by Guy Johnson
“Better say joe, ’cause you sho’ don’t know. There ain’t many left, I took care of that, but there’s one or two DuMonts left and maybe a couple of DiMarco’s boys still in the business. It was their fathers and uncles we had to deal with when you was eighteen, only they was workin’ with the Jaguar at the time. You ain’t got to worry about the main family of the DiMarcos. I hear they’ve gone legit. Movin’ into the political arena. They got too much to lose now to play this game. People following you is probably jes’ hired hands and paid guns. They in it for the money, but the DuMonts and some of the renegade DiMarcos want blood. And they won’t be satisfied with anything less than Tremain blood. I got a list of people for you to talk to and they gon’ give you the rundown on everything.”
“The DuMonts? DiMarcos? Who the hell are they? I don’t remember these names!”
“DuMonts is yo’ blood enemies. They been blood enemies to the Tremains since my granddaddy’s time.”
“What can we do to end it? This is why you haven’t seen me in all this time.”
His grandfather rasped out a hoarse laugh. “Ain’t no end to it as long as someone with will and grit remembers. It’s all about blood. They think it’s safe now. Then there’s others who just want the corporation’s papers and certificates, and them bonds.”
“What corporation certificates and bonds?”
“Jumped a couple money shipments back in the early fifties from the Mob. Money made from heroin sales in the Fillmore. Wasn’t about to let some white boys move in on my turf and sell that shit! They didn’t know who they was messing with. Anyway, I invested the money shipments in real estate and bought some twenty-five-year government bonds. Them bonds alone is probably worth ten million dollars now. The rest of the money I invested in real estate through a dummy management company. Company is based in Switzerland and it owns all my properties, including the ones in San Francisco, and seventy percent of King, Inc. I owns property all over the United States and South America.”
“If these bonds and certificates are registered in your name, and they are part of your estate, why are there other people interested in them?”
His grandfather answered, “My name ain’t on nothing, boy. You remember I had to leave the States in ’fifty-four? If I had anything in my name, the IRS would have taken it. I knew they was after me so a couple of years before things hit the fan, I sold all my holdings to this company I had set up in Switzerland.”
“What’s the problem? You have the company in Switzerland.”
“Problem is, there ain’t nothing with my name on it. The papers and documents is buried under a new housing project in San Francisco.”
For the first time since he entered the room, Jackson laughed out loud. “So, what’s the problem? It’s out of everybody’s reach. Why don’t you tell them where it is and let them fight it out among themselves?”
“Rather be bit in the ass by a snaggle-tooth mule and be dragged all the way to Mississippi!” The old man looked as if he was going to have another bout of coughing, but it subsided. “I’m gon’ leave you everything, whether you want it or not. Read the papers I had put together for you. Make up yo’ own mind what to do.” He started to cough again, his body shaking with the effort.
“Take it easy, Gramps,” Jackson advised. “Don’t upset yourself.”
His grandfather looked at him and said, “First time you ever called me Gramps.”
“You weren’t ready for it earlier,” Jackson retorted.
“Don’t know if I’s ready for it now.” The old man put his head back on the pillow and his voice dropped audibly as he said, “Gramps is what you’s called when you gets really old.”
Jackson studied his grandfather’s face then mused aloud, “You must be tired. I was wondering should I come back later tonight or tomorrow?”
“Come back tomorrow, late afternoon. Gettin’ dialysis in the morning. I likes to sleep after that.”
“What exactly is your medical situation, Grandfather?”
“Look here, boy.” His grandfather stared him in the eye. “I’s ready to die. They done everything that I want them to. Hell, I’d rather die hard, shot in the gut, than die piece by piece, lyin’ in bed like this. Tomorrow is the last dialysis I’ll do. The last anything.”
Jackson looked at his grandfather and shook his head. Most people would choose a natural death at an old age over one due to violence, yet his grandfather preferred a bullet.
He asked, “Can I bring you anything when I come tomorrow, Grandfather?”
“I want carnitas!”
