The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  Blackhawk was sitting on a bench at the far end. Just beyond him was a wall of lockers. As I started across the open space, he stood and walked to a specific locker. He stood facing it. I came up behind. Shielding our movements from the cameras, we slipped the rubber gloves on. He unlocked it. Inside was a package wrapped in plastic. There were also two more keys. He palmed the keys and without turning, he slipped the package into the duffel while I held it.

  I followed as he stepped sideways to the next locker. Using the new key, he opened it, and there was a similar package. We slipped it into the duffel with its brother. He slid sideways to the next locker. Again, there was a package. Now the damn duffel was heavy. No more keys.

  I zipped it up and slung it over my shoulder. He went left, I went right. I kept my head down and away from the cameras. I went by the adorned girl, and she didn’t even glance at me.

  A block down the street, Blackhawk relieved me of the bag. I gladly let him have it. He carried it to the car. We loaded it into the trunk, retrieved our stuff and climbed into the front. We sat there in silence for a moment. Finally, I started the car.

  “Where to?” I said.

  “Let’s head to the boat and talk over our new dilemma,” he smiled.

  It was full-on dark when I pulled the Mustang into its parking slot. We lay the duffel out on the ground as Blackhawk helped me cover the Mustang with its custom canvas cover. Danny gave us a ride down to the dock gate.

  Once inside Tiger Lily, I pulled all the blackout curtains and cranked the air. Even while the temperature was low, the air was stuffy. I opened the stern door and left the curtains back. The low lights of the marina twinkled across the ebony black of the water. I could feel the soft, cool, evening breeze.

  Blackhawk was in the lounge unwrapping the packages. Each one was the size of two shoeboxes. They were wrapped and taped bricks of $100 bills. Each brick had an attached adding machine tape.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “You betcha,” he said. “Counting money always makes me hungry.”

  “You count, I’ll cook,” I said.

  I pulled two steaks from the locker and put them in the microwave to thaw. I was low on supplies but I found a head of cauliflower I could trim the brown spots off of. I found some frozen peas and a frozen loaf of bread I had wrapped in clear wrap.

  While the meat was thawing, I made two Old Fashions. I always overfill them and had to sip mine to keep from slopping it. I slopped Blackhawk’s. I took it into the lounge and set it in front of him. He had a pencil and a slip of paper, and was into tallying numbers. His concentration can be laser-like. Without looking up, he took the glass and took a deep drink.

  I went to the galley, and started the vegetables to steaming. The microwave dinged and I took the mostly thawed meat out. I rubbed them with salt and pepper and let them rest while I fired the grill on the stern. When I came back in, Blackhawk was in the galley, fixing another drink. I put the bread in the microwave to thaw it out.

  “Look at this,” he said, holding up his hand, palm out.

  He had a fine dusting of some kind of powder on his fingers.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  He nodded. “Cocaine. The money is coated with it.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “You have a tally?”

  “Yeah. Little Diaz was optimistic. Unless there is more somewhere else, which I doubt. Or they spent some, which I also doubt.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred eighty thousand dollars. Even.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “That’s one shipment?”

  Blackhawk smiled. “Americans like their dope.”

  I picked up the steaks and took them out and put them on the grill. They sizzled when they hit. The vegetables were beginning to steam.

  I came back in. He was leaning back against the stainless refrigerator, sipping his drink. His dark eyes looked amused. I took plates and cutlery to the counter. I grabbed a couple of paper towels. I came back into the galley. He was watching me. I took the bread out and began slicing it.

  “You need money for anything?” I said.

  He shrugged, shaking his head, “Not really.”

  “New shoes for Elena?”

  “Elena has more shoes that Nordstrom’s,” he said. “How about you?”

  “I was going to paint the boat sometime this winter.”

  “How much does that cost?”

  “I don’t know. If Eddie helps, maybe two – three hundred.”

  “What do you want to do with this? Give it to Boyce?”

  “I just can’t see this sitting in an evidence locker.”

