Beyond Blue

by Austin S. Camacho

  “You betrayed me.” Now Francine’s eyes smoldered with hatred. “What kind of a woman are you?”

  “What?” Chastity sat up straighter, anger beginning to surface. “Are we some kind of sisterhood of man-haters or something? What rule says every woman has to go along with your sadistic plan? Drop it, Francine. You’ve lost.”

  Francine actually slapped her palm down on the table. “I’m not dropping anything, you hateful bitch. I have plans. It’s me and Marty and that’s that. You won’t take that away from me.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Chastity said, standing and leaning toward Francine. “You mean all this really is about that fat ugly piece of crap you’ve been shagging on the side?”

  “What do you know? I’ll bet you’ve never been in love.”

  Chastity’s fists hit the table, supporting her as she leaned in toward Francine’s face. “You don’t know shit about me,” she growled in a low, threatening voice. “That man was worth a thousand Martys. But if this car dealer slob really is the reason behind your entire insane plot, then I’ll just have to take him out of the picture.”

  de La Fuente plucked a piece of chicken off the tray before Ruby had lowered it to the dining room table. She bit back a comment because of the pleading look in Rafe’s eyes. As much as Ruby hated being disrespected, she hated the position Rafael was in even more.

  Their roles had changed radically since de La Fuente’s revelation about his true mission. Now Ruby was simply a waitress and kitchen slave. She was directed to handle all of the women’s work while the men talked in low tones and played dominoes. They all came alive during mealtime, like the lunch Ruby had just served, but the rest of the time they just seemed to be waiting out the day.

  It was worse for Rafael. A prisoner in his own home, he was ignored or insulted by the three followers. He exchanged nothing more than accusatory glances with his brother Hector. de La Fuente talked to him in offensive terms when he bothered to address him at all. She could see her man chafing under this treatment, but all four of his terrorist visitors kept their guns close and ready. Ruby was grudgingly impressed by their professionalism in this regard.

  “Why are you just standing there?” de La Fuente asked through a mouthful of chicken.

  “Not hungry,” Ruby said. “Plus which, I can’t stand guys who talk with their mouths full.” She gave him the dirtiest look she had, then spun and stalked back into the kitchen.

  Ruby was so frustrated that she considered striking out. Once in the kitchen she braced her hands against the island. Poised there beneath the row of saucepans hanging from their circular holder, she could throw a stamp kick at whichever terrorist chump de La Fuente sent after her. She would plant her spiked heel into the freak’s navel and then see what they did. She was just tired of waiting.

  But the waiting continued. No one came. This was a real surprise. She had not had a second to herself outside of the bathroom in forty-eight hours. Suddenly no one follows her into the kitchen. The longer she stood there, the worse that news seemed. These people were more confident than she wanted them to be. Just to test her thinking, she picked up the wall telephone. She heard the expected dead air. They had cut the service from outside the house. Next she would test why they were so confident that she wouldn’t leave the house.

  Rafe walked into the kitchen just as Ruby reached the front window. He walked up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Hey, baby, I wish you’d come out and eat something,” he said. “I don’t want one of those goons coming in here threatening you.”

  “They don’t care anymore,” Ruby said. “They don’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just take a look out there, sugar,” Ruby said. “Over on the left. Leaning against that tree.”

  Ruby stayed quiet until she heard Rafe gasp. He must have finally spotted the bald man in a black sweat suit. He was one of three she had spotted arrayed around the front of the house. FBI agents would be more conspicuous. These guys were real pros. She could only guess how many might be watching the back door or the windows. The four inside the house were no longer watching her every move because they had people outside who had thrown a security net around the building. This would make escaping the house a bit more challenging.

  “Rafe, do we still have some jalapeños and those nice habanero peppers left?”

  “I always have lots of them,” Rafe said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just thinking ahead,” Ruby said. “Those guys like to eat early, and I want to make something really special for dinner.”

