Salty Sky

by Seth Coker

  One of the men, moving lightly and rapidly, split off from the driveway, went in front of the house, and was lost from sight. The light shining around the edges of the house went dark. The rascal had unscrewed the bulb. Cale noted to use a trickier globe next time. It was the little things in home security: Plant a yucca under your windows, keep a hedge of pyracantha at the corners, install deadbolts, dig and spike Burmese tiger traps lightly covered with pine needles.

  One man stopped even with the house’s side and leaned against a pine. Cale bet that was Escobar and hoped the sap would stain his Armani windbreaker. More accurately, he hoped an arrow from a compound bow would find its way through the Armani windbreaker. Cale wasn’t that good a shot. Maybe if he was in a stand above him, he could do it from this distance. The third man was larger than the other two and moved more stiffly. He entered the screened porch and headed toward the back door.

  The alarm sounded. Woof-woof-woof.

  Jimmy didn’t think the recording sounded like himself. To keep him calm, Cale whispered to him, “You sound good, old buddy. Prime of life. Imagine, with balls, you could turn that tenor into a bass.” Cale rested one hand on the furry head to keep Jimmy from voicing displeasure at the soundtrack’s quality, ducked below the window, and dialed 911 with his other hand.

  FRANCISCO COULDN’T SEE his Swiss watch in the dark. When the house’s alarm went off, he reached in his pocket and started the timer on his phone. He would give his men five minutes from the time the alarm went off before leaving. They would not rush, and they would not overstay. They did not even question him on what they would do but continued searching the property.

  Each time he checked the timer, briefly exposing himself to light, he moved. He moved from tree to tree. He did this without thinking. He was a predator who never forgot that he, too, could be the prey.

  CALE THOUGHT THAT, to a late night dispatcher, the truth might come off a wee bit fanciful. Hey, this is Cale Coleman, and it’s the darndest thing, but there are three hit men at my house…. Yes, hit men…. They traveled all the way from Colombia, dadgummit, just to give me a painful death…. No, not Columbia, South Carolina. Colombia, South America…. You think you could send some fellas out to arrest them?

  There was an upside to envisioning every interaction before it occurred. He knew he couldn’t wait for the security dispatch to call. The deputy responding would be half asleep, assuming the storm blew a door open. This would shorten the deputy’s career trajectory. Cale got his mental story straight for the call.

  “9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I need the police.” Without pause, he gave and repeated the address.

  “Sir, are you whispering? Please speak up. There is a dog barking in the background. It is very hard to hear you. Why do you need the police, sir?”

  Why was he whispering? Hadn’t this lady had sensitivity training? Unlike his visitors, Cale let bygones be bygones. Slightly louder, he pleasantly continued, “Three men have broken into my house. I am down by the water in my shed. They don’t know I’m here. I can see the men. They are carrying guns.”

  He hadn’t seen any guns but assumed they had them. He wanted to convey urgency and caution without resorting to South American hit men stories, which, in fairness, was so 1980s Miami.

  The dispatcher dispatched officers. Cale gave her the description of the intruders’ car. She typed it in. He mentioned that the alarm company would call dispatch too. “Make sure those officers know this isn’t a routine alarm.”

  She wanted to keep him on the line, the training finally kicking in. “Sir, can you see the perpetrators?”

  What percentage of callers knew the word “perpetrator” he wanted to ask, but let it pass.

  He picked his head back up, looked through the window, and saw the larger and smaller men gathered by the back door gesticulating. Escobar was now somewhere out of sight. Cale heard the security company demand the intruders identify themselves. The larger man responded by pulling out a pistol and firing a bullet into the speaker, giving the alarm an echoing quality. He then fired another into the back door’s window, which was just plumb mean. Did he have any idea how hard it was to get glass cut the day after a hurricane?

  “Sir, are those gunshots I hear? Sir?”

  “Shhh. Yes, those are gunshots.”

  The men swiveled around, hoping to see Cale hiding or fleeing. He mentally suggested they run their hands through the pyracanthas and make sure he wasn’t hiding in the bushes.

