Broken Stern_An Ellie O'Conner Novel

by Jack Hardin

  “Hello. May I help you?” Her voice was as frail as her bones.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a name.”

  “Of course.” The lady slowly - like she was racing molasses and losing - nestled into a large black chair that rose up behind her. She placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose, raised her chin, and squinted into the computer screen. “What would the name be?”

  Ellie bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Frank O'Conner.”

  “All right, let’s see...” The mouse clicked, and she squinted through her glasses. “Ah, yes. It’s going to be…” She looked up at Ellie. “Would you like me to write it down for you?”

  “No ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Okay.” She turned her eyes back to the screen. “It’s going to be section thirty-six, row nine.”

  “Thirty-six. Nine,” Ellie repeated.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “Of course, young lady.”

  Three minutes later Ellie was sitting at the back end of the cemetery, underneath the extended branches of a mighty white oak. On the right, standing in the grass, a short concrete column displayed row number nine. Her heart ached behind her ribs, making it hard to move, hard to breathe, and her legs felt stitched to the seat, and she just wanted to turn the car around and leave.

  She took in a deep breath and exited the El Camino. Walking around the car she stepped onto the hallowed grass. The row was formed entirely of raised headstones:

  Lester Johnson, 1934-2013; “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”

  Renée Woodruff, 1950-2018; “The Best Wife A Man Could Have.”

  Bobby Lyons, 2011-2017; “God Bless our Little Slugger.” A baseball glove and bat etched into the stone, a small and sun-faded leather glove laying at the base.

  Justin Hetfield, May 5th, 2012-May 8th, 2015.

  Ellie’s heart sank even further, and she pulled her eyes away, scanning only the surnames: Dungey, Richards, Chesterton, Wrigley, Koch...

  O’Conner.

  Her feet and breathing stopped simultaneously. She stared, blinked. Frank O'Conner, October 3rd, 1956-September 9th, 2016; “On Earth You Toiled. In Heaven You Rest.” The gravestone, light gray marble with black engraving, sat on a polished marble base. Live sunflowers, only slightly wilted, sat in a bronzed metal vase on the edge of the base. She frowned, unsure who placed them there.

  Her mother was absent from this sacred place. She’d requested that her ashes be scattered across North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains where she and her husband had honeymooned. Ellie bent down, set her knees into the grass, and stared blankly at the name. She set her hand over the letters and slid her fingertips across each one. A tear glistened on a lower eyelid.

  “I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.” Words were trivial, impotent to reveal the deep ache that losing a parent brought. Half of her was mad at God for taking him so early; the other half thankful for such a decent man to miss. “I’m back home now. You should be here. It’s not really home without you, you know.”

  An emotional tornado hurled memories at her: Frank O'Conner tickling her before bedtime; fishing in the Sound; holding her after she broke her arm in a soccer game; teaching her to drive the El Camino down Highway 78, white-knuckled and pale as she nearly hit an ice cream truck. She longed to set her face on his chest and wrap her arms around him just one last time. A good father was like an old college sweatshirt: something you would come back to on the hard days. Death was malicious to disavow a proper goodbye.

  “Katie still won’t talk to me. I’m so sorry I didn’t make the funeral. I think, in some way, it’s taken me so long to come here because it reminds me all the more that I missed that day, that I couldn’t be here. I should have been.”

  A fleck of red caught her attention a couple rows down, and she lifted her swollen eyes. A tall man with white hair and hunched at the shoulders slowly made his way to a headstone and laid his hand on top of it. His body sagged, and Ellie could only imagine that he was visiting his wife.

  She stood on her knees, slid her fingers into her shorts pocket, fished out the picture, and looked at the image for the thousandth time. “I made a copy of this for you. It was a good day, remember?” With a trembling hand she set it on the cool marble, not yet warmed by the sun.

