Echoes of a Distant Summer

by Guy Johnson

  Even the cold water in which he washed could not detract from the warmth that Jackson felt. Maria was the most beautiful and exciting woman that he had ever been with. Soft and sensual, warm and wise, she seemed to be the answer to his silent prayers. He wondered whether he was already in love with her. He wanted to spend as much time as he could with her. Perhaps all his fears and doubts about visiting his grandfather had been unfounded. Maybe this visit would be truly a pleasurable experience. He whistled happily as he finished rinsing in the frigid water.

  Wednesday, July 21, 1982

  Paul DiMarco sat in his rental car and studied the construction site through binoculars. The first and second floors of the community center had been walled in, but the third still had steel beams visible. Most of the construction crew had left when the Klaxon had sounded at five, but there were still two cement trucks in position to pour the last of the interior floor and foundation for the building and there was a team of five men waiting to work with the cement. Even from the distance where the car was parked, the ambient noise of the construction site and the surrounding industrial park was considerable. One could hear the grind and clank of heavy cranes and construction equipment, and underneath that the steady background roar of machinery from a nearby factory that extruded plastic along with the regular beat of its giant presses which printed plastic wrappings. Weaving through those sounds was the clatter and jangle of small business metalworks and body shops.

  Mickey Vazzi, who sat in the passenger seat, took a long pull on his cigarette, his pitted face displaying the pleasure he took in the taste of tobacco. He blew a smoke ring and asked, “You see anything fishy?”

  Paul shook his head. “Not yet. Those cement trucks are dumping their loads now. When they pull out and those men down there finish packing it down, we’ll go down and see if that nigger Witherspoon brought everything he was supposed to.”

  “You really think he was able to get his hands on five hundred thousand in cash? You only gave him a day and a half.”

  “Sure! Braxton and me, we used to keep in his safe a floating cash reserve fund of a million and a half for small buys, housing, bail, and legal incidentals. We haven’t taken any money out of it since we paid that Vietnamese gang a million for the hit on Chinatown’s big two. There should still be at least half a million in there. You’ll get two hundred thousand. That should allow you and your family to disappear for a year. By then I’ll have worked out something.”

  Vazzi exhaled smoke and nodded. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

  Paul affirmed, “Mickey, you’re my right hand. I’ve trusted you with the most important jobs and you did what I needed. You’re a good soldier. I’m sorry that you got to go on the run because of me.” Paul picked up his binoculars and studied the jumble of warehouses and small industrial businesses that made up the surrounding area. He saw nothing that was glaringly out of order. He had no reason to believe that anyone knew that he and Mickey were meeting Delbert at the community center construction site, but there was now a price on his head. Caution was crucial. The reason he had only Mickey with him was that he didn’t trust any of the other people on his payroll. Delbert himself posed no threat, but there was always the possibility that some of Braxton’s muscle might be nearby. He could not be too sure of anything. Paul studied the perimeter of the construction site for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  Paul had scheduled to meet Delbert Witherspoon at six in the evening, but he had arrived at three-thirty to scope out the scene. The previous Friday he had spent several hours reconnoitering the site, so he had some idea as to what normal activity looked like. He saw Delbert’s car arrive at a quarter after five and pull up to the gate. There was a brief exchange with the security guard, then Delbert drove through the hurricane fence topped by barbed wire and disappeared around the corner of an extra-wide trailer that was being used as an administrative office. Paul waited until the two cement trucks had pulled out of the gate before he started his car and drove to a point a block away from the construction site. He intended to enter the site through a slit he had cut in the back of the fence the day before. He and Vazzi were wearing stained coveralls over bulletproof vests. When they donned their hard hats and sunglasses, they’d blend in with the majority of workers in the industrial park. They left the car in an alley behind a Dumpster and walked a circuitous route to the site. All around them was the ambient noise of large machinery grinding through its repetitive motions.

  They entered the slit without problems and began to make their way through a maze created by a series of towering stacks of building materials, many of which were covered with a thick translucent plastic. DiMarco and Vazzi were working toward the trailer when two men passed in front of them. DiMarco and Vazzi were not seen because they ducked down behind a stack of cement blocks, but they were close enough to overhear the discussion between the two men.