  The larger man entered the house. The smaller, quicker one who’d unscrewed the light bulb started into the backyard. He moved forward in quick, uneven steps. Three quick steps then a crouch. Two quick steps, crouched low, then he stood up, and moved sideways. The man didn’t follow the stepping stones, but moved on and off them, soaking his shoes. The uneven cadence made him a difficult target.

  The smaller man briefly moved out of sight as he went behind the hedge. Cale saw him emerge in the outdoor kitchen. The man briefly grabbed a large filleting knife before setting it down on the counter. He then looked to the dock and shed. He began his approach, again moving in spurts that betrayed no pattern as to his next movement.

  Cale told the dispatcher, “I need to set the phone down. Please don’t make a sound until I come back on, as they are coming closer to me now.”

  He set the phone down. Without taking his eyes off the approaching visitor, he reached down for the compound bow with his right arm and fumbled for the arrow beside it with his left. For the first shot, he thought the bow would be better. The other two guys wouldn’t see the flash of flame that would reveal his location. It also felt more primeval, more fear inducing than the gunfire they were so used to. He knew the larger man was in the house. He wished he’d kept track of Escobar.

  ALBERTO REAPPEARED FROM the front of the house. He held a few keepsakes in his hands, and, by his mannerisms, Francisco could tell Coleman had not been in the house.

  Everything indicated Coleman had been home recently. Perhaps he was still nearby.

  CALE BROUGHT BOTH the bow and the arrow up to his shoulder. He notched the arrow and broke the bow back into an armed position. If the man approaching got within twenty-five feet, he would release. Cale found the spot in the path the man was roughly following that he judged to be twenty-five feet, so he wouldn’t pull too early. He didn’t think the single-pane window would alter the arrow’s flight, but he’d never tested that theory before.

  Given his target’s unpredictable path, he needed a close shot that would not miss. This man was either formally trained or had lived a very dangerous life—a worthy adversary to ambush, although Cale would have preferred a buffoon in case he missed.

  Consciously, Cale slowed his breath and felt something like contentment wash over him. He followed the man’s progress, looking for a rhythm to the movement, but found none. The moment was at hand.

  FRANCISCO TRIED TO scan the property but found the post-rain humidity was making his goggles difficult to see through. He pulled them down, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

  He looked for Alberto, who was in the driveway facing the front yard—still doing his job but clearly ready to leave.

  He looked at the Cuban making his way toward the water. His night vision goggles now hung around his neck as well. The Cuban’s movements were both stealthy and fearless. He had not yet pulled his gun from his pocket. Francisco was not certain where he carried it. Something about the Cuban’s competence made Francisco want to join him in the hunt. He took two steps forward before feeling his left hand vibrate: their five minutes were up.

  WHEN THE MAN was still fifty feet off, Cale heard Escobar’s whistle. The approaching man instinctively took a few steps backward but continued facing forward before taking a quick glance toward the whistle. Cale envisioned Escobar motioning for him to return. Cale watched the small man’s eyes do a double take on the boat floating in the water. He then took a series of rapid crouched
steps forward again. Cale heard a second whistle. This time the man followed the command, changed direction, and headed to the driveway. Cale watched the three men load and depart in the vehicle without turning on the headlights.

  Cale put the weapon down, picked up the phone, and in a normal voice said, “OK, they are in the car and just turned south out of my driveway. If your guys see a black Suburban, please don’t stop them. Just trail them until you get backup, and be very careful.”

  Should he mention they all spoke Spanish? This could help them know they had the right black Suburban at a stop, but it might confuse the situation. How would he explain how he knew they spoke Spanish?

  Decompressing from the adrenaline rush, he realized how much he wished they’d come to the shed and gotten it over with one way or the other. As long as they were in the United States, would he wince every time he started his car? Feel compelled to hide? It was hard to run a business that way. Would the Feds put him in witness protection? His kids, grandkids, and sons-in-law couldn’t all go underground.

  If the police caught them, what would happen? At best, they’d have them on breaking and entering and a little destruction of property—probably not enough to get their passports confiscated. Maybe if they were caught with their firearms.

