Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  He dropped his pants and shirt on the floor and slid under the covers. “Hey, baby,” she said softly, and put her arms around him. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes, but not too strongly.

  “Hey,” he mumbled in reply. “Sorry ’m so late. Business.”

  “It’s okay.” She stroked his hair, pulling him against her. He didn’t seem too bad. She decided to go for it. “Charleyboy?”

  “Mmmf?” He was almost asleep.

  “I got some news tonight.”

  “S’good?”

  “My sons. Keith and Mick. They…they sent me a message.”

  At first, she thought he hadn’t heard, that he’d drifted off already. But it was just taking time to sink in. His eyes opened. “What?”

  She took a deep breath. “I put a post on Facebook. In one of those groups for parents who were trying to find their kids. And…and tonight…” She was choking up again. “I got a response. From Mick. They’re on their way.”

  He sat up. “On their way? Like on their way here?”

  She was too emotional to do anything but nod.

  He put his hands over his face and fell back on the bed. “Oh, Christ. Oh, goddamn it.”

  She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. “What? I thought you’d be happy for me.” She felt her anger rising. “Charleyboy, this is something I been trying to do for ten goddamn years. Can’t you be a little bit happy for me?”

  He pulled his hands away from his face and sat back up. He leaned down and fumbled in the shirt crumpled by the bed until he came up with a cigarette and his lighter. “Give me one,” she said. Without a word, he bent and came back up with another cigarette. He put them both in his mouth, lit them, and handed one to her. It was something he’d done on their first night together, and she’d thought at the time it was romantic, because she’d seen it in a movie one time. This morning, it took the edge off her rising anger. But only the edge.

  They didn’t speak until they’d both taken a few puffs. Then Charleyboy broke the silence. “It’s just a bad time, baby. There’s this thing going on with Mr. Luther. I can’t see having kids around with that happening.”

  She took a long drag before answering. “Well, first off, they ain’t kids anymore. Mick’s twenty. Keith’s eighteen. So it ain’t like we’re going to have to keep them in diapers and take ’em to Chuck E. Cheese.” He didn’t laugh. She went on. “And what the hell is this big mysterious thing you got goin’ on with Mr. Luther? If it’s gonna affect both our lives this much, don’t I have a right to know what it’s about?”

  “It’s business.”

  “No shit, baby. And if it’s your business, it’s mine too, ain’t it? I mean, you keep tellin’ me how it’s gonna get both of us out from under Mr. Luther’s thumb, which I am one hundred goddamn percent for, by the way, but you act as nervous as a dog shittin’ rope and fixin’ to pass the hook.”

  That did get the laugh she was after. He always loved it when she “talked country,” as he put it. The laugh died young. He leaned back against the wall, regarding her with grave eyes. “Okay,” he said. “But this is something that has to stay strictly between us.”

  She thought of Winslow and the girl deputy. “Right. Like who am I gonna tell?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” He took a drag on the cigarette. “There’s this guy. His name’s Caspar Gutierrez. He wants in on Mr. Luther’s territory.”

  She didn’t like where this was going. “Go on.”

  “He’s got a big shipment coming in. Tuesday. I found out where and I found out the time.”

  She grimaced. “Shipment. Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yeah, baby. It means cocaine. Lots of it.”

  She wondered if the feds still had the house wired for sound. She assumed they did. She thought of trying to stop Charleyboy, but this was the type of thing they were after. The type of thing that might lead to them getting out of this. “Okay. So Mr. Luther’s going after Gutierrez’s shipment. And since you tipped him off, Mr. Luther’s gonna call your debt even?”

  Charleyboy shook his head. “I know him better than that. He’s never going to let that go. Not as long as he can hold it over me.” He put a hand on hers. “And you.”

  She frowned, confused. “So what…” Comprehension began to dawn. “Oh, no. You’re trying to set up some kind of double cross?”

  He nodded. “Luther thinks he’ll be waiting for Gutierrez. But Gutierrez’ll be waiting for him.”

