“By using your mind, you must become a part of the stream. You must become the water, the rocks, and the green growing within. Then the fish will become confused. He has a short memory. He thinks to investigate the intruder, but all he finds are the elements that make up his home. When he swims around you, he cannot see you. Nor can he sense you. When he touches your hands, he can only feel that which makes up his universe.”
“But when I move, he detects me.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. It is one thing to become a part of the stream. You must also convince the fish that you are a part of the stream. The fish communicates with his environment. It protects him. It feeds and sustains him. When the fish has come within your reach, you must talk to the fish through the medium of his environment. He will feel comforted and safe. He will not feel or detect the movement of your hands, believing that it is only the water that is moving. When you have the fish in your hands, you cannot hesitate. You must cast him out of the water as fast as you can. In this way, you spare his anxiety in sacrificing his life as well as the possibility that he will tell the other fish that a man-thing is in the stream seeking their lives.”
Buster put his hands in the water, while White Wolf watched with a new insight. He could feel the water changing. His brother’s hands, to his eyes, were plunged deep into the stream. But his own hands and arms told him that after a momentary change in the water, there were no intruders and changes to the stream. The fish that swam between his brother’s hands also sensed no danger or change to his environment, and before he realized his mistake he became a part of the evening’s meal.
The third day provided a six-point buck. It took nearly three hours for them to track, surround, and finally kill the deer with a single bullet passing through the animal’s heart. Startled, it had taken a half step forward before it fell heavily onto the earth. While his Uncle was field-dressing the animal, his brother asked, “Who was the lucky person who killed the buck, who’ll take the first bite of the liver?”
White Wolf said, “I guess I am the one. Pass me the liver.” He received the organ from his Uncle and quickly took a bite of it before passing it around to his family. The meat was very tasty, still warm from the body to which it had belonged.
A portion of the meat of the buck supplemented their fare while in the woods as they hiked back towards the village, taking their time and enjoying the company and the natural surrounds of the wild. But White Wolf was no longer interested in just enjoying the freedom of being one with the Earth. He had found a new challenge that he was resolved to master. He spent many hours each day after the camp had been established in the various streams they encountered, attempting to learn how to become one with the fish’s world. On the seventh day, he was finally rewarded for his efforts, and he proudly displayed two fish for their parting meal before they entered the village.
BACK IN THE room and in the present time, McLeod opened his eyes and smiled. He silently offered a prayer to his ancestral spirits, especially his personal spirit guide, to give him the guidance he was seeking.
It is common for all families to keep secrets—their closet skeletons—not only from the outside world but from other family members as well. Even families like his Uncle Luigi’s had their secrets, which they closely guarded from revelation. Whoever among them knows these secrets become invaluable sources of information to the seeker or the investigator.
“You must become one with their world.”
But therein lay his problem: getting close to these sources. He was the outsider in the world of the Mafioso, and therefore, deemed a threat to the criminal’s universe. If he were to be successful and infiltrate the dark environs of crime and corruption, he would have to prepare himself to become just as invisible and a part of their environment as when he had been fishing and confounded the fish. He would have to know how to become a fixture that would not be noticed until he landed the perpetrator or perpetrators of this foul scheme that already claimed the life of not just one of their own but the countless lives of people addicted to the dope they imported without regard to the damage and destruction they wreaked against mankind.
HIS TEAM ARRIVED shortly thereafter. Just in time, he thought, as he stood up and refreshed himself. Charlie brought with him a map of the East Coast of North America and had tacked on additional maps of the east coastlines of Central and South America to flesh out his presentation. He had painstakingly plotted the known course of the last voyage of the Marta, circling each known port that the Marta had visited. He had also drawn a circle around an expanse of water off the coast of Florida because the transit time through this area took longer than it should have, supporting his hypothesis that the vessel had stopped somewhere enroute to Boston. Charlie surmised that the suspected off-loading of the missing cargo probably occurred in this area.
This hypothesis presented McLeod with a minor problem. While it was a given that the Florida-based families certainly were involved in the smuggling and distribution of narcotics from South America, how were the warring families of New York, a fact which Uncle Luigi imparted, involved? Perhaps the clue to answering this question lay on the slip of paper, which his Uncle had conveniently left for him.
He handed the slip of paper to Tim and told him, “Find out everything you can about this guy.”
Tim asked, “You want the works, boss?”
“Does the bear shit in the woods?”
Tim just grinned toothily and shook his head. “You got it.”
“Chino, you got your bags packed?”
“Why? Where am I going?”
“Get down to Miami, and see if you can get involved with the docks, as a longshoreman or what-have-you. Stay loose. Don’t carry a gun. You must try to become one of the regulars. Don’t contact me; I’ll manage to contact you when I think you have had enough time to find out anything. In the meantime, I’ll be doing some ‘quiet’ work myself.”