  County deputies showed up with lights and sirens. Cale filed a report. They inspected the damage. It was minimal. Annoying. They hadn’t caught them. If they hadn’t yet, they wouldn’t. The search was over. No reason to bring up his suspicion that these were infamous international narcotraffickers. The guys at the sheriff’s office got that all the time.

  25

  MORNING CONTINUED THE dream. Joe looked through the bars on the elevated windows. The rain was over, the clouds knitted tight. The fluorescent lights came on at six thirty. “Just another Monday morning. Strap on your nail pouch,” Joe said aloud. He heard mumbled assent.

  His roommates led the breakfast shuffle. They went to a larger holding tank. They each got a tray of grits, boiled eggs, and a school kid’s carton of milk. Joe sat on a bench with his breakfast tray on his knees. Someone slipped onto the bench next to him.

  “Hey, man. You want those grits?”

  Joe looked at his peer. Black ashy skin; nappy, matted hair; jaundiced eyes. But he had surprisingly long, clean fingernails. One thumbnail was long and hooked like a spoon. He looked hollowed out and smelled like his clothes were put away wet. Joe considered trading the grits for the hard-boiled egg. Then he remembered he missed his morning Prevacid and thought two eggs would feel less than great.

  “No, friend. I don’t want them. You can have them, but you need to take my tray up.”

  The neighbor’s eyes showed he wasn’t used to being called friend. The unfamiliar greeting made him hesitate in accepting the terms. In the end, hunger won out, and he scraped the grits onto his own tray before putting Joe’s tray underneath. He ate the grits and moved on. Joe realized he still had the little milk carton. He needed to get up anyway.

  Joe noticed the prisoners had different-colored wristbands. He asked the next guy who sat down near him what they meant and learned that they identified the severity of the inmate’s charges. Joe noticed that, largely, folks with like wristbands were grouped together. Actually, by race first, wristband second. Did people bond into groups that arbitrarily? Joe was in on a weapon-related felony. His wristband was red, a good jailhouse status color.

  Everyone sat; a few, like Joe, on bolted-down metal benches. He noticed red wristbands dominating the benches. Most inmates sat on the floor. They leaned against walls or bars. A few talked. Friends from the outside or friends from the inside? Many held their heads in their hands. What was the Twain quote comparing boats and prison again? Boats smell better. Boats serve drinks. Women like boats too. Joe always thought Twain was sharp before. He’d take his chances on drowning and choose a boat.

  His fellow inmates appeared to be engaged in introspection—mostly the red wristband crowd. Some were probably facing extended time away from home.

  Green wristbands signified alcohol-related misdemeanors. The liver did its job overnight and processed the malt liquor while they slept. Now the green-wristband crowd sat quietly on the floor.

  Joe decided jail was boring and uncomfortable. His bed was hard, and there was no pillow. He had to sit on a metal bench, or a concrete floor, lean against a concrete block wall. He had no belt, and his pants sagged despite the secret elastic waistband. No books, TV, playing cards, or music. He used the boredom to think more about how he wanted to live the final years of his life. He reaffirmed to himself that the pursuit of another mate wouldn’t lessen the relationship he’d had with his wife. He grew a little philosophical, thinking about how his mind could stretch if he started dating people who had never lived in Brooklyn. Maybe he’d make a rule not to date anyone younger than his youngest daughter-in-law. That sounded about right. He smiled, thinking his jailors would be proud of how he’d used his time in the clink.

  At nine thirty, the jailors collected the inmates; Joe was called last on the first docket. He was the only red wristband called; everyone else had green wristbands. He took that as a good sign that Tony was on the job. Joe wondered when he’d get to phone out. He’d gotten Tony out of the pokey before; Joe was sure he enjoyed returning the favor.

  The inmates took a service elevator to the basement and into a hallway. The hallway must have tunneled under the street, because Joe could hear traffic overhead. Another service elevator took them up into the courthouse, where the guard led them into the courtroom. They were seated in rows to the right of the judge’s elevated throne. Height, robes, gavels—a lot of ceremony to provide power to the justice institution. The process made the judge himself a bit more than mortal.

