.

  “I will.” Sole moved the pistol back and forth to encourage him. “Hand it over now or you won’t like what happens next.”

  Without speaking, Fonso pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. One of his watchers turned and pulled a plastic garbage bag containing the drugs from behind the front wheel of a rusted out car parked half on the sidewalk and half on the street.

  “Put the money in the bag.”

  Fonso grabbed the bag and shoved the cash inside.

  “Now put it on the ground.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you man?” Fonso shook his head in disgust. “You know who we are, what gonna happen to you?”

  “I know what’s gonna happen to you if you don’t do what I said.” He motioned with the Colt. “On the ground.”

  Fonso dropped the bag on the ground between them. “Now what?”

  “Run.”

  “The fuck you say. That’s bullshit. I ain’t runnin’ nowhere …”

  Sole raised the pistol so that the bore was inches away from a spot in the center of Fonso’s forehead.

  “Run.”

  The three men began trotting down the street.

  “Faster,” Sole called after them.

  They picked up speed. He waited until they had gone a good two hundred yards, turned and trotted back to the corner where he had parked his truck.

  It was a different approach, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. A white man taking their money and drugs was sure to draw the attention of dealers in the area. It wouldn’t take long for word to filter back to Los Salvajes. The tactic might even be more effective than leaving a dealer with a bullet through the brain.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was southbound out of Flagstaff on I-17 toward Phoenix, his next stop. As the sun was setting, he pulled off the highway and stood at a guard rail looking down into a deep ravine. After removing the cash and shoving it in his pocket, he gave the plastic bag a toss and watched the drugs plummet to the rocks below. When it hit bottom, he turned with a satisfied smile on his face and climbed back into the truck.

  Relaxed now, cruising along with one hand on the wheel, he took out his phone. He hadn’t checked the voice mailbox since leaving Albuquerque.

  There was only one message, and it came from Luis Acero.

  “We got to talk. It’s important. I’ll check messages every day until you get this.”

  Sole was no longer relaxed. He sat up, tense and alert. It wasn’t that Luis sounded nervous. Luis always sounded nervous. In his mind, Sole was still a cop, and he was still a snitch, and snitches were always nervous around cops.

  What concerned Sole was what the message lacked. It was a critical component, the one thing that should have been there, and Luis never mentioned it.

  When Luis had been an informant working with Detective John Sole in Atlanta, they always began each call with the words—It’s a
ll good.

  They were the safe words, the signal that they could speak freely. They had continued the practice after Sole left Atlanta and began wandering around the States to leave a trail for the cartel. Luis would never forget to say the words.

  If he didn’t use the safe words it meant one thing. He needed help.

  One Little Smile

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Señor Garza.”

  Roman Madera stood in the center of the cabin’s great central room. Garza sat at a desk before a window that looked out over the broad, green valley below. It was picturesque, a scene out of a magazine. The well-appointed cabin was, in reality, a mountain estate. Roman had purchased it from a retiring investment banker who cashed in to go live in the islands of the Caribbean.

  When Garza made it known that he required a private space to conduct his business, Roman offered it up. Garza moved in, took the master suite for himself, and relegated Roman to the role of butler and Luis Acero’s jailer. Roman did not object. He didn’t dare. After all, the money to purchase the cabin had come from his dealings with Los Salvajes, a fact that Garza would certainly remind him of if he dared voice an objection.

  “What is it?” Garza raised his eyes from the laptop on the desk.

  “I wondered … I don’t mean to inquire into your business, of course … but, I wondered how long we will be keeping the rat in this room.”

  “Why do you ask?” Garza leaned back, his cold eyes regarding Roman with the sort of empty interest that a cat looks at a mouse once it has become boring.

  “Only because, if you will want me to get rid of …” Roman swallowed. “If you want me to dispose of him at some point, I should make arrangements.”

  “No. We will need him for a while longer. I’ll let you know when and what arrangements you should make.”

  “Yes, of course.” Roman nodded and turned to leave.

  “Sit down.” Garza pointed to a chair beside the desk.

  “Certainly.”

  Roman slid into the chair, cursing himself for coming into the room. The last thing he wanted to do was spend more time than absolutely necessary with Elizondo’s enforcer.

  “I have been doing some research,” Garza began.

  He said nothing more, and after several seconds, Roman realized he was waiting for him to inquire into the research. He repressed an inward smile. Even the great Alejandro Garza, it seems, was given at times to a bit of drama. It was the first time he had seen signs of a chink in the armor that Garza used to cover his humanity.

  “May I ask about your research?” Roman said.

  “The number on his phone … the person who called to arrange the false identification for the woman.”

  Another pause and Roman said, “Yes?”

  “The number is for an attorney’s office in a place called Dahlonega.”

  “I’ve never heard of this place.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It is a small city in the north of the state of Georgia.”

  “So we … I mean, you … have found the person who made the arrangements for the false identification papers, which means …”

  “Yes.” Garza nodded.

  This time Roman could have sworn that a smile crept across Garza’s face. It wasn’t much of one, barely perceptible, but its brief flickering across his face revealed much about the importance of finding this man, John Sole.

  The number of people, men and women, sent from this world by Alejandro Garza in the service of Bebé Elizondo was a thing of awed conjecture. While the exact count was unknown, all of them had been sent coldly, efficiently, and without passion out of this world.

  All reports from those present at the murders made it clear that Garza killed with the same emotion that one might have in swatting a fly. It meant nothing to him, even less than nothing.