  “Yeah, somebody might steal it,” he said. “How about your Father Correa and his home for girls?”

  “He’s still good,” I said. “If we gave him more money, he would begin to worry where it came from. We’ll think of something,” I said.

  I went out to check the steaks. They were just right.

  56

  We were meeting Emil at Einstein Brothers, across from his office building. The sun was shining in from the big plate glass window, and the sky was cloudless. Driving in, the radio had said there was a ten percent chance of rain. In my time here, I have learned that this means one hundred percent chance of no rain.

  I was sitting at a table in the back, facing the door. Blackhawk was leaning against the wall across the room from me. We had the door in a crossfire. Wasn’t sure we needed to, but seeing as Emil was bringing Emilio Garza with him, it seemed like a good idea. Blackhawk was wearing one of his million dollar suits. His shoes gleamed with polish. An adolescent boy could have used them to look up a girl’s dress. He was so relaxed, leaning against the wall, someone else might have thought he was asleep.

  Emil was late. It was mid-morning. There were a couple of college-aged kids in the corner. They were busy with their bagels and smart phones. It looked like they were, maybe, texting each other. A middle-aged man, with a dog lying beside him, was reading the paper. The dog was large and blond. He had his head on his paws and his big eyes were watching me. Whenever the man turned a page of the paper the dog looked hopefully for a falling morsel.

  I sat quietly, waiting. The kid behind the counter kept working without wondering why we didn’t buy anything. It was twenty minutes past the agreed upon time when the doorway was blocked by Emil’s immense figure. He came in, nodding at Blackhawk. He walked straight over to me. Following him in, and trying hard not to look nervous, was Garza. He was working on cocky and tried hard to swagger, but it didn’t seem convincing. Blackhawk stepped up behind them. Garza didn’t like that.

  I almost felt sorry for Garza. He had spent his entire life building up this tough, gang-banger image. The biggest element of his job was to be so badass and intimidating that all the minions that worked for him would stay in line. And then, you’re standing next to Emil and Blackhawk. Two genuine articles. Nobody tougher. Makes you feel a little small.

  “Fucker made me wait on him,” Emil said. Garza shifted uncomfortably.

  I stood, shrugging. “Not a problem.”

  “What’cha got,” Emil said.

  “Outside,” Blackhawk said. Without waiting for a response, he turned toward the door. We followed him. I was the last one out. I glanced across the street. Nacho was sitting on the stoop of an office building. He ran a forefinger down his nose. All clear.

  “Down this way,” Blackhawk said, leading the way down the sidewalk. We had parked the Mustang in a commercial lot, a half block down.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Garza said. Emil raised a hand to silence him and followed Blackhawk. Garza reluctantly followed. When we got to the Mustang, I thumbed the remote and popped the trunk. Blackhawk leaned in and pulled the duffel bag out. He did it effortlessly. He laid it on the ground.

  “What’s that?” Garza said.

  “Open it,” I said.

  He looked from me and Blackhawk to Emil, then leaned down and unzipped it. He pulled the sides ap
art to reveal the bricks of money. He straightened up and looked at me. He was perplexed.

  “We said we would get your money back to you.”

  He looked suspicious. He twisted his head around, looking for the surprise. He looked back to me. “The little shit Diaz is dead. You said you would get the money back if we didn’t kill Diaz.”

  “You didn’t kill Diaz,” Blackhawk said. “The cops killed Diaz.”

  “And Diaz killed your guy, Rojo. And Rojo and Diaz and another guy, name of Omar, were the ones that hijacked the money in the first place,” I said.

  “Rojo?”

  “Yes, Rojo. And now, all are dead,” Blackhawk said. “And you have your money back.”

  Garza stood looking from one to the other of us.

  “Pick up your money and get,” Emil said.

  Garza looked around again. He leaned down, zipped the duffel and struggled it to his shoulder. He walked away, listing a little from the weight.

  We all watched him.

  “Did you give it all back?” Emil said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Didn’t keep a finder’s fee?”

