by Glenn Trust
“What do you hear from Trinidad?” Budroe looked out at the Atlantic, a gran toro sized cigar clamped firmly between his thick lips. Clouds of blue gray smoke circled and drifted away from his head as they walked.
“I believe they want to discuss your proposal further.” Guzman walked briskly, arms pumping, focusing on his words and his steps as he paced along beside Budroe.
“I’ll bet they do. Your old jefe, Rivera, had things set up and ready when…” Budroe’s lips spread into a grin around the cigar. A deep-throated, mirthful laugh rumbled from down in his belly. “When his plans changed…sudden like.”
Guzman remained silent. A year earlier, he had been forced to watch Roy Budroe put a bullet in the head of his former patron, Eduardo Rivera.
Rivera had been planning to open a brisk commerce in the sex slave trade, primarily using young women from the United States. The inventory was to be provided by Budroe. Entrepreneur, businessman and criminal that he was, he expertly made all the preparations. Transportation, warehousing, distribution to broader markets had been arranged. The final arrangement was the elimination of the middle-man…Budroe.
The one thing that Rivera had not accounted for was Budroe, himself a cunning businessman and entrepreneur whose brutality could exceed even Rivera’s. That was no small accomplishment.
Now Budroe wanted to go back to the business plan, the merchandising of young women. The potential profits could not be ignored. He would make use of the logistics that Rivera had set in place. Those back in Trinidad, Rivera’s base of operations, were also motivated to move forward. There was just one problem. Neither side trusted the other.
“So set up a meet with them.” He stopped and turned to Guzman.
“I have been trying. They are…hesitant.”
Budroe nodded and turned back to his walk, Guzman pacing briskly to keep up. “So they don’t trust me any more than I do them, that it, huh?” He nodded, sending a billowing cloud of smoke into the air that was quickly wafted away by the sea breeze. “Understandable. So…” He stopped again to look at Guzman. “Your assignment, your part in this is to be the diplomat. Arrange the meet, somewhere neutral where we will all feel comfortable…safe.”
Guzman nodded. “Yes, I understand.” There was nothing else for him to say. Held for the last year by Budroe, guarded by the men Budroe could buy, his position was somewhere between prisoner and partner. Often, it just depended on the day and Budroe’s mood. Guzman harbored no illusions that Roy Budroe would use him as long as he could. When Guzman’s services were no longer of value, Guzman would probably suffer a fate similar to Rivera’s.
They finished the walk in silence and separated when they arrived back at the oceanfront hacienda that Budroe rented under the name of Harvey Harristone. Budroe found the name comical and liked to say it slowly and loudly, Hairy - Stone. He would laugh and look at Guzman, saying, Hairy - Stones…get it? Hairy stones. Guzman did not get it until one of Budroe’s men from Miami, born and raised in the States had explained the play on words to him. Guzman made certain to laugh appreciatively every time Budroe went through the Harvey Hairy - Stones act.
Budroe went into the cool, tiled interior of the hacienda’s central room. Guzman walked through the garden to the small patio outside his apartment. Two of Budroe’s men accompanied him, staying at a respectful distance, but watching, always watching.
Guzman went inside, poured a gin and tonic and came back out to sit in a rattan chair on the patio. Thirty feet away on the other side of the decorative shrubbery the men, the guards, stood, talking quietly, smoking. Now and then, one would look over at him with an indifferent gaze. It was disconcerting.
Guzman had the impression that they regarded him the way a leopard looks at the gazelle it has captured with its claws, but not bothered to kill with a bite to the throat. The time would come for that. The leopard knew it, and the gazelle knew it.
The fact that Budroe had him watched twenty-four hours a day and not killed, was a testament to the wealth he had amassed and the breadth of his criminal operations in the States. Dealing mostly in drugs and prostitution, with some gaming thrown in as a sideline, his criminal empire stretched across the south, ever expanding northward and westward from Georgia, his headquarters.