  One of the men asked his companion, “What time is he due?”

  “Don’t you worry about that!” retorted the other. “You just hurry and get the entrance covered!”

  The rest of the conversation was inaudible because the men moved away. DiMarco muffled a curse and turned to say something to Vazzi and noticed that Vazzi was immediately behind him and that there was a wild look in his eyes. The look on Vazzi’s face was unsettling. Fortunately for DiMarco, his pistol was in his hand. He backed away from Vazzi and demanded in a whisper, “What’s going on?”

  Vazzi stammered, “Uh, nothing, boss. I’m just worried we might get into some gunplay and never get the money.”

  At that moment DiMarco knew that Vazzi had set him up. DiMarco wanted to kick himself. He should’ve seen it coming. It was the smart move. He would’ve made the same decision in Vazzi’s shoes. Briefly he considered turning back then discarded the idea. Despite the dangers, he had no choice but to go ahead. He needed the cash in order to set his family up safely. He would not be accessing his bank accounts until he had set up some type of front to throw off his pursuers. He looked at Vazzi and anger filled him. Just because it was logical didn’t make him happy with Vazzi’s change of allegiance. He had always hated people who betrayed him. He gestured with his gun. “You go in front and if there’s any shooting, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Vazzi didn’t stop to plead or question. He stepped past DiMarco and led the way across the open ground to the trailer. Before they were halfway to their goal, a voice called out, “Hold it right there, Paul!” It was Edward’s voice. Paul jerked around looking for the source of the words. “Don’t waste time looking for me! I’ve got three semiautomatic rifles aimed at your legs. If you try anything now, I’ll make sure you die a slow, painful death. Get his gun, Mickey!”

  Three men armed with automatic weapons stepped out from behind some of the stacks of equipment as Vazzi turned to face DiMarco. Vazzi looked into DiMarco’s eyes, shrugged, then reached for DiMarco’s gun. DiMarco let him grip the barrel then twisted the gun and fired through Vazzi’s hand into his armpit. The gun’s discharge was loud even against the background noise of the surrounding businesses. Vazzi stumbled backward and fell to the ground, blood quickly covering his side. DiMarco wanted to fire another round into Vazzi, but he knew better than to push his luck. He dropped the gun and put his hands over his head.

  “You’re a real bastard!” Edward commented as he stepped out from behind a plastic-covered stack. “Mickey was going to be a made man, but you fucked that for him.”

  Paul spat on the ground. “He got what traitors get!”

  Edward scoffed, “What should you get? You’re a traitor too, aren’t you? You’ve jeopardized your family’s political plans! Despite all the warnings we gave you! Bobbie, Duke, drag Vazzi’s body inside!”

  Duke bent down over Vazzi and heard a gasp. Duke looked up at Edward. “He ain’t dead, boss.”

  Edward answered, “He will be soon. He’s shot through the lungs and he isn’t one of ours. Drag him inside.”

  “I see you’re tr
eating him like a traitor too,” Paul sneered.

  Edward looked at Paul and smirked. “Vazzi came to us after you killed Joe Bones. He thought you implicated him by killing Bones shortly after he left Las Vegas.”

  “I didn’t kill Joe Bones!” Paul protested. “Vazzi went to Las Vegas to deliver the jet, nothing more. It was a gesture of respect!”

  Edward chuckled disbelievingly and turned to the two other men. “Vince, Pascal! Take Paul inside the building too. If he tries anything, shoot him in the legs. Try not to kill him. We need to turn him over alive. Then I want to take a quick look around for this money. What happened to that wimp Witherspoon? We’ve got to find him and squeeze him until he tells us where the money is. We’ve got to hurry. We don’t want the cement to harden too much. Witherspoon and Vazzi have to be stuffed into it!”