  It was her favorite picture of him. He was younger. He was sitting in the El Camino. One hand was on the steering wheel, one arm hanging lazily off the outside of the door. He was looking into the camera - not smiling - just cool and calm like all was right with his world. He exuded a cool confidence typical of James Dean. Ellie must have been about ten years old. They had made sandcastles on Sanibel all afternoon. His face held the anxiety brought about by the sudden loss of her mother, but it remained fresh and vibrant. To this day she didn’t know who snapped the picture. It didn’t matter.

  She shook her head angrily. Who drives a gas tanker with a portable DVD player on the dash? At eleven o’clock at night? Apparently some man named Ottie Huntington. She should have been home. It would have changed things. A thousand questions intent on increasing her guilt pulsed through Ellie’s mind. She pushed them back, remembering healing words Major had spoken to her a few months ago. “Guilt is a hot sun that robs us of the fresh breezes given today.”

  “I love you, Dad,” she whispered. She pressed her hands into the grass and stood back up. She wiped her face with the backs of her hands. And then Ellie O’Conner walked back to the car and a life without her father in it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cuba was an anomaly to him. Rich in culture but forever marred by the restrictive policies and human rights abuses of Castro’s regime. Ringo had arrived in Havana by boat early in the morning before being escorted another forty miles east to a private cove at Cárdenas. Years ago, when his shadowy career was just beginning, this large island nation had been the perfect launching pad for moving product into South Florida. And it still was for much of his competition. But the last couple years the choice to bring boats directly in from Mexico had proved most satisfactory. Ever since Hector had built him a few boats out of a radio-reflective fiberglass and had fitted custom covers over the engines, it had become much easier to avoid radar and thus capture. Cuba was still a favorite meeting place for César Solorzano, and, unlike Ringo, César preferred meeting face-to-face to discuss business. Coming to Cuba from Mexico posed a lesser risk for César than it did for Ringo. It was Ringo’s belief that the less he went out of the waters of Florida the better his operation stayed in the dark. On a personal level Ringo simply did not like the man. In Ringo’s estimation César had gotten as far as he had by sheer luck, not by ability. César had been childhood friends with El Toto. As four and five year olds they had played with sticks and mud and rocks in the small town of El Jícaro, located in the Mexican state of Veracruz. From ages six to twelve they worked odd jobs together around town - feeding goats, digging trenches, trimming trees, patching roofs - in order to provide for their younger siblings and single mothers. When they were twelve they were walking along a dusty road to make it back home for dinner when they were kidnapped by a crew who worked for a local drug lord known as “El Martillo.” The Hammer was the most feared man within two hundred miles, and in six months he had poisoned the boys’ minds against all that was good. Within a year they were hardened criminals, carrying out local executions for the feudal lord. César may have grown up with the most wanted drug criminal in the world, but he had failed to inherit his sense of leadership. Somehow, César had been appointed as the cartel's director of eastern maritime operations nine years ago, and Ringo had been stuck working with him. César, or rather Ángeles Negros, had, hands down, the cheapest and purest product to be had. They were the largest purchaser of what the Colombians grew and thus commanded the price.

  Both men stood on the aft deck of César’s Viking 92 Convertible sport fishing yacht, both of them staring into the clear turquoise water of the o
cean beyond, each holding a glass filled with ice and amber liquid. Tall ladies in bikinis holding mixed drinks mingled with them in conversation and laughter. A few of them, already buzzed at one in the afternoon, swayed loosely to the Mexican ska that shot out of the boat’s speakers.

  César stepped up to his American associate. He tossed out an open hand and swung it around him. “So, what do you think?” he asked. César enjoyed flaunting his wealth and the ten-million-dollar, ninety-two-foot yacht was his most recent toy. The luxury craft boasted an opulent interior design and was top in its small class of brands that poured everything into attaining seagoing excellence.

  “It’s a nice boat, César,” Ringo said. “Very nice.”

  “Thank you, Ringo. It is important that we take time to enjoy what we work so hard for.”

  Ringo took a long puff off his Opus X cigar and let the smoke swirl around his mouth before releasing it. “Please tell me you did not bring me to Cuba simply for a private party.”

