by Guy Johnson
Elizabeth set down her wineglass. She looked Jackson directly in the eye and asked, “Will you stand up to them?”
Jackson gave her a questioning look and asked, “Why is this one particular component of this much larger, complex problem so important to you?”
“Because there is a possibility that you will be important to me and I want to know how you’ll react. My father was killed by organized crime. Part of the reason I joined the police was to follow in my father’s footsteps. Another reason was to take as many of these people off the streets as possible.”
Jackson put down his bread and paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “I don’t have such a clear sense of right and wrong, or even whether I wish to take a side. You see, my grandfather would have been one of those you would have wanted taken off the streets, and his enemies aren’t necessarily good people either.”
“If you decide to stand up to them, I may want to help you. If we work together, we may be able to incarcerate all of them.”
“That’s a little premature at this point. But I’ll tell you one thing: If I stand up to these people, I may have to kill some of them. Are you ready to help with that?”
Friday, June 25, 1982
Julius Castle Restaurant sat high on the precipice of a hill above San Francisco’s Embarcadero. It catered to a select clientele that was prepared to pay top dollar for exquisitely prepared dishes, top-notch service, and a beautiful view of the bay. Julius Castle was popular during the lunch hour. The main dining room was usually full, but there were various alcoves which could be reserved if the customer was known to tip well.
This was where Braxton had chosen to meet Franklin and he was pleased with his decision. The alcove he had chosen had only one table and a large picture window which looked northeast, past Richmond and Mare Island, toward the mouth of the Sacramento River. The Bay Bridge and Treasure Island framed the right side of the view, and a rich, dark purple curtain, which fell in ripples from a valance of the same color, framed the other side. Only people passing by the door could see who occupied the alcove. It was public enough, yet it afforded privacy. A waiter appeared noiselessly and after a quick review of the wine list, Braxton ordered a bottle of champagne. He settled back to wait for his guest.
From the moment Franklin entered Julius Castle, he was impressed. From the thick, padded carpets and the quiet clink of glassware to the large pictures hung in ornate frames, the restaurant emanated an ambience of money and opulence, the two things of which he was always in pursuit. The waiter led him to the alcove in which Braxton was waiting.
Braxton waved him expansively to a chair. “Glad you could make it.”
“If it’s business, I’m there. If it’s in the ballpark, I want to play,” Franklin answered as he sat down.
“What if it’s out of the ballpark, do you still want to go on?”
Franklin stared at Braxton before answering, trying to determine exactly what Braxton was referring to, or whether he was just making conversation. Franklin didn’t like trick questions and his tone indicated that when he said, “I don’t join losing sides and I don’t play losing hands.”
Braxton smiled at Franklin’s cocky indignation. Franklin reminded him of a bantam rooster who owned the barnyard at sunrise but, when the dogs came out, was quiet and still. “Have a glass of champagne,” Braxton suggested, offering to pour some into Franklin’s glass. “Sometimes,” he continued with a philosophical tone, “you have to play the hand you’re dealt, even if it has no face cards.” He filled Franklin’s glass and set the bottle back in the bucket.
“Maybe it’s a question of tactics,” Franklin countered. “Maybe it’s a question of bidding four low, like in whist.” Franklin felt he was participating in some sort of competition that he had to keep up at all costs.
“There’s a limit to the number of four low bids you can make over the span of a lifetime.”
“I don’t know about that,” Franklin answered, searching for a counterargument. He took a drink of his champagne and then continued, “I’ve had some pretty good runs myself and I’ve been lucky so far.”
Braxton spoke without enthusiasm, “Then let’s toast to your good fortune, and may it continue.”
Franklin stopped with his glass midway to his mouth. He hesitated briefly, trying to determine if there was any innuendo in Braxton’s words. He took a long sip of champagne and set his glass down gently. He looked at Braxton and asked, “What are you talking about?”
“I was merely toasting to your luck.” Braxton raised his glass. “It doesn’t last forever; that’s why they call it luck.”
“Then that applies to you too!” Franklin retorted with irritation. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had taken on a threatening tone.
“Yes,” Braxton replied. “But a wise man always seeks to supplement his luck by making wise decisions. I have supplemented my luck many times over. I’m prepared for most eventualities.”
“What are we meeting about, Braxton? I mean, really?”
“We’re talking about you getting control of King, Inc.”
“And suppose I don’t go along with the way you want to make this happen?”
The waiter appeared and asked for their lunch orders. Franklin ordered the most expensive item on the menu just to spite Braxton. He didn’t like the tenor of the conversation and he didn’t like Braxton. Franklin waited for an answer to his question.
Braxton poured more champagne for both of them. When he set the bottle down, he said, “That depends on whether you make yourself an obstacle or not.”
“What do you mean, ‘an obstacle’?”
“That’s really quite a good question. An obstacle would be anyone who thwarts or hinders the people that I represent from getting their just due.”
“After thirty years, it’s kind of hard figuring out exactly what is their just due.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. You’ll have the controlling interest of King, Inc. That’s more than you could have expected, if we weren’t involved. Isn’t that true?”