  She felt her heart breaking. This was his big plan? “Oh, Charleyboy. Oh, no.”

  “I know it’s risky, baby. But if it works, we end up with Gutierrez in our debt, instead of us being in Luther’s. We’ll be free. Not only free, but rich. I can be Gutierrez’s man on the ground here.”

  She wanted to scream at him. But he looked so hopeful, and the look on his face was a naked appeal to her for approval. She reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s crazy, baby.” She forced a laugh. “But it’s just crazy enough to work. Right?”

  He nodded. “Right. But you see how it’s a bad time for your boys to suddenly show up.”

  “I get that. I get it. But what can I tell them? They’re already on the way. They’re my sons, Charleyboy. My flesh and blood.”

  “Just tell them to wait a little bit, okay? You’ll think of something.”

  Yes, she thought. Yes, I will. “Okay, baby. Now let’s get some sleep, okay?”

  He stubbed out his cigarette among the forest of butts in the bedside ashtray. “Yeah. I’m beat.”

  She kissed him softly. “Me, too, lover.” She put her own cigarette out, guided him down to the bed with a hand on his chest, and snuggled against him. Exhaustion and drunkenness put him out like a light within minutes. She lay awake beside him until she was sure he was deeply asleep, then released him and rolled over, staring at the ceiling. Did you get that, Winslow? she asked silently.

  HE HAD. WINSLOW slowly took the headset off and rubbed a hand over his face. “Holy shit,” he said out loud. The net he’d set for Wallace Luther had just pulled in a much bigger fish. Caspar motherfucking Gutierrez. A long-standing member of the Gulf Cartel, Gutierrez had been indicted in absentia by at least three states and four federal districts. Word was that his star was on the wane thanks to those indictments and thanks as well to the rise of some younger, more reckless narcos, but he was still one of the most feared men in Mexico. There’d been rumors he’d been trying to move in on New Orleans, maybe to establish a new base of operations there if he was being squeezed out of the plazas in Mexico. The plazas were established and recognized territories for the cross-border shipment of drugs and humans, hammered out by tough negotiation and sometimes brutal warfare. If Gutierrez was losing ground there, a move into New Orleans might be the kind of Hail Mary maneuver that would give him a new base of operations. And if he was actually going to set foot on American soil…well, nabbing him would be the kind of maneuver that would put Winslow’s own career on a fast track. He put the headphones back on. All he could hear was soft snoring. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. The number showed the call was from the burner he’d given Savannah. He swore under his breath and answered. “This isn’t safe.”

  “Don’t worry,” her voice was hoarse and weary, “he’s out like a light. Did you hear?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “This is a big development.”

  Her voice sharpened. “Yeah. And did you also hear about my boys?”

  He kept his own voice neutral. “I did.”

  “So they’re in the mix now. Whatever kind of protection you’re gonna give me and Charleyboy, Mick and Keith get it too. Or there’s no deal.”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Make it happen, Winslow. Or you don’t hear another word out of me.”

  For a brief, reckless moment, he considered bursting her bubble and letting her know exactly how weak her position was. He already had enough to at least take Charleyboy in on
a conspiracy charge and sweat him until he cracked. It would be even easier to break him down if he put Savannah in a nearby cell and let him know how close she was from going into general population with the real hard cases. But that wouldn’t make bringing Wallace Luther or Caspar Gutierrez in a sure thing, and if there was one thing a U.S. Attorney demanded of an agent, it was a sure thing, a slam-dunk not even the most incompetent attorney could lose. Nothing was more embarrassing to a political appointee than parading a declared kingpin in front of the video cameras, only to have them walk down the courthouse steps as a free man a few months later. “I can make it happen,” he said. “I’ve got to take this upstairs. But I can make it happen.”

  “I ain’t convinced.”

  Winslow tried to think of what he could do to string her along. He thought of the SAC’s words. The girl deputy. Maybe she can talk to the girlfriend. “Look, let’s meet. I’ve got someone I want to introduce you to.”