  Chastity Chiba marched onto the car lot like an intercontinental missile homing in on its target. She stopped halfway across the lot and scanned the entire outdoor area. Not seeing the man she was after, she shifted her attention to an unoccupied salesman. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was faster.

  “Where’s Marty.”

  “Did you want to buy a car, miss?”

  “No,” Chastity said. “I just need to talk to Marty.”

  “He’s kind of busy right now,” the man said. “I thought I could help you in the meantime. Were you thinking two doors or four?”

  Chastity raised her right hand and pinched the man’s larynx between her thumb and forefinger. He moved backward until his spine smacked a car. She leaned him backward as far as the car allowed, staring into his frightened eyes.

  “I need to talk to Marty about the fact that I have very strong opinions about adultery. The man is destroying a family and I intend to put a stop to that. Now, you tell me where he is, and you get to breathe some more.”

  “Closing room,” the salesman said, waving a frantic hand at the left side of the building.

  “They let that clown close his own deals?” Ruby withdrew her hand and watched the salesman slide to the ground, leaning back against the car. He had one hand at his throat but his breathing sounded normal. He’d be fine. She started to apologize, but realized that she wouldn’t mean it. Instead she just marched into the building.

  It was warmer inside, but not by much. Chastity detected the faux vanilla scent that some expert had convinced the world was the smell that made people relaxed and more prone to buy. She knew about the offices to her right, and the restroom at the front of the building. To her left, a large glassed-in area held shiny new cars, somehow seeming larger and more impressive just because they were indoors. If this place was like every other auto dealership she had been in, the closing rooms would be just beyond the showrooms. Heading toward that side of the building, Chastity allowed herself one final rational thought. She wondered if Francine might have the courage to follow her.

  The first door Chastity pulled open showed her what she wanted to see. Marty sat on one side of a table, writing on a purchase order. The couple sitting opposite him looked up, startled, when Chastity walked in. Marty’s reaction was more anger than surprise.

  “You’ll have to wait a bit, miss,” he said. “We’ll be finished here in a few minutes.”

  “You’re finished now,” Chastity said, then, to the couple, “do you really want to buy a car from a guy who’s breaking up a family by screwing the wife? Get out of here.” She hooked a thumb toward the door and stepped further into the room. The two nodded and rose to go.

  “Hey wait, don’t listen to her,” Marty said, standing.

  Chastity shoved Marty back into his seat. “Pay attention while I deliver the message. It’s a four-part process.”

  “You crazy bitch,” Marty said, standing again. “You just cost me almost five thousand dollars.”

  Chastity ignored Marty’s comment. “First, the attention phase.” With that, she slammed the middle knuckle of the middle finger of her right hand straight out into Mary’s solar plexus. As the air flew out of his overstuffed belly, Marty seemed to shrink like a deflating Thanksgiving Day balloon. His knees wobbled and this time he fell back into his chair.

  “Now, the setting. I think we’ll go to the scene of the crime.” Ch
astity grabbed a handful of Marty’s stringy brown hair and twisted. He screeched, but came to his feet as she pulled. His breath came in short sharp gasps and he emitted a long whine as she pulled him through the door.

  Chastity had almost hoped that Marty would take a swing at her but to her disappointment, her judgment of him proved correct. Shock and surprise had rendered him a whining, helpless child. She dragged him across the showroom floor much as she guessed his mother did years ago. Halfway to her destination, one of the managers looked up from his desk.

  “Hey, what the hell is going on here?”

  “Marty’s been a bad boy,” Chastity threw over her shoulder. “He’s being punished.”

  Hearing the manager’s voice, Marty grabbed the hand pulling his hair and locked his legs. Chastity slammed her right heel down on Marty’s foot, piercing his shoe and possibly his flesh as well. Marty howled like a schoolgirl and Chastity continued to drag him across the room.

