Salty Sky

by Seth Coker

  It still amazed him that Pablo Escobar had controlled eighty percent of the cocaine trade entering the United States. The loyalty he built through soccer clubs, hospitals, and terror kept him protected for over twenty years in the world’s deadliest profession. An obscene amount of time for so risky a venture. Forbes magazine listed him as the seventh-richest man in the world. He spent a year in a country club prison he built for himself so he could sleep soundly while his men assassinated his enemies. He openly assassinated three Colombian presidential candidates who were not to his satisfaction. He was finally killed by police officers acting against their own orders but in the interest of their country. The truth behind it all was that the team hunting down Pablo was directed by the DEA’s human assets and Delta Forces’ soldiers and technology.

  Even if Sheila and Cale had started on the same date, they would have been on different career tracks. Her destiny was to be a manager and his a skilled worker. A producer, not a leader. He valued the skill sets of leadership and diplomacy—setting a vision, tact, standing down. He just didn’t possess them. Sheila did. She held as high a position in the agency as an non-appointed employee could obtain. If she had a husband instead of a partner, she’d likely have an appointed position by now.

  The call went to her office voice mail in DC, where Cale left a brief message as instructed after the beep. He returned to reading about the fire. His phone started bouncing on the desk. The same area code 703 number he’d missed earlier.

  “This is Cale.”

  “Hey, Cale. It’s Sheila.”

  “That was quick. You must have checked your voice mail right after I called.”

  “I’m in the office. I just couldn’t switch over in time.”

  He started to ask whether he’d missed a call from her earlier and why the number wasn’t from a 202 area code, but let it pass. They kibitzed, commiserated about Jim. Cale asked, “What is the agency’s feeling about this peace treaty in Colombia?”

  “On the surface, it’s OK. The rebels agree that their lands will pay homage to the capital in exchange for being able to largely self-govern. As you know, that’s no different from the way the warlords, sheiks, chiefs, and patrons divide up most countries. The quality of life in those areas is a crapshoot. When you have the rule of man over the rule of law, it’s the man that matters.”

  “So we learn, over and over. What’s below the surface?”

  “This was a three-way treaty. The actions of the rebels were codified as part of a war. All participants are covered by the Geneva Convention rules.”

  Cale sat quietly, letting the news sink in. It wasn’t getting very deep. “I’m sorry; I need you to draw the line for me. My knowledge of the Geneva Convention doesn’t extend past not torturing POWs. Or, as Bush adjusted it, to uniformed POWs.”

  “I don’t know if W got that change ratified. Do you remember when El Capo wanted Colombia to end the Colombian-American Extradition Treaty of 1979, when part of the deal would have been international pardons for past crimes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Remember what that would have meant?”

  “Very well.”

  “Now multiply it maybe five times, and you’ll get a feel for what we’ve entered into. Do you still need me to draw the line?”

  “No, I think I drew it. So we not only drop all prior charges and convictions in absentia but also any travel restrictions against the rebels?”

  “Yup. Our consulate in Bogotá has been monitoring the issuing of new passports to our former most-wanted-list folks. The list is getting quite long.”

  “So these groups can now travel to the US? Folks that we really don’t want traveling here? Folks that are narcotraffickers first and guerillas a distant second?” Cale wondered why he was both belaboring the issue and not using names. The point was moot; she knew to whom he was referring.

  “I’m afraid so. It seems we have a very short institutional memory.”

  His brain speed picked up, and Cale began making connections. “Sheila, are there federal investigators in Florida looking into that fire?”

  She let the question hang for a moment. “Yes. I’ll have someone contact you to let you know what they find. Should be within a week. I’m sure it’s just odd timing, but it makes me feel a little uneasy, so be careful until we can rule out foul play.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and before you ask, we already looked it up. Pablo’s favorite nephew, who has a quick trigger finger and a long memory, Francisco Escobar, is in the States. It was his brother at the villa.” Now she was the one who didn’t need to belabor the point. These details were etched in stone in his memory. “Francisco took a flight from Bogotá to Miami. He is scheduled to fly back to Bogotá on Sunday.”