  But this, this one little smile, told Roman much. Finding Sole meant a great deal to Garza on a personal level.

  “Then this means …,” Roman began.

  “This means we need the rat, and I will require your services a while longer.”

  Shit! Roman fought to control the disappointment from showing on his face. He nodded politely.

  “Of course. I am always in your service, jefe.”

  The Hunter - An Unfaltering Eye

  Billy Siever’s desk phone intercom beeped. He had asked his assistant to hold calls while he reviewed the documents setting up a trust for one of his more prominent clients, one of the wealthiest citizens in the county and a member of on the county’s board of commissioners.

  When his lawyer hat was on, Billy had a tendency to be brusque with others. Today, he was under a strict deadline. He punched the button to answer the call with more than a little annoyance.

  “I asked you to hold my calls, Doris,” he said, his tone abrupt.

  “Sorry, Billy,” Doris replied unruffled, not one to take offense or be intimidated by abrupt tones, one of the key reasons she had lasted as his assistant for ten years. “It’s not a call. You have a visitor, Billy.”

  “A walk-in?” He sighed. “Have them make an appointment for later this week.”

  Muffled conversation filtered over the line, and he was about to disconnect when Doris came back on.

  “I’m sorry, Billy. He’s being insistent … said his name is Lamont Sole and to tell you that you know his son.”

  The papers dropped from Billy’s hand. He rose from his chair, strode across his office and jerked open the door.

  The man standing over Doris’ desk was not impressive. Billy figured he had to be in his seventies. Frayed blue jeans and work shirt, white hair brushing his collar, and a week’s growth of beard made him look more like a homeless person than the father of his best friend.

  He looked hard into the old man’s face. There was a resemblance. He could be John’s father, but so could a lot of other old men.

  “You say your name is …”

  “Lamont … Monty … Sole.” The old man nodded and held up the business card. “Derek at the bar gave me this. Said you might be able to help me.”

  “Come in and sit down.” Billy opened the office door wider and stepped aside. “Doris, hold my calls, please.”

  “Of course.” Doris adjusted her glasses in a business-like way that meant, mind your tone with me next time, mister.

  Billy closed the office door behind Monty Sole, indicated a chair in front of his desk, and walked around to sit across from him. He was quiet for several seconds, studying the man’s face. Then he asked the most important question. “How do I know that you’re who you say you are?”

  Monty sat erect in the chair, alert and attentive but not nervous. He had the posture of man who was there on business.

  “I have a driver’s license,” he said, pulling out his wallet. He placed the license on Billy’s desk. “Don’t know if that’s as much proof as you’ll want, but it’s all I have.”

  Billy picked up the license. “Arizona?”

  “Arizona.” Monty nodded. “Been living there for more than twenty years.”

  Billy pushed the license back across the desk. “You’re right. That doesn’t prove much.”

  Dealing with Luis Acero, setting up the new identities for Isabella and her family, he knew that obtaining a false identity was merely a matter of knowing where to look and having the money to pay. While this man’s financial resources were questionable, he did have the appearance of a street person who just might know where to look.

  “Fair enough.” Monty nodded calmly and asked. “You a good friend of my son … of John Sole?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Then you probably know something about his past.”

  “I do.”

  “Ask me some questions.”

  “What?”

  “Questions. You’re a lawyer. You ought to be good at asking questions. Ask me questions to prove who I am … or who I’m not.”

  “Alright.” Billy nodded. “What’s your birthday?”

 
“April 5, 1949.” Monty shook his head. “You can do better than that. That doesn’t prove anything. It’s right on that driver’s license I showed you. If I was an impostor, I’d be a fool not memorize that.”

  He nodded encouragingly. “Go on. Ask me some more questions. Just remember, I left when John was a baby, so I won’t have any answers about things that might have happened to him after that.” He smiled. “Except for one thing … something that made the papers. Seems he took a preacher’s car for a joy ride when he was a teenager, and he wasn’t alone. I believe you were there, weren’t you, Mr. Siever?”

  “I was.” Billy nodded. “But as you say, you found that in the papers where anyone could have read about it.”

  “True enough, so ask me some more questions.”

  Billy did. John’s date of birth, again too easy to discover.

  Clara’s birth date. The date of their marriage. All discoverable by someone who took the time to search. He needed more proof.

  “Where did you live with Clara and John?”

  “To be exact, I lived there with Clara mostly.” Sadness filled his eyes. “John was just a newborn when I left.”

  Monty described the small house on the mountainside in detail. The number of rooms, how they were laid out in the house, which way it faced. How you could watch the sun rise from the front porch and see it set from the back porch. He talked in detail about the surrounding landscape, the mountains and trails he wandered, where he would disappear to when he need to be alone after his return from Vietnam.

  Billy became convinced. The man before him was probably John Sole’s father. He asked the most important question last.

  “Why did you abandon your wife and child?”

  “Honestly, I’ve been trying to understand that all these years.” He looked up, tears in his eyes. “It was a terrible thing to do. I was afraid, I suppose.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what I’d become … of what I remembered.” He shook his head and looked down. “Of things I did. Felt like I couldn’t find a way to make it all the way home from Vietnam. Seemed like I was poisoning everything around me … Clara and then the baby, John. I couldn’t do that to them, so I left.” He gave a helpless shrug. “I know it doesn’t make sense. Nothing made sense then … or now. It’s just how it was … what I did … I have to live with that.”