  At the bathroom door she swung him inside, stepped in behind him and locked the door. Marty stood with his back and both hands pressed against the far wall as if he were bracing to take off. The small room smelled of the male salesmen’s poor aim. She knew it was a man’s bathroom because the seat was in the up position. It was dim and dingy, and the fact that Marty had taken Francine there for their hurried trysts made her feel for all womankind somehow. Marty’s face showed that he still didn’t get it.

  “What the hell is your problem, bitch?” he screeched, raising a wall of false bravado that Chastity blew down with a casual look. She stood with hands on hip, and one of those hips cocked upward. When she spoke, her hard-edged voice was cold, betraying the slightest Japanese accent.

  “Now, the actual message. The hateful plan you hatched with Mrs. Brooks to defraud her husband is over. So is your affair. In fact, you will not see her again under any circumstances. You don’t want to consider the consequences of continuing this behavior. Do you understand?”

  Marty’s eyes darted left and right as he tried to speak, but interrupted himself several time. “How did you… you can’t just… who the hell… what are you, a cop or something?”

  Chastity found herself disgusted that any woman would find this crème-filled doughnut with a head attractive. He was taller than she, and probably twice her weight, yet he cowered as she walked toward him. Her tiny fists were curled at her sides

  “And now we seal the lesson into your brain.” She stopped for a few seconds to give Marty one last chance to be a man.

  But this was no man. It was a cornered animal that swung a fist at Chastity’s face with a guttural roar of desperation. He swung with all his strength and all his weight behind the punch, as he would have if he were fighting a man.

  He might have even hurt her if he’d had a chance of actually hitting her. Chastity leaned back out of the arc of Marty’s punch and raised her right foot up, stamping out into his gut. While Marty deflated again she grabbed his hair to pull him forward. This time she snap kicked his left knee. Marty dropped hard, his knees cracking onto the floor tiles.

  Marty had less than a second to say, “No,” before Chastity yanked him forward, leaning hard to press his face into the toilet. It took all her weight to keep him in place for ten long seconds, which she thought was just about enough to make sure her message stayed clear in his brain. It would be set in stone while he sat there, on his knees, in front of the bowl after she was gone.

  It was no surprise to Chastity that she felt better after taking direct action against the insidious enemy. Now she was fully prepared for her next errand, as directed by Gorman.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Rico Steele shoved the last bit of his lunch into his mouth and began grinding the hot dog, red onions, and mustard into a fine tasty pulp. He caught the liquid racing down his chin with a napkin and grinned at his partner.

  “Food don’t get any better than this,” he said, still chewing. “Street vendors are the best cooks. And for some reason, they taste even better if the wagon happens to be parked over a sewer. Go figure.”

  “You got mustard on the steering wheel,” Stone said as Steele pulled to a stop in front of a line of tractor trailers. Both men stared up the wooden stairs at the trailer door. The sign reading D’Elia’s Cartage sent Stone’s mind back to a murder that he and Steele had never managed to get a conviction on. It sent his stomach back to the sight of what the Haitian hit men had done to Franklin Boone just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “You ready to do this?” Steele asked. Stone figured they were both thinking the same things. These boys they were about to confront were a vicious bunch, and they had agreed on a plan calculated to enflame their anger.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, Rico. Let’s go make like cops.”

  “Yeah,” Steele said, opening his door. “Just remember, when this works, that it was my idea.”

  Steele and Stone pulled their coats around themselves and mounted the stairs to the big trailer’s door. It was common for shipping companies to use doublewide mobile homes as offices on site, and Stone knew that the “managers” of this company liked to keep a close eye on their employees. He reached under his coat and loosened his automatic in its holster before pushing the door open.