  “What has he been doing in Miami so far?”

  “Were not even sure he’s still in Miami.”

  Cale couldn’t believe they weren’t tracking him, but she had no obvious reason to lie about it. Cale grunted, “Well, maybe it will be fun to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, be that forty years or a week.”

  She laughed because his delivery was funny even though he was being a smartass. Well, maybe she laughed to be polite. Depending on what information was out there, she had more reason to look over her shoulder than a simple pilot like himself did.

  Could you feel the spin? Simple pilot. He was already rehearsing the lines for his future captors.

  Having psychopathic billionaires mad at you was just not a great position to be in. Billionaires, by definition, had significant resources to accomplish what they wanted. Cale reminded himself why he took his pension and ran. The problem pawns faced was that the guys who played chess were at peace with sacrificing a few of them. You could say “chess masters” instead of “guys who play chess,” but Cale’s experience dictated that was too high a praise.

  When the call ended, Cale stepped outside on the front porch for some fresh air. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since midnight. The air felt different, purer. Perhaps this was the barometric pressure dropping. Deep, low storm clouds and thick rain made charcoal-gray light.

  He stepped inside and shut the storm door but left the six-panel door open. The house was dark except for the gray light through the storm door and the LED bulbs burning in the foyer and living room. The closed storm shutters blackened most of the house. It was a good day to sleep on the couch and dream about Colombians sharpening their knives. Maybe they’d dull their knives instead to make it more painful. He couldn’t count five postcollege days he’d slept an afternoon away. Forget the Colombians. Thank you, Arlene.

  Before he stepped away from the doorway, a truck pulled into the tip of the driveway. Someone lost in the rain? Trying to make a call and needing a safe spot to dial? Speaking of which, Cale pulled out his phone. The battery was in the red. He turned it off and found a charger to rejuice it. It was hard to believe that for the first thirty-five years of his life, he’d had a house phone connected to a wall. Now, for the last ten plus, he’d just kept one of these handy little guys in his pocket and took his phone into anybody’s house.

  The house was storm ready but needed to become post-bachelor-party ready. Cale put linens in one washing machine and the first load of dirty towels in the second. He thought everyone should have two washers and dryers. Batch processing was a small luxury Maggie inserted into their lives. He dumped the rest of the towels on the laundry room floor to wait their turn.

  He felt pretty good … considering. The bachelor party was over. There were no more debacles on the horizon. He had done nothing Maggie wouldn’t approve of. (In reality, he wouldn’t have told her about Blake’s adventures, so in the fantasy, she didn’t know about that either.) Maybe there were a few thoughts and daydreams she wouldn’t have cared for, but those were only daydreams. Nothing happened. You couldn’t hold a daydream against a guy. It’s actions that mattered. Or was it intent? No, actions. The road to hell was paved with a thousand good intentions.
So wait, did that mean it was intent or actions that mattered? His thoughts should make sense by Thursday.

  Walking back past the front door, Cale noticed the pickup edging down the driveway. He stopped to watch. It parked. He didn’t recognize the vehicle. The lights turned off, then the engine. Who was this? The rain was too heavy to see a face. A yellow rain hood was slipped over the driver’s head. Apparently, the driver was getting out. The driver must see Cale clearly, backlit in the doorway. This ruled out a storm looter.

  Fatigue-induced brain synapses misfired and made Cale a touch jumpy. Too little sleep and too much booze. His aching hand wouldn’t let him forget yesterday’s silly altercation. He should have just pushed the meathead into the water and moved on. The choice to go brutal unexpectedly draped him with disappointment. Now was the first time he’d even considered just pushing him off the dock. He thought to himself his own mini-Eisenhower warning about “the military industrial complex.” A country—or person in this case—with great power naturally looked for opportunities to display that power. He probed his memory, trying to make sure he hadn’t secretly been excited to feel that big bull step on the dock.

  Cale flipped on the floodlights and stepped outside. He hoped this wasn’t a Colombian. If you were going to be hunted, for both hunter and quarry, it should be a little sporting (even dove farms don’t tie strings to the birds’ legs). No need to be such an easy target as to step backlit onto the porch unarmed. If the doorway had markings like convenience store doors did identifying height, it might make it slightly easier for them to shoot from farther away.