  Vince moved his big body forward and grabbed Paul’s arm. He pushed Paul none too gently toward the trailer. Tall and lean, Pascal Langella stepped out from his hiding place and walked on the other side of Paul. Pascal had a long, pale, cavernous face, heavy with five o’clock shadow, and when he looked at Paul, he gave him a cold, saturnine smile.

  Paul, anxious not to show fear, bantered with Pascal. “Hey, Pascal, did you ever catch up with Dominique? She’s a pretty tricky little bitch, isn’t she? When do you think you’ll nail her?”

  “Forget about it!” Pascal retorted, shoving Paul roughly. “I ain’t got time for your fucking questions! You probably told her I was coming to town!”

  Paul straightened his jacket defiantly then sneered, “If I had told her, asshole, you’d be lying dead like the rest of those bozos you brought with you.”

  Without warning, Langella hit Paul on the back of his head with a sap. Paul stumbled forward and fell against a stack of culvert pipes. He didn’t lose consciousness, but his legs went stiff and he was dazed and disoriented. He leaned against the pipes a moment to gather himself. When his eyes were able to focus, he turned to face Langella, who was preparing to hit him again. Before Paul could set himself, there was a rush of air and something hit him numbingly hard in the chest and careened off. He did not get a chance to see what it was because the force of the blow knocked him off his feet. The pain in his chest was immense, but there was no blood. He pushed himself to a sitting position and discovered he couldn’t breathe. He coughed and choked, then inhaled. With each breath, shafts of pain shot across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vince coming toward him, firing his pistol. Two bullets hit the pipes to the left of his head and caromed off. Paul ducked down. The pain in his chest was making him dizzy. He heard Vince shout in his gravelly voice, “The goddamn bastard! He set us up! I’ll kill him myself! The fucking—!”

  Paul didn’t want to be shot cowering, so he sat up with an effort. He saw Vince fall over backward, the top of his head blown away. Whoever was shooting was somewhere behind him and was a very good shot. From where he sat, Paul could see Langella’s body. He figured that Langella couldn’t be alive with his legs and arm bent like that. Bobbie was lying in the middle of an aisle, his eyes wide open and unblinking. Duke and Edward had taken cover. Paul didn’t have the strength to move. A bullet had glanced off his bulletproof vest. Considering its power, had it been a straight-on trajectory it would have penetrated his vest and he would probably be dead. The pain in his chest was still debilitating. He had to limit himself to shallow breaths; anything deeper was pure agony.

  Edward called out, “Who do you have shooting at us, Paul?”

  “Damned if I know!” Paul wheezed, wincing from the effort. “It could be her! It could be Dominique!”

  “Well, whoever it is, you better call them off!”

  Edward’s demand almost made Paul laugh. “Why? What are you going to do, kill me?”

  “Yes, but slowly.” A shot rang out and the toe of Paul’s shoe disappeared. It took everything he had not to scream. The pain was now so great that he had to grit his teeth just to breathe without moaning. From what he could see, at least two of the toes on his right foot were gone. Blood and bits of flesh blocked any further examination. He tried to crawl out of view, but there was no way he could find cover for his legs.

  Paul called out as loud as the pain in his chest would permit, “These aren’t my people! I don’t know who’s shooting at us! I swear on my mother’s soul!”

  “Can you believe this fuck, Duke? He’s bringing up my aunt! Like that will help his situation! Shoot him in the other foot!”

  Another shot was fired and it hit Paul’s ankle. He experienced another sudden flaring of unbearable pain, then he passed out.

  Jackson’s voice called out, “Come on out, Edward! If you want to live, it’s time to talk!”

  “Who the hell are you? You must not know what you’re mixing in! My people will hunt you down if it takes all your life to catch you!”

  “Your people won’t do shit! And you’re about to be alone!”

  There was a barrage of whizzing bullets. Duke grunted and rolled out into the aisle. Edward stared at him, looking for signs of life. There were none. His chest and stomach were covered with blood. Edward took a deep breath. Duke had been wearing a bulletproof vest. Whatever ammunition they were using made vests irrelevant.

  “There’s your last man, Edward. You came with four and now there’s none. You want to die there, or do you want to talk?”