  “Nope.”

  He looked from Blackhawk to me.

  “You are two strange motherfuckers.”

  57

  It was late afternoon before I came west off the Interstate and angled the few miles to the marina road. I parked in my slot. I buttoned up the Mustang, covering her with the custom canvas. Danny ran me down the hill.

  Eddie and Pete Dunn were sitting on the bow of the 13 Episodes. They were in a couple of captain chairs, drinking beer from cans. Eddie looked normal: work shirt, work pants and the world’s nastiest, stained ball cap. Even the stains were stained. Pete wore a pale blue Polo shirt, linen slacks and loafers with tassels and no socks. They watched me walk down the pier toward them. As I drew abreast of them I could tell something was up. Eddie looked like the cat with the catnip.

  “How are you gentlemen?” I said. They were smiling. I wondered how many beers they’d had.

  “Waiting on you,” Eddie grinned. Pete stood up.

  “Got something to show you,” he said. “Come on aboard.”

  I stepped aboard. The sliding glass door that led to the lounge was wide open. Pete went in. Eddie waved me in ahead of him. Pete had remodeled. The last time I was aboard this boat it was called the Moneypenny. It had been owned by a cartel boss named Frank Bavaro. Now deceased. He had suffered at the hands of a fatal disease called double cross. The boat had been occupied by a beautiful woman. She had been the disease carrier. Cherchez la femme.

  Pete had put in all new furniture, including a wraparound leather couch. He was going to hate it in the summer. A flat-screen television was attached to the wall across from the couch. It was fed from a dish he had installed up top. He had new lamps, and new stools at the galley counter. The only thing I remembered from the old boat was the glass top coffee table. There was a rock glass on it with a quarter inch of liquid in the bottom. Left from last night. Pete sat on the couch, and Eddie waved me to a spot beside Pete. Next to the glass was a remote. Pete picked it up.

  “This was on the news last night. I recorded it.” He pointed the remote at the television, and the television made a clicking, humming sound. In a moment, the television came up. There was a soap opera on. The sound was down. The beautiful people mouthed words at each other. One pretty girl was crying. Another one looked defiant.

  He pushed some more buttons and a list of recordings came on. He selected one. He pushed the button to play. When he pushed the button his hand made a small movement toward the television. Like he was helping the signal along.

  My old friend Ronnie Hawkins showed. Pete raised the volume. Ronnie was speaking in his careful modulated way. His hair was perfect, his teeth bright. A guy not hard to hate.

  “…….in the newsroom just about one hour ago. We have to warn our viewers, the content of the video is disturbing and may not be suitable for younger children.”

  “How about old men,” Eddie said.

  The next image was a shaky blur, then settled to focus on a man in camo clothes with his face wrapped in a black cloth. Only his eyes were showing. He was holding a large knife in his right hand. His left hand held the collar of an orange jumpsuit. Inside the jumpsuit, kneeling, was Boyce’s old adversary, Calvin. Calvin was crying. Despite the cover-up, I was certain the man with the knife was Ali Ibrahim Atef. Atef was speaking. His voice carried a slight accent.

  “America hear my voice! You are soft. You believe you can sit in your soft lives and have your military push buttons and rain bombs on our innocent people. Kill our women. Kill our children. You think you can sit in your fat houses and believe you are safe. You are not safe. We are here. We placed the bomb in Sedona. Beware America, you do not know where we will strike next. There will be no more warnings like in Sedona. Praise Allah, we will have our revenge!”

  He jerked Calvin’s collar and you could hear Calvin sobbing. “This man is a traitor, and he will be dealt with as a traitor.” He turned the knife toward Calvin and the screen went black.

  Now Ronnie Hawkins was leaning forward, looking off-camera, apparently watching the video. He turned back to the camera.

  “It is important for our viewers to know that this station did not end this video at this moment. You have seen the video we received in its entirety. We did catch up with a member of the Homeland Security team that is investigating the bombing in Sedona.”