  The visitor seemed in no rush to pull the figurative or literal trigger. Cale waited under the porch’s metal roof. Curious. A part of him, despite last night’s prudery, hoped it was Ashley, and that’s admittedly why he stepped out to meet his doom so quickly. But he could now tell it was definitely a dude. Cale reckoned he should go grab his sidearm but didn’t feel up to the effort and would feel mighty silly about it if it turned out to be a buddy.

  The sound of rain on copper roofing pushed ninety decibels. A cold shiver fast-tracked across his body. His hands in his pockets, arms straight, elbows tucked into his body, he waited and wished he’d worn a sweatshirt instead of a T-shirt, boots instead of Rainbows.

  Would his visitor mind waiting outside in the hurricane for a couple minutes while he went inside to change—or, better yet, started his nap? Oh yeah. Sorry to keep you standing in the forty-mile-an-hour wind and inch-per-minute rain, but I suddenly fell asleep. No, I didn’t notice you drive up. This rain on the metal roof is so darn loud I didn’t hear the doorbell. I hope you won’t hold it against me. Oh, you’re here to give me a Colombian necktie. Thank you, but I rarely dress up.

  JOE SAW THE tall man waiting. He debated leaving the pistol in the car but kept it in his pocket. He set his phone on the passenger seat to keep dry. Should he run through the rain? Walk calmly and collectedly? Why worry over these types of details? Details were important to a carpenter. To a developer too. Both presumed a plan, and that was the one thing Joe didn’t have.

  He found this lack of focus confusing. His mind shifted between fury over his nephew and jealousy over Ashley. What happened with Ashley here last night? He wanted right on his side, justice for Gino—if Gino wasn’t full of it. But he also wanted to remove this competitor for Ashley’s affections.

  He stepped out of the car. Besides the rain slicker, he wore river sandals with shorts. He didn’t sidestep puddles. With the hood low and his head ducked forward, he kept the water out of his eyes.

  THE VISITOR HURRIED through the elements. He tried to take the steps quickly but his sandal caught, and he stumbled forward. Cale stepped back slightly as the visitor regained his balance. The good news was that if the visitor knew he wanted to shoot Cale full of holes—a Colombian narcotrafficker, for instance, would already know—this would be behind them. If it was hand-to-hand combat, even worn out, Cale liked his odds.

  The hood flipped up. Well, this he should have seen coming.

  Ashley said this guy was great, but he wasn’t feeling it. She had forty-eight hours on a boat with him. Anybody could behave for forty-eight hours. He seemed pseudo-Mafia: He was overtly Italian, carried rolled cash, owned an expensive boat. He oozed New York or New Jersey; Cale couldn’t really tell the difference between the two, but he could tell those two from anywhere else.

  Was this guy out to avenge his muscle man? Was he looking for blood? If so, Cale’d just tell him, “Hold on one minute, buckaroo. There is a line of very mean Latin men who have already requested the pleasure of spilling my blood.” This guy wasn’t holding anything in his hands. Was he starting a lawsuit? Did the kid die? Almost unconsciously, Cale split his stance. His knees bent slightly, his hands slipped out of his pockets, and he placed his left hand flat on the front of his left leg, the other thumb resting lightly on the top lip of his hip pocket. The increased attention stopped his shivering and his belated survival mode clicked in.

  HIS STUMBLING ENTRANCE threw Joe’s focus. He felt like an old dog whose nails on his hind legs dragged when he walked uphill. He didn’t like the terrain. He was Pickett below the hill, Custer in the valley. His physical mistake stoked his anger, but he wasn’t ready to lose his decorum. He was the caller, so he’d start the conversation. He’d begin at the beginning, say what he wanted to say.

  “I understand you’re Cale. From the mailbox, I take it your last name is Coleman. I’m Joe Pascarella.” He extended his right hand. His face was neither smile nor snarl. “We met briefly last night in the parking lot.”