“Just how are you going to get my cousin to give up his claim?”
“That won’t be any concern of yours, as long as you have King, Inc.”
“It’s a concern of mine, especially if I’m going to be on the likely-suspects list.” Franklin rubbed his thin mustache. “You know, if anything happens to him.”
“In the unlikely event that something should happen to your cousin, I assure you that it will be of an accidental nature and as a result, there will be no suspects.”
Braxton said the words so calmly that it chilled Franklin to his core. If it was going to be so easy for them to remove Jackson from the scene, why wouldn’t they come after him as well? Franklin drained his glass and the waiter refilled it. He suddenly realized that he was over his head. He was totally unprepared to negotiate with people who were prepared to kill to get what they wanted. “What guarantees do you offer?” he asked quietly, continuing to rub his mustache meditatively with the tips of his fingers. “How do I know that I won’t be next after Jackson?”
Braxton smiled broadly; it was obvious Franklin was frightened and the heart had gone out of him. “Mr. Tremain, do you think that we are barbarians? That we force our will on innocent people? I only mention the remote possibility of your cousin having an accident should he desire to prevent the acquisition by the rightful owners.”
“I still don’t know what makes your people the rightful owners,” Franklin said querulously. He was beginning to feel the effects of no breakfast and two large glasses of champagne. “Why didn’t they collect earlier when my grandfather was still walking the streets?” Franklin drank down the rest of his champagne. He was afraid, but he felt compelled to say something. “I guess they were scared of him?” Franklin glared at Braxton and said nastily, “I bet you were too, huh? I bet you would never have climbed out from under your rock if the old man was still walking around.”
Braxton contained himself
and kept his smile as he said, “Your grandfather has many enemies who are still living and in good health; you should be careful that you don’t get too closely associated with him. You might become the object of their attention.” Franklin’s eyes widened in response, but he said nothing.
The food arrived steaming on heavy silver trays. Braxton ate with gusto and kept up a conversational banter that centered on the respective failure and success of the Giants and 49ers. Franklin ate mechanically, barely tasting the stuffed lobster. He kept up his end of the conversation with monosyllabic answers and grunts. When lunch was finished, Franklin mumbled his good-bye and walked away hurriedly, leaving Braxton still sipping his champagne.
The meeting was a success for Braxton. He had determined beyond a reasonable doubt that Franklin posed no threat and that he could be immobilized by either his greed or his fear. As long as ownership of King, Inc., was waved in front of him, he would probably behave. Of course, the threat of the mailed fist must be consistently and clearly implied to extinguish any potential sparks of disobedience. Another benefit derived from the meeting was that Braxton now had the necessary link within the Tremain family that he would need in order to facilitate his assumption of control over King’s financial assets. Although the money meant little to him, he had decided that he would have his fair share of it despite the threat posed by the DuMonts and DiMarco. All he needed was a bit more information.
There remained questions concerning the other grandson. Was he like his cousin? Was he a calculating coward, or did he have fire burning in his belly? Was he truly King’s heir, or would someone else crawl out of the woodwork? The next few weeks would reveal all. The truth was that Braxton did not really expect effective resistance from Jackson; it was only his sense of caution that caused him not to be, well, positively confident. The likelihood was that he wouldn’t present much more of a challenge than Franklin.
Braxton smiled and lit a cigar. All he had to do was wait for King to die. If he couldn’t find the certificates, he would persuade his relatives to snatch the two grandsons. They would conduct their ghoulish form of questioning and find out exactly where the certificates were hidden. Then, if things went according to plan, DiMarco would be eliminated along with Tree. After obtaining the necessary signatures to transfer ownership of the certificates, both Jackson and Franklin along with other family members would follow King into the grave. Braxton knew his own relatives would be sloppy and leave a lot of clues, while his fingerprints would be on nothing. A few discreet, well-placed leaks to the authorities would remove them from the scene or at least get them on the run. He would put a huge contract out on their heads, which eventually would leave him in control of everything. Then and only then would Braxton have his vengeance. He would have wiped out King’s descendants, assumed control over his empire, and rid himself of the yoke of the DuMonts. He tapped the ashes off his cigar and drew in a breath of the sweet, acrid-tasting smoke and then exhaled slowly. He sipped his champagne and thought, Life is really going to be wonderful.
July 1956
In the hot afternoon sun a yellow, mange-ridden dog walked slowly across the empty square and found a cool resting place in the shadows of a two-story stucco building. Across the square, a stout, black-haired woman with reddish-brown skin opened the rickety shutters of her second-story apartment and screamed, “Miguel! Miguel, venga aquí!”
Miguel did not answer, and except for the irritating drone of the flies, all was quiet. The doors and shuttered windows of the businesses and apartments that faced the square were closed. There were no people on the street. The old yellow dog was the square’s sole occupant.
On the roof of the building adjacent to the woman’s apartment, ten-year-old Jackson sat. His brown skin was covered and protected from the blazing sun by a heavy woven serape. A straw sombrero covered his kinky hair. He sat very still in accordance with the instructions he had received. His duty was to signal the coming of the strangers. In an alley off to his right stood four men waiting for his signal. He did not turn, nor acknowledge their presence. He had been taught to wait in absolute stillness. The scolds and slaps of previous summers had developed his control to perfection. He did not even move to wipe away the sweat which was running into his eyes.