  César’s smile slowly faded. “Come,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

  Ringo followed him inside the opulent salon and closed the door behind him. The salon was spacious and boasted a seating area with built-in couches, coffee tables, and chairs; a full dining area that seated eight guests; and a unique L-shaped galley, featuring five bar stools in front of a custom granite countertop. Wide windows were strung around the perimeter to give passengers a sense of the ocean’s nearness. César sat into a couch on the sidewall, and Ringo chose a chair opposite him.

  César was a man of average height. His legs were short but his torso long, so when he sat down it looked like he was taller than he was. His face was chiseled hard, his skin a rustic orange that hinted at his Mayan roots. Grey hairs peppered into his temples, and thick bushy eyebrows sat over his eyes, giving him a grave appearance that did not communicate with his personality. He, like his guest, wore tan shorts, leather sandals, and a button-down nylon shirt. Ringo wore a white fedora.

  “You are not having a good time,” César noted.

  Ringo smiled, playing the part. “I am. This is a wonderful ship you have here. You’re right; it is important to enjoy life. But you know how I feel about not being stateside. Meeting you here comes at a greater risk to me than it does to you. We have an understanding that we will not meet in person more than once a year. We did this back in March if you remember.”

  “Relax, Ringo. You are too uptight. It might help matters if you would ever choose to speak over the phone.”

  “I didn’t come this far in the business by making myself accessible to surveillance. No one even knows I exist. That’s the key to my success and my efficiency. The more often we have to meet means greater chances that my anonymity will evaporate. If the feds start looking for me, then you know this will mean that I end up moving less of your product, not more.”

  César shook a finger at him. “They know your shadow. Eventually, they will find its substance.”

  Ringo offered no reply. César was a fool. Who went into business like this with the expectation of being caught one day? Only those who ended up getting caught.

  “You have done very well,” César continued. “El Toto is pleased with your routes through Florida and up into the rest of your country. Your volume has been most impressive. I am pleased too.”

  Again, Ringo said nothing. He didn’t care what César thought.

  “I have asked you here for a specific reason. I want to ask you to begin to diversify your offerings. To put new products on your shelves as it were.”

  “An old conversation for a new day. Is that it?” Ringo asked. “You already know my stance on that.”

  “Of course, but I need you. Cocaine...is like a good beach to which people keep returning over the years. It is a reliable resort that we know will always have vacationers. We don’t even have to advertise it. It is purely a pleasure vacation. But heroin...heroin is like the prison that tourists get thrown into and never get out of. It’s not recreational. It’s a taskmaster that rules over them. A taskmaster that sometimes allows his prisoners to feel like he loves them. This means demand is always rising. The world we inhabit is hard; more and more people are seeking relief from their meager existence. Ringo, you know that I control Ángeles Negros’ maritime routes into Miami, New Orleans, New York, Rotterdam, and Genoa.” César extended a hand, palm up. “But you. You are my most reliant, my most trusted. And your volume exceeds what most of our associates get through Miami and at almost no risk of loss.”

  Ringo leaned back and crossed his arms. “Why do you think I’m your most reliable distributor?” He continued before César could answer. “It’s because, as I said earlier, no one knows I exist. I have moved your dust for over a decade, bringing in only yours. I don’t play both sides. I don’t buy from your competitors.” He nodded at him. “You’re my guy. I work with no other cartels or suppliers.”

  “And I thank you deeply for this.”

  “I know nothing about heroin. Can I bring it in? Sure. But I have no terminus for distribution. I have no one to trust on the backend. You know as well as I do that it’s a different market than cocaine. Different people moving it. We’re not talking street dealers who open up their proverbial trench coats and offer any product that could be desired. I don’t have a network in place I can trust. To do so would take a few years. I would rather stick to what has worked and what will continue to work for the both of us. You want to talk about moving more dust, I’m all ears. I’m all ears.”