  Edward quickly reviewed his options, which were extremely limited. He knew he was dead if he remained where he was. He moved, trying to back out of his position, but bullets kicked up dirt in the place he was trying to move to.

  “You either throw down your weapon or plan on dying where you squat!”

  Edward threw out his gun and stood with his hands up. “Okay! Okay, I’m coming out!” He stepped into the aisle. Jackson and Dominique advanced to meet him. He knew Dominique, but he stared at Jackson for a moment then demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Jackson Tremain, King Tremain’s grandson. Your foolish cousin thought he was going to run over me, but he’ll be going to a secret graveyard now along with your goons.”

  Edward was confused. He had only thought that he was dealing with Paul. He didn’t see the connection that would cause Jackson to insert himself in a family altercation. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Edward, you’re a businessman.” Jackson gestured to Dominique. “We’re both businesspeople too. You’re trying to go legitimate, so are we. You have an election to win, we can help you.”

  “How?”

  “We can make sure that certain information never comes to light. For example, your father and your sister used to own several holding companies which appear to have received nearly three million dollars from Paul’s Bahamas bank account. This money seems to have made its way into your father’s campaign coffers, although it was never declared to the IRS in any personal returns.”

  A man came up and spoke in Jackson’s ear. Jackson carried on a brief conversation with the man then indicated the bodies with a wave of his hand. The man bent over Paul’s supine body and said, “This one’s alive. A bullet must’ve hit his ankle gun, because it looks like his own gun shot off his foot.”

  “Good,” Jackson replied with a cold smile. “Throw some water on him and when he wakes up prod him about our friends from Louisiana and Mexico. One way or the other, he’s going into the cement. Have him taken inside.” The man nodded and beckoned to two other men who were awaiting his signal to appear. They brought large pieces of heavy, translucent plastic in which to drag the bodies and immediately set to moving them into the building. Jackson turned to Edward. “Why don’t we go inside. My cleanup team needs space to operate.”

  Edward was still confused. He was trying to figure out who Jackson really was. It appeared that he had a professional team that was used to dealing with both the killing and disposal of their enemies. He was not sure he wanted to go inside. The thought that he might be tortured made his stomach turn. Stalling for more time to reconcile his tho
ughts he demanded, “How do I know you’ve got proof for any of these allegations?”

  Dominique held up a ledger. “Paul wrote down everything. And it looks like he had you sign some of these transfers. Plus, we’ve got the signed statement of an accountant regarding some of his questionable money transactions. There’s no doubt that there are sufficient questions raised by the records found in the fire that if these are added to it, the whole election could be jeopardized.”

  Jackson interjected, “Your whole family could be arrested and that doesn’t even include the crime of murder.”

  “Murder? What murder?”

  “Alive or dead, when you leave here, your fingerprints will be all over the weapons used here this evening! And the location of these weapons will be kept secret until such time as they are needed.”

  “And if that’s not enough,” Dominique added, “there’s Joe Bones. Rumor has it Paul did the job for you because Joe was making a move on the DiMarcos. It would really be terrible for your family if evidence should come to light that revealed there was animosity between Bones and you.”

  Edward barked, “You have such information?”

  Jackson ignored his question and gestured toward the community center building. “Shall we?”

  Edward felt his heart sink as he turned to walk in front of Jackson and Dominique. An investigation into financial wrongdoing could be tied up in the courts for years, but murder was a different matter. His political future was now compromised, but potentially he could lose even more. If there was evidence linking the DiMarcos to Bones’s murder, there would be Mob retaliation. Edward might have to be sacrificed for the family’s greater good.

  They entered the building through a double door and walked into a huge, cavernous room illuminated by large halogen lights. To the right of the door along the wall there was a long rectangular pit about four feet deep. As he watched, the bodies of his men were being rolled into the pit. It sickened him. It had taken him nearly a decade to assemble four men he trusted and now in one night, they were gone. A man who had no trusted cadre had no one to perform dangerous errands or protect his back. Years of work down the drain. Jackson interrupted Edward’s thoughts.