by Frank Perry
don’t have to prove anything. When my man in Kansas came up a little short, he went floating headless down the Missouri River. But, that was a wrong assumption on my part.
“When Cleveland was short, I figured it wasn’t a coincidence, so he’s still alive. But that leaves you. I figure you been skimmin’ for ‘bout a year now.” Mojo walked closer to Chavez, who continued to stand defiantly.
Chavez knew he would be killed if he did nothing. He yelled something in Spanish over his shoulder and his men all bolted for their trucks for their weapons, but an alert younger man screamed something else, and the men all stopped. Mojo’s men just watched in amusement, ready to fire if any of them picked up a gun.
Chavez turned and yelled vindictive slurs at the men behind him; then he waved his arms at all of them, screaming for them to obey him. They didn’t seem to know what to do, and the young man calmed them all down. Most were panic stricken, but froze in place.
Mojo and his gunmen stood fast, expressionless, letting Chavez exhaust his energy. When none of the Mexicans in the gang moved, Chavez started to run toward the nearest truck, but was stopped by a bullet in the small of his back from one of Mojo’s men. Chavez fell in the dirt with one hand gripping the wound. Some of his men ran behind their trucks but did not try to fight. Mojo and two of his men walked up to Chavez, lying on his stomach. One of the men handed his gun to Mojo who knelt down beside Chavez, facing him. “Luis, we had a deal, and I paid you well, and this is how you repay me? It gives me no pleasure to kill you but I have to show an example. I know you understand.”
Chavez didn’t speak or cry. He just hissed and showed hatred as Mojo shot him in the back of each knee. Chavez finally cried out, but there were no tears as two of Mojo’s men used a nylon tie wrap to bind Chavez’s hands behind him. They turned him over, facing the sun. Chavez tried to squirm, but it was useless against the restraints with two legs severed at the knees. Mojo said something to one of his men that the Mexicans couldn’t hear. The man pulled a larger wrap from his pocket and placed it around Chavez’s neck. The fat Mexican tried to twist left and right to resist him. Then Mojo’s man pulled it tight, lifting Chavez off the ground momentarily. They all stood around as Chavez’s eyes bulged, and his face turned bright red. Even with two legs blown apart, he was able to roll and squirm. When he rolled into the shade of a truck, Mojo had his men drag him back out into the sun, torturing his eyes. The pain of being pulled by detached lower legs was excruciating, but no sound came from Chavez as the blood vessels in his neck turned purple trying to push past the garrote. He stopped moving after a couple minutes, and probably died a few after that, but no one was looking at him as Mojo signaled all of the remaining gang to come stand around the body together.
“I want you all to understand what happens to people who steal from me. Luis was a good friend for many years, so I was merciful. I won’t be so easy and quick if any of you cross me. I’m putting this man in charge of the gang now.” He looked at the young man who took control when the others panicked. What’s yo’ name, boy?”
“Philippe, Jefe.”
“Okay, all of you. Philippe is now is now in charge. If any of you disobey him, steal from me, or try to leave the gang, Philippe will get instructions from me on how to deal with you.”
“Do you all understand?”
Philippe asked, “Jefe, they not all speak good English. Can I tell in Spanish?”
Mojo nodded. He knew they all got the message, but wanted Philippe to show he was in charge.
Minutes later, Chavez’s body was thrown into the bed of a truck and covered with an old tarp. He would be buried in the desert after dark. Mojo and his entourage left for the return trip to Los Angeles, stopping at the first carwash along I-80.
The trip back to Los Angeles was boring looking at farmlands throughout the Imperial Valley for hours. Al-Zeid wanted to rest after a hard day. He never liked killing, especially if it was someone that he had depended on for so many years while his business grew. Oh well, times change, and he was still expanding, so more improvements in his people would be made.
His mobile phone rang, and it showed an area code 415, the Bay Area. He answered cautiously. “Hello.”
Her voice was unfamiliar, “Is this Mr. Al-Zeid?”
“What you want, lady?”
“Mr. Peña would like to talk to you, please hold.”
There was a very brief pause, then, “Mohamed, how are you?” His voice was familiar.
“Oh, Luca. I don’t want to disappoint you, I’m fine.”