  The bailiff called out, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Hassell.” More transfer of power, making everyone stand until the judge deemed them worthy of sitting.

  Joe was called first. He walked to the defense table, met his attorney. He smiled and winked at Tony in the sparse crowd. Tony grinned ear to ear. The attorney whispered the arrangement in Joe’s ear. Ten large, bonded and done. Was he OK with it? Sure, he was OK with it.

  The charge was read into the record, then the plea agreement, and the attorney’s conference with the judge. Complete in five minutes. Joe and his attorney shook hands and walked out of the courtroom.

  Tony greeted them, bobbing and weaving, shadow boxing the air. “And in this corner, from Brooklyn, New York, The Great White Dope, Joseph ‘The Carpenter’ Pas-ca-rel-laaaaaaa.”

  “Well, at least I have a good cornerman. How’d you know I got pinched?”

  “Bartender.”

  “You found what bar I went to? You call my credit card company for the last charge?”

  “Didn’t think of that one. No, we found your loaner car. Nice of you to leave the cell phone in it for confirmation.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Ashley, Cale, and me. Speaking of which, why didn’t you take me with you to go see Cale? Gino could have been telling the truth.”

  “I don’t know, Tony. Age isn’t all wisdom. And Tony, you know how big my balls are.”

  “Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, I don’t know about the size, but I know gravity has pulled them between your knees. I imagine you scared those youngsters to death in the shower.”

  They exited the courthouse, crossed the street to the jail. Joe held up his pants as he walked. The magistrate’s clerk checked out Joe’s items, including the handgun. Because Joe didn’t have a concealed permit in the state, he had to hold the handgun. Out on the sidewalk, he got a few wide eyes and a lot of wide berths. Joe wondered what they were thinking. Mama, is that man robbing the jail?

  Tony and Joe got into the lawyer’s car. He drove to the parking lot where he left the loaner the night before. It was near eleven now. Why not an early lunch? Why not a cold one to wash the roast beef down with? It’s five o’clock somewhere. How about one more to hear about the big evening? Joe
left the handgun on the floor of the loaner. Not concealed, not really visible. He felt OK with it. He put it there under the advisement of legal counsel—at least, that was his story.

  26

  WOOF-WOOF-WOOF. THE SURPRISE alarm echoed in his mind; it was unarmed before. Questions cascaded through his brain. Where was the real dog? Why did Coleman come home late and then leave before daybreak with his dog? Where had he gone? How long would it take to find him?

  At his direction, Alberto confirmed that the charter’s manifest was filed, Coleman listed as pilot.

  Anxiety tugged on Francisco. There was much to do—much to rebuild, much to destroy. He thought about the fragile and violent Mexican cartels. He needed to pick an ally he could invest firepower in and yet still control. He had inserted this to-be-determined group onto his notepad in the shape of a grenade. Once it was armed, he needed to send his as-yet-unchosen ally into a civil war with the other cartels. He would have the same issue as always: How do you keep an ally once they are powerful and wealthy? Hostages. Perhaps like he did with key employees, he’d require the ally’s family to live in Colombia. They would live like royalty—beautiful houses, majestic scenery, the wonderful temperature. They’d have mile-long private beaches to ride horses on, trained help, and protection. Royalty, yes. They would never want to leave. They would never be allowed to leave.

  He needed to move his attention to these opportunities. Success did not realize itself; it needed to be driven. Of course, success with the Mexican cartels would mean they had destroyed each other, leaving the norteamericanos’ powdered nostrils ever more desperate to receive his supply.

  Choosing to enlarge his myth by personally carrying out this vendetta was proving more of a nuisance than he imagined it could be. Practical concerns filtered through his thoughts. He tried to stoke his anger with memories of his brother and Pablo. He zeroed in on the gunshots to Pablo’s back, the bullets entering his flesh, the gut-wrenching fear with El Capo suddenly lying dead within his sight, then the ensuing power vacuum he barely survived to fill. But those memories were old. He had mined that emotional well for too long, and the bottom was now dry. He focused instead on his living family and the need to fuel the force field that protected them.