“Are you sure that’s allowed on your diet?”
“What’s it gon’ do, kill me?”
Jackson laughed. “I’ll bring you carnitas. About four-thirty or five in the afternoon?” He rose and went to stand by the bed.
His grandfather grabbed his hand and his voice trembled with feeling when he spoke. “Thank you for comin’ down. Means more to me than you know. I just needed to lay my eyes on you, to see you as a man. I can let loose now. Thank you, boy.”
Jackson held his grandfather’s hand in his for several minutes. He was overcome by a sudden flood of emotion that was filled with heartache and loss. For a moment he was almost close to tears. He bowed his head and pressed the back of his grandfather’s hand to his forehead. He remained in this position until his grandfather said, “You my blood, boy. I knows I took you down a hard road, but you the one gon’ lead this family to right.”
Jackson didn’t bother to argue. He stood up and helped adjust the position of the pillows so that his grandfather was comfortable. When he left the room, the man who had been on guard got up from a couch across the hall and returned to the room. He gave Jackson a perfunctory nod as he passed. Carlos and the limo were waiting for him outside. Jackson looked at his watch: It was nearly eight-thirty in the evening. The sky was dark and overcast. He was too full of turmoil and sadness to speak, so he sat silently gazing through the tinted windows of the limo and watched the lights of Mexico City pass. There seemed to be many more tall buildings than he recalled, but the traffic seemed as chaotic as he remembered. The perpetual honking of car horns sounded briefly like a riff from a straight-ahead jazz tune, a plangent salutation to the wild cacophony of life.
At last, the heavy iron gate swung open and the limo pulled into his grandfather’s courtyard. Jackson watched as the gate rolled closed with a clang behind the car. He invited Carlos in, but Carlos declined, indicating that he had some errands to run. When Jackson walked through the front door, Mario informed him that hot food was available. Jackson attempted a reply in Spanish, but soon gave it up. He asked that the food be brought to the dining room.
Jackson went immediately to the kennel and freed the puppy, who was delirious with gratitude. The puppy’s tail was whipping back and forth as they made their way back into the dining room. The possession of dogs was a fundamental element in his grandfather’s concept of home security, and because he transacted much of his business at the dining table, his principal dog had a place of comfort in the room. His grandfather always had one or sometimes two dogs that he prized over all others. These would be his house dogs. He always had his terriers trained to fight in the pit; that way they could fight off other dogs who had graduated from the pit. Sure enough, in the corner of the dining room there was a large cushion and a place for food and water.
After supper, Jackson went into the den and poured himself a healthy shot from a bottle of Small Batch Bourbon and sat down at the desk. As he sipped the liquor he wondered how it was possible that after all the time that had passed, his grandfather could affect him so strongly. He admired the old man’s courage in allowing his failing body its rightful death. Jackson hoped that whenever his own end came upon him he would be as resolute.
That night Jackson slept in his grandfather’s bed and it seemed to him that it was a rite of passage, belonging with the first time his feet touched the floor when he sat at the dinner table, or the first time he rode a
bike, or the first time that he drove a car. He had clearly passed one of the demarcations separating the different age periods of his life. Jackson slept a dreamless night for the first time in weeks and awoke in the morning feeling refreshed.
The puppy came running as soon as Jackson’s feet hit the floor beside the bed, greeting him with absolute joy. Its tail was whipping back, its ears were flopping. It leaned against his legs as it waited to receive affection. He reached down and petted it and it began to wag its tail even more violently. The puppy brought a smile to Jackson’s face. He played with it while he washed and got dressed. Breakfast and an English-language newspaper were on the table waiting for him when he entered the dining room. He and the puppy ate alone. After glancing though the paper, he took the puppy out for a short walk then returned to examine the papers in the valise. He spent the rest of the morning going through his grandfather’s documents. There was nothing to break his concentration but the puppy. The house was empty and the silence was broken only by the distant murmurings of the hired staff, who moved like ghosts through the halls. Whenever Jackson came upon them they fell respectfully silent then moved on to perform chores in other rooms. The puppy’s friskiness and playful antics made the emptiness more bearable. Without forethought, Jackson was becoming attached to the dog.