Chino just stretched out his legs and folded his arms akimbo, and McLeod could detect a self-satisfied grin cross the man’s rugged features. Finally, something up his alley, something he could sink his teeth into.
“Charlie, I want you to go to New York and meet a lawyer I know. His hip is welded to one of the influential families. Tell him I sent you and that he owes me a favor. Pump him for all the information he knows about any trouble or falling out between the families, New York or otherwise.”
“Mary, why don’t you visit the Colombian Consulate when you get back to D.C.—and also the Norwegian Consulate,” he added as a second thought, “and see what you can find out about the ownership of the Marta.”
“What’s going through your mind, boss?” Tim asked curiously.
“Besides the possibility of there being a wide scale war between the families—or just quite the opposite—I’d like to get a better angle on what kind of contraband is being shipped into the States. That area Charlie circled is too damn close to Cuba for my sense of well-being. Cuba remains a sticking point in the President’s throat right now, and we’re all, the Russians included, still just a hairline from pulling the trigger that’ll leave this world just another burned out garbage dump in the universe.
“Besides,” he added cryptically, “it’s time we become part of the stream.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SYLVIA
MCLEOD RETURNED TO Washington, D.C. the following day and headed to his office ensconced in the Special District Attorney’s office the next morning. He had left his desk cleared of any files and papers before leaving for Boston, but a week’s worth of cases had piled up during his absence. He was at least grateful that his efficient secretary had laid out the incoming material neatly on the desk with summary notes paperclipped to each pertinent folder or correspondence. Her arrangement allowed him to quickly rifle through the stacks and place a priority on each for later perusing.
A “Message” note was taped to his telephone, dictating his first priority of the day: David Welsh wanted to see him at his convenien
ce, which meant that he was required to report to his office immediately. He telephoned his boss’ office and was told by the secretary that he should come right up.
Rank certainly had its privileges, and it was apparent as McLeod walked from his comparative cubbyhole to his superior’s office. If the taxpayer truly knew what they bought to keep the higher class of bureaucrats surrounded with opulence, they would have been justifiably outraged. He had to walk a fine line with the meager budget given him to conduct his investigations, and he felt the decadence around him an insult to the American people who had entrusted their public servants with power and authority to protect them, not to live extravagantly at their expense. Typical stupid White Man! he thought to himself, not for the first or the last time.
Welsh’s prim secretary ushered him into his superior’s office almost immediately and discretely closed the door behind her. Welsh was not a large man, sporting a heavy frame on a five-foot seven-inch build. Although he was mid-fortyish, vanity had forced him to dye his hair a darker brown than the lighter shade he had been born with to hide the creeping premature gray that insisted on total conquest. He was a bureaucrat to the core, having been promoted through the ranks during his more than twenty years’ service, and in that time he had amassed a considerable amount of power that caused both his peers and superiors to shudder a little in his presence or at the mention of his name. To McLeod, he was just another White Man, but he often wondered why the man had not risen higher than his current position, unless it was that same power that made others cautious of him and restrained him from climbing higher up the feeding chain.
“Sit down, Sam,” Welsh pointed to a plush chair with arms poised to face the center of his desk. He did not bother to stand up but seemed desirous to make the obvious point that he was displeased.
Sam sat down on the chair of inquisition, but he refused to be intimidated. He knew his job forwards and backwards, and he did not appreciate any interference from anyone, especially from a man with an overstuffed ego as Welsh. Others had tried to micromanage his operations before and had painfully learned the consequences of messing with this Indian. He was not about to compromise his principles now for this ass-kissing politician.
“You’ve been out on this case a long time, Sam,” Welsh declared, his tone underlying an accusation.
“I don’t like loose ends,” McLeod said simply.
“You started investigating Prescott?” Welsh’s eyes narrowed, and his nose flared slightly.
“Should I?” McLeod’s attitude was baiting, and he enjoyed watching his superior squirm.
“Just answer the question, Sam. Yes or no.” Welsh sounded tired.
“No.” McLeod did not care for the direction this conversation was heading, but he was willing to play along to discover the truth behind this façade.
“Well, don’t. And that’s an order. You don’t know how well connected this guy is. He goes all the way up to the top.”
“The President?”
“What did I just get through saying?” Welsh said angrily. “I said to leave him alone.”
McLeod shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever. I don’t see the relevance.”
“Look,” Welsh started over in a calmer tone. “The last thing I need—this office needs—is to have you start some half-baked inquiry into his activities. You’ll only stir up a bees’ nest, and we have enough Congressional oversight breathing down our necks as it is.”