  The screen showed a close-up of a startled Boyce. She put her hand out to fend off the camera. You could barely hear her say, “Get that damn thing out of my face.”

  “There was no comment,” Ronnie beamed. “And there you have it.”

  Pete paused the video. I looked at Eddie and he was looking at me, a half-smile on his face.

  I tilted my head toward the television. “That make you happy?”

  He pushed me on the shoulder. “You recognize that boy?”

  “I recognized them both,” I said.

  “You know what this means,” Pete said.

  I leaned back on the couch, “It means you can, at least, probably get Billy out of jail.”

  “We can make a strong case,” Pete said.

  “Show it to me again.”

  I watched it again and this time I paid attention to the background. Behind them was desert. They were up high and there was a broad vista of cactus and scrub brush behind. There was something that made me itch. I made him show it to me three more times. I was looking for something. I couldn’t figure out what.

  58

  We waited until the next morning. Pete had a red Honda Pilot, and Eddie rode with him. I threw a small bag in the trunk, and followed in the Mustang. We drove up the Interstate as the sun crested the eastern mountains. We pulled into town an hour and a half later. It was too early for Attorney Taggart, so we went to our favorite Mom and Dad diner for coffee. We joined a half dozen people quietly sipping their coffee, waking up.

  The diner and parking lot sat elevated on a knoll above the main drag. We selected a booth next to the windows and watched the morning traffic slide by as we sipped our coffee.

  Eddie looked over his cup at Pete, “I’d still just as soon let you take over for that gasbag Taggart.”

  “Not that easy,” Pete said. “First of all, I’ve haven’t practiced law in a while, and definitely not in Arizona, so I’d have to make sure my license was up to date. Secondly, and more importantly, this is a small town and Taggart is a local guy. If I came barging in, who knows who he’s buddies with, and what kind of obstacles they could throw at us.”

  “We are on Taggart’s turf,” I said. Eddie shook his head, not liking it. “We can handle Taggart,” I said. He shrugged.

  The waitress came by and warmed our coffee without being asked. We lapsed into silence. Everything had been said the night before. We sat like that until Eddie couldn’t stand it anymore. Pete left a twenty on the table and we left.

 
We drove to Taggart’s but he wasn’t in yet. There was an old Chevy and a SUV in the lot in front of the barber shop. Through the plate glass window I could see the barber and the guy in his chair. I wondered if the barber was Dwyer’s dad. We parked on the other side of the SUV. I climbed into the back of the Pilot and we waited. It was after ten before Taggart pulled in.

  “Wait till he gets settled,” I said.

  We sat a few more minutes, then Eddie said, “Fuck this,” opened his door and stepped out. We followed. As we reached the front door Pete said, “Let me do the talking.”

  Pete led the way in. As before, the outer room was dusty and empty. Taggart heard us and stuck his head out. He smiled as he looked at Pete, then it faded when he saw Eddie and me.

  “Mr. Bragg, Mr. Jackson,” he said. He stuck his hand out to Pete. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Peter Dunn,” Pete said, shaking his hand.

  “Please come in, Mr. Dunn,” he said, waving us into the office. “I don’t have an appointment for a few minutes.” As we crowded into the small office he said, “Please, have a chair.” We arranged ourselves.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” he said.

  We looked at Pete.

  “I am a friend of Eddie’s,” Pete said. “I am also an attorney.”

  Taggart made a small noise. He leaned back. “I see. Where did you study?”

  “Stanford.”

  “I see. Excellent.”

  “I’m not here as an attorney. Just a friend. I’m just telling you this so you know.”

  “I’ll say it again, how can I help?”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “If you mean the terrorist beheading that unfortunate man, everyone has seen it. It is the only thing this town is talking about.”

  I leaned forward. “Has there been more video released? The video we saw didn’t actually show a beheading.”

  Taggart looked at me. “No, no, Mr. Jackson, you are correct. I don’t believe anyone has seen video of the actual beheading, unless it was the authorities.”