Budroe would be home now, in Roydon, Georgia running his businesses from the bar he owned there, Pete’s Place, except for one thing. After killing Rivera, he had been forced to flee the United States, the governor’s Office of Special Investigations hot on his trail for the sex slave operation he had been setting up.
He made his way to Puerto Rico, Guzman at his side, and set up his base at the hacienda outside Luquillo. Guzman knew he was anxious to get home, to Georgia, to the place called Pickham County. It was where his enemies were. Guzman had come to know that Roy Budroe was not one to forget his enemies or allow them to survive unmolested for long.
In particular, he had a fixation on a deputy there, George Mackey. He held him personally responsible for breaking up the sex slave operation they tried to put together the previous year, interfering in his other business ventures, and most of all, for the necessity of fleeing the country.
Often, after a few drinks in the evening, Budroe would ramble on about Georgia and his home there, how good business was, or had been. Invariably, he would think of Mackey. His face would turn red; his voice would rise in volume, the words sputtering out in incoherent rage.
“Goddamn sonsabitches!” He would pace around the tiled great room of the hacienda. “Goddamn them! They fucked with me and now they will pay the goddamned price!”
Once, Guzman dared to interrupt the tirade, trying to calm things. Budroe was dangerous when he became enraged.
“But you must remember, Roy, what the sisters told us, at school when I was young.” Budroe turned, surprised that Guzman had said anything at all. He eyed him curiously, like a boy about to step on an interesting but useless insect. Guzman swallowed hard. He had opened his mouth. He was committed. “The sisters, they taught us that the God said, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ You see? Only He has the right to punish, to give out justice.” He shrugged, wishing to God that he had just kept his mouth shut. “Vengeance and justice are not up to us. It is up to God.”
“We went to different schools, Ray, you and me.” Budroe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for some sort of justice and I don’t give a shit about punishment.” His voice rose to a roar. “I want blood!”
Guzman had seen it before in his native Dominican Republic, the rage, the unreasoned, incoherent anger, a blood feud. Budroe was obsessed with it, consumed by it. Vendetta, his father called it.
Guzman resolved to find a way to use that rage to his benefit. He had to become more to Budroe than the gazelle waiting for death.
Eduardo Rivera had underestimated Budroe, taking him for an ignorant country ruffian, a redneck, as they called people like him in the States. Rivera had paid the price for not recognizing Budroe for what he was. Guzman did not intend to make the same mistake.
For now, he would be the diplomat. He would arrange the meeting with Rivera’s organization on Trinidad. He would wait and do what he could to become a leopard too.
Taking a cell phone from his pocket, he punched the numbers in and hit the green call button.
“Si.”
“Armando. This is Ramón.”.
“Si.”
“We should speak.”
There was a long pause. Ramón Guzman sat quietly waiting. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when the voice on the other end of the call finally spoke.
“I’m listening.”
3. The Deal
The super duty pickup bumped along the dirt road between rows of tall pines, part of one of the big lumber company’s holdings that covered middle and south Georgia. Thousands of acres were planted, grown to maturity and harvested, the cycle and acreage rotated regularly. These pines were nearly fifty feet tall and would soon be ready for cutting. Until then the tract of land would be
deserted, the trees left to do what trees do, grow.
Behind the pickup, the plumber’s van lumbered along followed by the small car, a Toyota. The tall man on the Harley brought up the rear.
At a small clearing used by the logging trucks for loading, the pickup rocked to a halt. The driver and two passengers got out and went to the van. The man who had driven the van with the prisoners in the back walked around the front to join them at the side door.
The Toyota and Harley stopped about fifty feet short of the other vehicles. The girl in the tank top and Biker Man took up positions at opposite sides of the small open space. Pistols in their hands they focused on the surrounding woods and the dirt road they had just traveled. It was unlikely that anyone would accidentally intrude on what was about to happen, but they did not rely on chance. They were in a dangerous business. They did not take chances.
The men jerked the side door open. Two reached in and dragged the bound drug couriers, pulling them out and cutting the zip ties around their ankles so they could stand. Their hands remained secured behind their backs.