“Well, my friend, I was hoping that would be the case.”
“Why you callin’ me, Luca?”
“I have a business proposition for you. Can we meet?” It would be a very foolish error to discuss “business” over the phone.
Mojo responded, “Maybe I could meet you. Where?”
“You want to come to San Francisco?”
“No. You want to come to LA?”
“I don’t think that would be smart.”
Mojo answered. “I have an airstrip in mind in the desert with no hiding places. We could meet there. You, me and pilots only.”
Luca responded, “How will I find it?”
“You depart south tomorrow at twelve o’clock, and I’ll text coordinates to you.”
“Alright, Mojo, but no tricks.”
“You have my word, Luca.”
The House
Hunter awoke alone at six o’clock in the morning. Laura had stayed through dinner then took her suitcase back to her apartment. She wasn’t going to live her life scared. He rolled out of bed and stretched. A faint blue haze was just beginning to show outside his bedroom window. He never pulled the blinds down, to let in the sun if he overslept. He never did oversleep, but it was his way of insuring against it. He was getting out of shape, for him, which he hated. He’d been a fitness fanatic since high school and taken it to an extreme level in the military. He had maintained that level faithfully with the Border Patrol until taking the state job and moving to Washington. He was still in better condition than any civilians his age, but it was hard to maintain a workout program whenever he travelled back to California. He only succeeded to work out three times in the last week.
He loved the quiet piece in the mornings. He put on his swim trunks, tank top and running shoes before making the bed. The bedroom and his office, the other bedroom, were both on the second floor. Downstairs, he drank a large glass of orange juice before stepping outside onto the sidewalk, beginning his stretching routine.
The morning air was refreshingly cool, much nicer than it would be in two hours when the sun rose higher. He started his run at a slow pace, west on King Street, heading in the general direction of I-395. The first mile sloped gently uphill until he passed Ivy Hill Cemetery then flatted for the next mile and a half to the Washington Sports Club. At the midpoint of his run, just past the cemetery, he increased the pace to a sprint, raising his pulse rate to one-thirty. It took thirteen minutes door to door to reach the club. He began slowing near the parking lot and was walking when the double glass doors opened automatically. The desk manager said, “Hi Hunter, missed you yesterday.”
“Hi, Cindy. I got a little distracted yesterday.”
“Is it swimming or machines today?”
“I’m gonna swim.” He alternated programs each day. There were gyms closer to his apartment, but WSC had an Olympic-size pool with six lanes. He could get a dedicated lane this early in the morning. In the men’s locker room, he stripped off the shirt and walked through the shower, into the pool enclosure. The chlorinated air was refreshed continuously and separated from the rest of the facility.
The water was around eight-two degrees, just as he liked it. Cool enough to remain energized, but not cold enough to sap energy. There was an oversized timing clock midway along the sidewall that he used to pace himself. It took exactly twenty-four minutes to swim one mile.
&n
bsp; He passed back through the showers and towel-dried before putting on his shirt, leaving the club. The run back was slightly faster, owing to the down-hill last mile. In total, the workout took one hour, opening his front door before seven-fifteen. He showered and ate breakfast before eight. He felt totally invigorated.
At eight-fifteen he called Leigh, who was doing laundry and watching her baby attempt to crawl. She welcomed the respite when Hunter called.
After pleasantries, he began, “So, tell me about Congressman Romanoff from Ohio.”
“He should be an easy ally, Hunter. Cleveland has one of the worst drug problems in the country. The Governor and mayor are draining the state’s treasury, arresting everyone. Their jails and state prisons are stuffed to capacity. Criminals are being released back on the streets, even murderers, because of overcrowding. Romanoff is very senior in Congress and on both Ways and Means, and Appropriations. He’s been vocal about the need for drug education and treatment rather than harsher criminalization. He gets re-elected by large margins. As a Republican, he’s not afraid to go against the party line and promised his voters to stop the gestapo crackdown in Cleveland -- his words. The best way to do it would be to decriminalize drugs and switch to a workable plan.”
“Okay, who should I see?”
“His LD (Legislative Director) is Michelle Hicks. Call the main office number and ask for Michelle. She’s