  The interior was furnished and appointed as a real estate office. The front of the trailer was set up as an office, with filing cabinets where the appliances should have been. The orange carpet was paper thin and stained with the dirt and grease of heavy traffic. It was warmer than necessary inside, and the air was so dry that Stone wondered how the three large plants could survive, until he realized that they were artificial. His nose crinkled at the cloud of cigarette smoke. Considering that Stone had been working side by side with a smoker for several years, the smoke had to be thicker than usual. The smoky trail led to a young lady sitting cross-legged on a big chair behind a desk at the front of the trailer.

  The woman was as close to the actual color black as Stone had ever seen, and as thin as Steele’s excuses usually were. The cornrows covering her head were so tight that Stone feared they might pull her brains out of her skull. Her skirt was short, her legs crossed, her toenails manicured. She looked at him as if she would allow him only seconds to produce a good excuse for existing.

  Instead he asked, “Where’s Dubois?”

  “Who you?” the girl countered. “What you want?”

  “I want to see Dubois,” Stone repeated. “Where is he?”

  The girl put both feet on the floor and turned to face him. She took a long drag on her thin cigarette and blew it out toward Stone. “I don’t know no Dubois. But I hear bad things happens to them what’s looking for him.”

  “I don’t have much patience,” Stone said, tightening his gloves on his hands. “And my friend here, he has even less patience.”

  On cue, Steele slapped one of the potted plants off its table. It flew across the room and past the girl’s head to smash against the filing cabinets. She dodged to the side and the first shadow of fear passed across her face.

  “You see, he’s losing it already,” Stone said. “The next thing he throws could go through that window. Or into your face. Where’s Dubois?”

  “What de noise about?” The man asking that question was as dark as the girl and nearly as thin. He strode out of the back of the trailer in jeans and a black tee shirt. Dreadlocks trailed down onto his back and shoulders. “I’m Dubois. Who the hell are you?”

  “You’re Dubois?” Steele said. “Sure don’t look like no Cardona boy.”

  Stone stepped forward. “Let me introduce myself. I’m the next addition to your payroll. My friend and I, we know about your illegal operations and you’re going to make a major contribution to our retirement funds to keep us from sharing that information.”

  Dubois scratched at his cheek and smiled. “Dat’s one possibility. Here go another.” Three men stepped out of the back room behind Dubois. All of them pointed small handguns at Stone and Steele. All were
black, all were big, and none wore a smile. “You two jokers might just disappear. Now, what’s wrong with my possibility?”

  “Just this.” Stone pulled his left hand out of his coat pocket and flipped open a small wallet. A New York City police badge glinted in the light. “I don’t think you want to start shooting cops at this late date.”

  While Dubois stared hard at Stone’s badge, Steele pulled his gun and held it on the three armed men. Stone removed the cushion from the armchair under the windows.

  “Now, tell your friends here to put their guns on this chair before my partner gets nervous.”

  Dubois nodded, and two of the men put their guns on the chair. The third man hesitated and, for a second, Stone feared he might decide to try to shoot them. Stone’s right hand began to slowly slide beneath his coat.

  “No, Didi,” Dubois said, his voice still calm. “You know my rules. We don’t shoot de police. Just put the gun down, man.”

  The gunman stared through his sights at Steele who was staring down his chrome barrel at the gunman. Then he clicked on his safety and added his gun to the chair. As he stepped back, Stone dropped the cushion on top of the pistols. Steele returned his focus and aim to Dubois. The obvious boss seemed unmoved.

  “So, you a pair of crooked cops looking for a payoff,” Dubois said. “Not the first I met. But what makes you think you got something on me, eh?”

  “The details of the murder of Franklin Boone,” Stone said, “and the evidence on the shooter, your shooter, who was let off the hook because one of the investigating officers appeared to be dirty.”

  “Shit,” Didi said under his breath.

  “We got all the dope from the records of a good source, brother,” Stone continued. “We could cause you no end of trouble, maybe bring your whole operation down, which would probably cause the Cardona mob to terminate your franchise. Lucky for you, we don’t want to do that. We just want our fair share of the income stream. Police retirement isn’t worth much.”