THE “BEES’ NEST” comment stirred up a memory from his past. When he was seven or eight years old, his two brothers had yet to learn to leave White Wolf alone, enjoying every opportunity to pick on or harass their younger brother. Whenever their mother and father were preoccupied with adult business, the brothers would gang up on him and tried to pummel him into submission. However, he had a secret weapon: his affinity with animals and insects. White Wolf learned early on to simply run into his father’s apiary and sit between two of the eight hives contained therein. When his brothers ran in to drag him out, he would jiggle the two hives, alerting the bees of danger, which would then proceed to attack and chase the brothers out and away from the apiary. The interesting part about setting the bees on his brothers was that the insects never attacked him. They perceived that he did not represent a threat to them, and they treated him as one of them.
His father thought this odd as well, for he always had to wear protective garments whenever he entered the apiary. When he questioned his wife about White Wolf and his affinity with the bees as well as their curious behavior towards him whenever he collected the honey from the combs without any protective clothing at all, he was always told the same frustrating explanation: “He’s an Indian.”
THE REMAINDER OF the conversation with Welsh fared no better or worse for the restrained relations between the two men. Welsh said something about McLeod’s department needing to watch how it spent its budget, and it set the Marshal off. “We don’t want to be spending the taxpayer’s money needlessly,” he had counseled him. After that remark, McLeod did not remember another word of their meeting.
He returned to his office, the scowl that marred his face warning all who worked with and around him—and knew him—to avoid him for the next hour or so. He threw himself into his chair and leaned back, resting his head on his right fist. The last thing he wanted to do at this moment was work.
He doesn’t want me to investigate Prescott, he fumed. Why? There’s a connection here. Another damned loose thread. No, it’s the same thread, only it has now become not only more noticeable but irritating. Only the boss wants it to be covered up as if it didn’t exist.
He thought about it some more. Welsh had made a blunder, believing his authoritative bluster was enough to control his underlings.
Not on my watch, he decided, making a mental note to begin a background investigation on this high and mighty toady as soon as Tim was finished with his current assignment.
He heard the telephone ring at his secretary’s desk. She looked at him with a quizzical look on her face. He wanted to wave her off, to have her tell the caller that he was out. But he experienced a moment of intuition, as if a small voice in the back of his mind told him to take the call. Finally, he nodded, and his secretary patched the call through to his desk.
“Sam, Darling. It’s Sylvia.” McLeod recognized the pleasant, rich, heavy New York accented voice.
“Hi ya,” McLeod responded with a lilt in his voice, picking up on his part as if they had just suspended their playacting for the intermission.
“I don’t mind being stood up and all, Sam. But let’s not make it a habit.”
He smiled, visualizing her beautiful lips puffed up in a pout. “Sorry about that, Sylvia. I was called out of town.”
“Well, I’ll forgive you only if you agree to have lunch with me. I’ve just blown into town, and I’m hungry for some Italian.”
“Sounds good. How familiar are you with the city?”
“I know where Carlini’s Delicatessen is.”
“How about I meet you at—say—eleven-thirty?”
“You be late this time, lover boy, and the only thing you’ll see is my cute ass disappearing in the distance.”
McLeod hung up the telephone, his hand lingering on the receiver. Smart girl. She knew that all the Department telephone lines were subject to monitoring. It had been a long time, however, since he had heard so many code words worked into a simple, innocuous conversation between supposed intimates. He delved into the stack of work awaiting his attention with a lighter heart.
At eleven o’clock, he hailed a cab from the steps of the Justice building and directed the driver to the specified delicatessen, the trip taking twenty minutes. Sylvia arrived ten minutes later, punctual as ever, in a display of pomp and circumstance reminiscent of a young, popular actress of great fame. She looked as lovely as he remembered the last time they had parted company: five-foot six, a waspish figure with size thirty-six breasts, and a narrow face framed by long blond hair that gently care
ssed her shoulders seductively. She wore sunglasses to hide her perceptive, dark blue eyes. She flashed him a pretty smile and took his arm as they entered the restaurant.
Sylvia was Uncle Luigi’s niece, and she had also been his “first.” Of course, they were just kids when they tried fooling around. Both of them were pretty inept, and there had been no penetration, but they thought themselves very grown up and having fun doing something “naughty.” However, if Uncle Luigi had ever known about their experimentation, family or no family, he would have been dead.
McLeod chose a table near the back of the restaurant and out of the way of customer traffic to ensure a private conversation. He ordered for both of them and then settled down to business.
“Okay, Darling. What does Uncle Luigi want?”
“You used to be different,” she played with him, taking off her sunglasses and flashing her beautiful eyes alluringly at him. “I remember when you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“Different times, different situations.” He shrugged off her advances but his body and mind responded. She was not so much as a woman to have once but one to be kept safe in a back pocket someplace to cherish again and again whenever the urge presented itself.
Sylvia slipped off her shoe and ran her stockinged foot up Sam’s leg. He started and immediately suppressed the urge to reach across the table and choke the life out of her.
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