It didn’t feel like a Sunday to him even though he could hear the church bells pealing as they called the devout to afternoon Mass. The morning had rushed by for him. He took the puppy for another walk, then upon his return, changed into workout sweats. Next to the garage, his grandfather had built a small gym. There was a set of free weights, a speed bag and a heavy punching bag, jump ropes, and assorted other equipment used by prizefighters to stay in shape. Jackson worked out hard, finishing with five sets of two-minute sessions on both the speed and heavy bags. After Jackson’s shower, Reuben called to schedule a meeting.
Reuben and Julio arrived at two-thirty. The two brothers brought several accordion files full of paper documents. Without being asked they began laying out various forms and documents on the dining room table. The puppy growled threateningly from its corner at the two strange men and advanced on the table, but Jackson quieted him with a few strokes and soft words.
Julio and Reuben saw the puppy and nodded their heads in approval. Julio said with a smile, “This dog is a direct descendant of the first Diablito. He is but a puppy, but already we can see his heart.”
Jackson looked at the puppy with new respect. The puppy saw his look and thumped his tail. Jackson laughed to himself. His grandfather was too smart. He knew that Jackson would be unable to resist the puppy, particularly when he knew it was from the line of Diablito. He and the puppy were both distant sons of true warriors and he did not need to be told that the puppy would serve him well. The thought of his grandfather reminded him that the old man had requested carnitas. “Speaking of my grandfather, he wants some carnitas. Where’s a good place to go?”
Julio answered, “We’ll have Sanchez, the limo driver, pick up some for you when you go to the hospital today.”
“Thanks, Julio. He’ll appreciate it.” Jackson smiled. “Looks like you brought part of the Brazilian rain forest with you.” He indicated the piles of paper with his hand.
Reuben began, “These papers reflect all your grandfather’s holdings in the United States, Mexico, and South America. The books are ledgers indicating the revenue generated over the years and how that money was invested.”
“But we also brought you some papers that were faxed to you,” Julio interjected. “It looks like your work wants to keep you busy.”
Jackson took the file of faxes and set it aside on the table. “I wish that was what they truly wanted, but they spend more time trying to sabotage people outside of their circle than getting things done.”
“People are the same the world over, no matter what language they speak,” Reuben said with a shake of his head. “Do you wish to work on that now, or shall we proceed with your grandfather’s will and property holdings?” He gestured to a stack of papers Julio had placed on the table.
“Let’s go through the will.” Jackson picked up a thick sheaf of stapled papers and began to read. The documents were the incorporation papers of a holding company. “My grandfather really established a holding company?” Jackson asked with disbelief. It seemed antithetical to his perception of his grandfather; gambling and financial planning originated from opposite poles.
“El Negro had some problem with the IRS and he had to sell all his property or risk losing it,” Julio answered. “He gave the family house to your grandmother then sold seventy percent of the rest of the San Francisco property along with all his other properties to this holding company in Switzerland.”
The puppy, who had been checking out the two strange men to satisfy himself that they were not dangerous, came over and sat down heavily on Jackson’s foot. He smiled and reached down and rubbed the puppy’s head fondly. “Who runs this holding company?” Jackson asked.
“A law firm in New York has been doing it, but you run it now. However, to take full control you must get the corporation’s certificates and papers.” Reuben stepped forward in his smartly tailored Italian suit. “This company’s holdings are worth more than one hundred million dollars. You’re a rich man, Diablito, and this does not include the government bonds that your grandfather says are hidden with the certificates in San Francisco.”
“How can I run a company without any proof of my possessing it?”
“Your grandfather named you executive director of the board when he founded the company in 1954. For the last ten years we have been paying about one hundred fifty thousand a year into a trust fund that you get once you agree to the terms of stewardship, then you can take your time and find the hidden documents.”