From the corner, down the street to his left, he heard voices: raucous, drunken male voices, laughing and carousing. Three men appeared. As they drew nearer, it was obvious to Jackson from their accents that they were American.
The woman came to the window again. This time there was panic in her eyes. She looked up at Jackson, but he did nothing to acknowledge her presence. She peered down the street at the approaching men and many expressions crossed her face, the first of which was painful resignation, as if she realized that it was too late to call again, but the last and most enduring expression was hatred. It was the mask she wore when she closed her shutters on the passing men.
When the men were abreast of him, Jackson stood up. He took off his sombrero and waved it at the men, saying, “Hola, señores!”
The men, caught off guard, looked up at him simultaneously, their pale faces reddened by the sun. One of the men shaded his glance with a hand. To Jackson it looked like a sloppy military salute. The man and his companions never had an opportunity for another reaction. They did not even see the men rushing from the alley until the first was in their midst. A savage fight broke out. It was three against four, and the four had machetes in scabbards which they wielded like clubs. The fight was over in minutes. The three men were subdued then their arms were tied tightly behind their backs. Once again the square was silent. No one had opened a door or come to the aid of the men.
Jackson left the roof to join the attackers. When he got to the street, the three men were being led down an alley away from the square by their attackers. As he started to follow the group, his grandfather, still carrying his machete, turned and cut him off.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I was going with you, Grandfather,” Jackson responded with surprise.
“You’s too young for this part! You done what I wanted, now git!”
“Can’t I wait for you, Grandfather?”
“Boy, didn’t you hear me say git?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Jackson answered obediently.
His grandfather turned away without another word and walked rapidly down the alley to join his comrades.
Jackson stood watching the thick, muscular torso of his grandfather dwindle in the distance. When the men were out of sight, he was left standing in the square alone. He knew better than to disobey his grandfather, but he had no place that he wanted to go. He stood until the sun forced him to move. By the time he crossed the square, the small stores and shops began opening their doors. The owners nodded at him respectfully as he passed and continued his way along the sun-baked cobblestone streets.
He did not concern himself with the fate of the three norteamericanos. All he knew was that the Chavez family had been avenged and that these three men would never rape anyone else’s teenage daughter.
Friday, June 25, 1982
A steady breeze came off the Alameda estuary, blowing leaves and scraps of paper eastward, the detritus of anonymous lives. The charcoal sky was filled with large, dark cumulus clouds that rolled before the wind like huge dumplings boiling in a pale gray fluid. The surface of Lake Merritt was covered with ripples, moving in ranks like liquid soldiers, marching west to east to die upon the banks of Lakeside Park. Elizabeth Carlson was not concentrating on the weather. She was focusing on getting a full breath and coordinating the movements of her arms with her legs. She was in the last quarter of a mile of her three-mile run around the lake. She was turning the corner onto Lakeshore Drive and she had been gradually increasing her pace as she neared the end of her run. She kept her knees high and lengthened her stride. Her heart was pumping. Her chest was heaving. Her arms were swinging back and forth. Sweat ran down her face. She was running nearly at full speed and was n
ow concentrating solely on her footing and her breathing. Her running companion and friend, Diane Holloway, was just behind her. It had been Elizabeth’s intent to leave Diane behind, but Diane would not accommodate her. She could hear Diane’s footsteps right behind her. A pain was beginning in Elizabeth’s chest. Her breathing was getting labored. Still she kept up the pressure. She squeezed out a little extra speed. She began to pull away from Diane. All she had to do was to run to the stop signal at the intersection of Brooklyn and Lakeshore. She forced herself, despite the pain, to run the remaining distance at top speed.
She was leaning against a lamppost when Diane caught up to her, waving her finger at Elizabeth and mouthing words she was unable to say because she was out of breath. Elizabeth wanted to laugh, but she was too busy concentrating on catching her own breath. She bent over and rested her hands on her knees. After a few moments of deep breathing, Elizabeth had recuperated. She leaned down slowly and touched her toes with her knuckles, stretching her back and hamstrings. She stood up and said to Diane, “I see your new manless regime hasn’t made you any faster.”
“Maybe not, but I’m a lot healthier,” Diane replied as she checked her makeup in a small mirror which she had taken out of her fanny pack. After making what small corrections she could, she snapped the mirror shut and looked up. “Hey, let’s catch this light!” Both women scurried across Lakeshore before the light turned red and walked up half a block to Diane’s apartment building, which had a broad lakefront view. As they rode the elevator up to her third-floor apartment Diane asked, “Did you finish submitting all that paperwork for the apartment upstairs?”
“Yes. That’s what I meant to tell you over the phone. I’ve got it. The manager called me this morning.”
Diane rushed to hug her. “That’s great! Now I’ll have me a running buddy as a neighbor. Since neither of us has the burden of men in our lives, we can get together for drinks and dinner on a regular basis now.”