  César leaned in and placed his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands. “I will be honest with you.” His relaxed confidence had diminished. His eyes were darker now, like they were pooling liquid anxiety. “El Toto has commissioned me to move more heroin into the southern U.S. He is getting impatient with the pace at which this is occurring. My European routes are strong…”

  Ringo thinks: That’s because they are not dependent on your acumen.

  “...and between Miami, New Orleans, and you in Southwest Florida, cocaine distribution is as good as it has ever been. I have much pressure on me to push more than just what the coca leaf gives us. We go a long way back, you and I. I was hoping I could count on you.”

  You’re one of the most powerful men in the world and yet you sit here whining to me about the consequences of your inability.

  “I was hoping you could do me a favor as it were. I am in a hard spot,” César finished.

  It’s because you are weak. You’ve been lucky to get where you are because of El Toto’s nepotism toward you. A Guerrero pack mule could run this side of the business better than you. You flaunt your women and your boat and your influence as if it were your genius that secured it. It’s your ineptitude that will lose it. Maybe you’ll lose it to me.

  “I can’t, César. I won’t. I don’t see why I should be the one to solve your problems. I have enough problems of my own.”

  César’s face tightened. “My problems trickle down to you. You are the fingers on my hand - the most faithful man I have in your country. That, as you know, is saying much. Very much,” he emphasized. “Finding people to get this product off my hands will not be a problem. Finding the right people is. If I don’t solidify the proper channels soon, I will be in hot water.”

  “It sounds like you already are.”

  The tension in the salon began to thicken.

  Ringo said, “I didn’t get where I am by playing around or catering to the whims and incompetencies of others.”

  “You are suggesting that I am incompetent?”

  He knew César couldn’t do anything to him. He was too valuable to him. “César, it is not my intent to offend you. We have been doing business together for a decade now, so you must know that I do things on my side of water my way. I consider it a compliment that you want me to help you build another side of your business.” But you disrespect me by asking me yet again to do something I have a clear position on. “Let me ask you this. When your runners get assigned the routes across
the Gulf, which ones do they want? Mine, or Cuba, or the Dom Republic, or Haiti? Honestly now. What routes do they prefer?”

  “Yours, of course.”

  “Why do you think that is? It’s the longest route. It’s the most vulnerable to radar.”

  César shrugged.

  He doesn’t even know. The Guerrero pack mule doesn’t even know.

  “Because they know I have my ear to the ground and know when the routes will be the safest. It’s because they know I have their back. I will never commission or sanction a run when there is a high chance of being intercepted, regardless of how urgent a shipment is. If they need safe housing when they’re stateside, I provide it for them. Not a roach motel. A nice spread with a stocked kitchen, pool, game room, and women. Who treats bottom-of-the-barrel runners like that? No one. That’s who. And I have spent much of my own money testing technology that will further insulate them from detection or being intercepted with product on board. That benefits them as well as myself. That is why Andrés wanted to leave Mexico and come work for me. He knows I’ll treat him right. You might try that yourself.”

  César nodded but seemed either interested or unimpressed. “You are direct,” he finally answered. “You might be cautious with such an approach.”

  Ringo ignored him. “Direct is the only way to get things done. You surround yourself with yes men. They are scared of you. They tell you what you like to hear.”

  César narrowed his eyes, slowly lifted a brow. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this.

  “Your leadership is based off fear,” Ringo continued, “and that doesn’t win their affections. It doesn't make them loyal.” Silence ensued while Ringo lifted the cigar to his lips, took a long puff, held the smoke in his mouth, and let it slowly curl out like charmed snake. “Do you read the Bible, César?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, I am not a presumptuous man. There is a book called the Proverbs. It is a... collection of sayings. Sayings that some would suggest are wise. In these proverbs, a man writes to his firstborn and says, ‘My son, give me your heart.’ He asked his son to trust him, to love him. This is leadership. So, I only ask those under my care to give me their trust and their confidence. I see no reason to lead from fear.”