“A million and a half dollars? Give me a moment to think,” Jackson said. It was an astounding amount of money. Jackson was a little awed by the prospect of having access to that amount of wealth. But he also knew that if he accepted the money he was duty-bound to carry on his grandfather’s feud.
The puppy went to the closed door leading to the kitchen and began snuffling. Moments later, there was a knock at the door and Mario entered with cups and an urn of steaming coffee. Jackson remembered his grandfather always drank coffee during the day when he was transacting his business. Jackson gestured to Mario to place the coffee on the uncluttered end of the table. Mario poured coffee for everyone then left the room.
Julio and Reuben went over all the papers on the table with Jackson, explaining the purpose of the various forms and the nature of documents written in Spanish. It was nearly four in the afternoon before they finished reviewing all the papers. It was clear that his inheritance, should he accept it, would make him a financially independent man.
Julio looked over at Jackson and said, “I was happy that you remembered our oath to be blood brothers. We need to be able to trust and rely on one another. The next two or three months will be very dangerous for us all.”
“Why?” Jackson asked, perplexed. “Do you have the same enemies as my grandfather?”
Reuben answered, “You have to remember that both your grandfather and our father fought the drug traffic for many years before it was recognized as a national problem.”
“That was what your father did; how does that affect you?” Jackson asked.
“They both made numerous enemies among the criminal element as well as among government officials. Our father has been dead nearly seventeen years and we are still dealing with the fallout from his actions.”
Stuffing his shirttails into his pants, Julio added, “There are many who would like to make use of our connections and facilities that we have scattered throughout Mexico and California.”
Jackson mused, “I’m surprised that it would still be a problem. Aren’t you guys legit now?”
“It is not good manners to ask such a question. You know that, Diablito,” Reuben chided him gently. “But for your informati
on only, we still run several different gambling facilities. We provide our big spenders with female escorts, and there is still a little smuggling going on.”
After the Ramirez brothers left, Jackson sat out in the sun of the courtyard with the puppy and made the final changes to the faxed report. Afterward he read through some more of the files which laid out his grandfather’s holdings and considered the amazing twist his life was taking. He had often dreamed what he would do philanthropically if he had money. He now had the opportunity. All he had to do was kill an unspecified number of human beings. He laughed cynically. That’s not too much to ask in order to fund a philanthropic desire.
Carlos and the limo came for Jackson at four-thirty in the afternoon. Jackson went to the refrigerator and took out four cold beers. He returned the puppy to the kennel, despite its yelping protests. Then he and Carlos got into the limousine and drove off into the haze of the afternoon. The limo pulled up to a large, ten-story glass building with a wide cement plaza in front of it. Carlos offered to go up and take his revised work to be faxed and Jackson nodded gratefully. He knew that his Spanish wasn’t up to the task. He sat for a few minutes in the darkness of the car, watching the people walk across the plaza, but after ten minutes the car began to feel too stuffy and confining. Jackson got out of the car and walked across the plaza to a large, ornate fountain. He was staring into the water, lost in thought, when Carlos returned.
Fate is a strange and twisted fiber that runs through the material of human lives, and is in part responsible for weaving the patterns by which those lives are lived. Although some small control can be exerted over the racing shuttle of passing days that affects the larger warp and woof of the marching years, often it is fate’s pattern in another’s life which totally changes the design in one’s own. When Corazon placed the paper with Jackson’s Mexico City fax number on the corner of her blotter Friday afternoon, she had no idea that there would be any reason for someone to be at her desk. Bedrosian had arranged for Martha and Howard to meet him on that morning to correct the same report that Jackson was in the process of rewriting. Martha sat at Corazon’s desk because she was making a long-distance call to her sister in Iowa and she didn’t want the call on her own phone line. When she finished the call to her sister, she saw Jackson’s name and underneath it “Mexico City,” along with the number. Martha recalled that Bedrosian had announced in a late-Friday-evening meeting of his management team that anyone with contact information for Jackson in Mexico City should forward it to the city manager’s desk. Martha copied the phone number on a slip of paper and took it to Bedrosian.