  PINGS ON COPPER and wind muffled the words. Cale turned his head to hear better and stepped forward. He took the offered hand. Cale cupped his left ear with his hand, gave an expression that said repeat.

  The men leaned together, their right hands clasped. Their left hands moved to each other’s right shoulders. Joe’s hand felt solid, and he applied firm downward pressure on Cale’s shoulder. Joe repeated the introduction.

  “What can I do for you, Joe?” Cale responded as they stayed locked together, any conversation more than a foot apart lost in the wind.

  “My nephew, Gino. The youngster you had the staring contest with in the bar. He turned up in the hospital last night. Says you hit him from behind with a tire iron. Put it right on the police report. Is that what happened, paesano?”

  JOE’S FACE WAS too close to Cale’s ear to see his eyes. Bad terrain. He should have watched the man’s face. With that mistake, Joe felt another surge of anger sweep through him. He rushed the confrontation without the slightest idea of how it was received. Did a toe stub wipe out his experience? Did his stumble erase the knowledge gained from a lifetime of altercations, negotiations, managing employees, vendors, and bankers? Could a couple of years of not caring about the results completely change a man? Could he get himself back?

  In general, Joe categorized people as worshipers or complainers. You found something to praise, or you found something to bemoan. You could pick either in every situation. Not a hard choice for where to live your life. He checked back into the first camp and tried to cool his temper as he returned to the reason for his visit.

  CALE GENTLY SLIPPED his left hand down from Joe’s shoulder onto Joe’s right triceps, where he could more quickly control the older man’s arm once they released hands. Cale was playing the odds that Joe was right handed. Joe was solidly built, but Cale didn’t anticipate any issues in a conflict where he could see both hands. Nobody was in the cab of the small truck, and nobody would have ridden lying down in the bed on a day like today unless they had a snorkel. That made the going premise that Joe was truly alone.

  Was this guy Mafia? He fit the old agency profile. If so, did he believe his nephew’s story? Did it matter to him if it was true or not? If you hurt one of his, would there then simply be repercussions? Cale admitted hearing that the boy was alive blew out the lingering fear clouds he’d filed away in the to-worry-about-later department; this convenientl
y freed up desk space for relations with domestic and international crime syndicates to fill.

  The old saying, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, ran through Cale’s mind, but lying wasn’t his natural state. He didn’t think he could bluff this away anyway. Inadvertently, a laugh bubbled up as he thought about why and how Gino came up with this story, and said, “That boy isn’t hurt enough to not protect his pride, I guess.”

  Cale was an optimist by nature but recovered from his laugh and prepared for the worst. He wanted to try and talk this through, but the noise on the porch roof was too much of a hindrance.

  “Joe, can you step inside to talk so we can get out of the wind and racket?”

  JOE PAUSED BRIEFLY before accepting the invitation inside the house. The laugh took him off guard. Coleman had the feel of a good guy, but so did Ted Bundy and every con artist he had ever known. With caution, he motioned for Coleman to lead the way into the house. Joe slipped his hand into his slicker’s pocket and cradled the pistol as he entered behind Coleman.

  Inside, Cale asked, “So what are his injuries?”

  “Broken arm and busted face.”

  “Any big dents that look like what a tire iron would do if I was swinging it at somebody’s head?”

  Cale demonstrated the speed and power of what his swing would look like, pivoting his hips and chopping his arm down and across.

  Seeing his startling speed, Joe paused again, reassessing the hidden size and roped muscles of the man in front of him. He felt vulnerable watching this demonstration. He wondered if intimidation was the intent. He gripped the pistol in his pocket more firmly and slid his finger onto the trigger.

  He answered, “Friend, I’m not sure what kind of mark a tire iron across the face or arm should leave. But my nephew was beaten into a lumpy mess.”

  CALE WASN’T PLEASED with himself. He’d lost enough contact with Joe to allow Joe’s hand to find his pocket. Who puts their right hand in a rain slicker pocket for comfort? Nobody was the answer. You did that if you were reaching for something. Cale kept himself positioned to look through the front door to see if anybody else was pulling into the driveway. He wanted to make sure what his visitor was doing in his pocket wasn’t signaling somebody else to come over.