The driver of the pickup watched while the others stood their captives up, side by side. They made sure that they were away from the vehicles, their backs to the woods.
Sunrise Man, the courier who had leaned against the Toyota watching the dawn and the girl’s ass realized that the pickup driver was the leader of the group. He would decide what happened next, if it was not already decided.
At his side, Van Man looked like he might vomit, or pass out, or both. Face pale, trembling, he stood unsteadily, trying hard not to fall over. Sunrise Man couldn’t blame him. Things were not good, and they were probably going to get a lot worse very quickly.
When the two couriers were standing and positioned, the pickup driver walked over and looked into each face, taking his time, studying them. Nodding as if he had made a decision, he smiled at Sunrise Man.
“We need to talk.”
“Uhmm…okay.” Sunrise Man shrugged, indicating he understood he really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Not sure where this was going, and definitely not wanting to say the wrong thing, he waited, looking into the eyes of the pickup driver, trying to discover what might happen next.
What did happen, occurred so quickly, so matter-of-factly, with such complete indifference that Sunrise Man could not react until it was done. Pickup Driver reached into his pocket and came out with a small .32 caliber pistol. Still smiling, he lifted it, pointed it and pulled the trigger.
“Fuck!” Sunrise man cringed and clamped his eyelids shut, waiting for his death. Wincing reflexively at the sharp crack of the pistol, he opened his eyes. He was still alive. “Fuck! Goddamn, what’d you have to do that for?”
“So we could talk.”
He looked down at his trembling companion. He was no longer trembling. He lay crumpled on his side, the neat little hole in his forehead leaking blood into the sandy ground.
“Fuck!” He was having a hard time thinking of anything else to say. Finally, he was able to pull his eyes away from the body of his companion. “You killed him, so we could talk? What the hell’s that mean?”
“It means I want you to listen.” Pickup Driver raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Are you listening?”
Sunrise man nodded. He was absolutely fucking listening.
“What’s your name?”
“Stu…Stu Taggert.”
“Okay, Stu Taggert. You work for us now.”
“But…”
“Shut up. I’m still talking.” Pickup Driver flipped the safety on the pistol and put it back in his pocket, then looked at Stu Taggert. “Can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want to shoot my balls off.” He looked down at the body of the courier and then back at Taggert. “I picked you. You work for us. Any objections?”
Taggert shook his head.
“Good. So here’s the deal. We been watching you, the operation you work for. Running coke, meth, weed up the coast.” He nodded his head appreciatively. “Relays, couriers. Very professional, I have to give you that. But you forgot one little thing.” He shrugged as if Taggert should have known. “Us. The man we work for, he controls drugs and a lot more. This is his turf.”
Taggert worked up the courage to speak. “But we, they don’t sell anything around here. Just drive through.”
“Well, there’s the problem, you see. Our boss is expanding operations. He is moving north, west…hell, he’s moving everywhere. You are interfering with that.”
“I…uh, we, they didn’t know…”
“I’m pretty sure that’s true. If you knew our boss you would not want him pissed at you…so yeah, you probably didn’t know about his expansion plans. Still, you should have.”
Pickup Driver was silent, waiting while the courier absorbed it all. Taggert’s mind was spinning, processing everything that had happened. He made his decision. It was an easy one to make.
“Okay, I work for you, now.” He looked at Pickup Driver. “What’s that mean?”
“It means, you are going to take us into the operation you work for. Show us who’s in charge, how it’s done, where the drugs are coming from. Then we take over.” He grinned. “And you get to live.”
Taggert looked down at the body on the ground. He didn’t even know the kid’s name, had only seen him a couple of other times on runs. All things considered, working for Pickup Driver, and his boss, seemed like the best deal he was going to get.
“Okay.”
4. Orders
They held hands, strolling across the yard towards the house. She wore sandals, scuffing through the lawn. It felt good, the tickling of the blades on her feet, the coolness of the grass, the warm twilight air, just beginning to cool down from the day. It was all good, comfortable and reassuring.
She stopped and raised his hand, brushing her lips over it. “I think I love you, Mackey.”
Surprised, George smiled at the woman who had come to mean so much to him. “What brought this on?”
Sharon Price shrugged, stood on her toes and lifted her face to him. Their lips met. They held the soft, tender kiss, taking in the scent, the feel, the touch of each other.
“That was nice.” She lifted his hand again to her face, laying her cheek against his fingers. “I do, you know. Love you.”
He nodded. “I know.” It was not something they spoke about, not a word they used often. “You know I…”
She reached up and put her fingers to his lips. “Don’t say it. Not just because I said it.”
“Girl, you should know by now, I don’t do anything because you say it.” He lowered his head and kissed her again. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I can’t imagine life without you…that’s how you changed me.” He smiled. “I do believe that’s love. At least for me it is.”
“Ya’ll comin’, or what?”
They turned to see Fel Tobin, the third member of their little, unconventional family leaning over the railing on the front porch peering around the side of the house. They were running late for their regular after supper visit.
“Coming, Fel. Just got delayed a bit.” Sharon dropped her hand to her side, still holding George’s, and pulled him along.
Climbing the front porch steps, George dropped onto the old kitchen chair that had been designated as his. Fel sat in another. Sharon’s was between the two of them. Fel reached into the ever-present cooler and tossed George a beer. For Sharon, he pulled the can’s pop-top back and handed it to her.
“Thank you, sir.” Sharon lifted the can in a toast. “Here’s to us. Three odd ducks.” Tilting her head back, she took a long pull from the can.
“Damn, I love a girl who drinks beer like a man.” George reached over and put his hand on her knee, sliding it up her leg. “Kind of sexy.”
Sharon brushed his hand away. “Not in front of Fel, Mr. Mackey. He might get the wrong idea about us.”
“Wrong idea? What do you suppose he thinks we’re doing in that apartment over the barn?”
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She looked at the old man. “We don’t do anything, Fel. Our relationship is strictly platonic.”
“Well, that’s a real disappointment to me, young lady.” Fel chuckled and sipped his beer. “Thought by that lip-lock you had on George a minute ago that you two might actually be normal people. I know it’s a long shot, but stranger things have happened, I reckon.”
The banter went on like that, as the night came on. It was their ritual, their comfort. Each night on the porch with Fel was a brick in the foundation of their lives. The foundation grew more solid as time passed on the porch.
Sometime around ten o’clock George stretched and yawned. “Getting late. Thinking I might turn in.” He put his hand on Sharon’s knee again and said with a smile, “How about you little girl?”
The evening might have ended like that, peacefully, the ritual performed and their world securely wrapped in a sense of rightness. But it did not.
“Who the hell is that?” Fell leaned forward in his chair peering into the dark at the two sets of headlights that pulled off the road onto the gravel drive. “Who you reckon is comin’ by this time of night?”
“Damned if I know.” George watched the vehicles approach until they stopped in the yard near the porch. He leaned back in his chair. “Oh.”
Sheriff Sandy Davies got out of the first vehicle. Two men in suits, looking very uncomfortable exited the second. They were obviously some sort of law enforcement officers. George didn’t have to see the shoulder holsters under the ill-fitting suit jackets to know that. The men scanned the three on the porch, clearly looking for weapons or signs of a threat. They came nearer and then stopped, just far enough away that they could see all three at once without turning their heads.
The passenger door of the sheriff’s car slammed. Mike Darlington, Chief Deputy of Pickham County, walked with the sheriff to the house. He was not happy, a mixture of disgust and outright anger plain on his face. He had taken the chief deputy’s duties over when the investigation into the shooting of a killer in the north Georgia mountains had forced George to take a leave of absence from the sheriff’s department. The official GBI report said that it was a good shooting, that George was justified in defending his life and preventing a dangerous, known felon from escaping. The State Attorney General, at the urging of the former sheriff of Pickham County, disagreed and opened the investigation. Sheriff Davies had no choice but to place George on administrative leave until the issue was resolved.