  There was a short silence. “I’ll call you,” she said. “We’ll set it up later. Right now, I need to get some sleep.”

  “I hear you,” he said. “You’ve done some good work, Savannah. We’re not going to forget it. We’re going to take care of you.” He didn’t know if she’d heard his last words before he hung up. He looked at his watch. He’d been up all night, and the numbers on the cheap Seiko swam before his eyes for a moment: 6:30 a.m. He tried to will the fatigue away. His relief should be showing up any minute. And once he did, Winslow was going to have to move fast. He decided it was too early to call his boss, but there was someone he didn’t mind rousting out of bed. He dialed Chance’s number.

  CHANCE HAD just gotten out of the shower, sluicing off the sweat she’d worked out from a morning run with Jonas and the bug spray that made the run possible. “Who the hell…” she muttered as she picked the buzzing phone up off the bedside table, then grimaced as she saw the name on the screen. She let it ring for a moment as she wrapped herself in a towel. It may not have been logical, but there was no way she was talking with Winslow naked. “Yeah?” she said when she answered, hoping the irritation came through.

  “Hey,” Winslow said, “did I get you up?”

  “No,” she said, thinking maybe if he hadn’t gotten the point the first time that one-word answers, sharply delivered, would do the trick.

  “There’s been a development.”

  She rummaged through her closet, looking for a pair of slacks. Days like this, she wished she was back in uniform. It certainly cut down on the number of clothing decisions she had to make. “What?”

  “We need to meet. I can’t tell you over the phone.”

  She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear while she sat down to pull on her underwear and a pair of black pants. “I’m supposed to check in back at the department before I go back out with you. I’m supposed to debrief at nine o’clock, and I’m already running late.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Winslow, this may seem strange to you, but I’m still a deputy of St. Bernard Parish. I don’t work for you.”

  “I’ll clear it with your boss. We need you to take a bigger role.”

  That stopped her. “Bigger how?”

  “We’ll go over that when we talk. I’m buying breakfast.”

  “Okay. Elizabeth’s?” She named one of her favorite spots in the Bywater area of New Orleans.

  “Where’s that? Is it expensive?”

  She gave him the address. “And nothing that’ll break the bank.”

  “Okay, then,” he said.

  “You going to call and square it with my sergeant?”

  “As soon as I get off the phone.”

  “See you there.” She looked at the phone as he broke the connection. A bigger role? What could that mean? And why was Winslow being so secretive? Surely he didn’t think her phone, or his, were being tapped? She looked at Jonas, who lay at her feet, panting happily after his run. “What’s going on, boy?” The dog responded by rolling onto his back, offering his belly for scratches. She laughed. “Now there’s a fellow with his priorities straight.” She rubbed his tummy for a moment, causing the dog to wriggle with pleasure and wag his tail madly, before she stood up and finished dressing. She thought of calling her dad, but put aside the idea. Winslow was obviously in a hurry, and her stomach was growling as she contemplated an Elizabeth’s shrimp and tasso omelet. Having the DEA pay for it would make it taste even better.

  WYATT SAT IN his truck and opened the envelope. The report was brief and not particularly helpful. Carl Welch had come to the sheriff’s department reporting that his son, Tyler, had disappeared. The detective on duty, a guy named Lake who Wyatt remembered from his days as a road deputy, had taken down the information, but noted that the boy was eighteen years of age and that he’d taken the money he’d earned from his part-time job. “No evidence of violence or force used,” Lake had written. “Subject appears to have left home.” Which was a perfectly reasonable thing to have concluded, Wyatt had to admit. Unless the person making the conclusion had known Tyler Welch.

  He’d followed the boy’s progress since the DSS case had ended in Savannah Jakes permanently losing all parental rights to her sons, Mick and Keith, leading to their availability for adoption. It had been a two-day, contentious court hearing, with Savannah taking the stand near the end and tearfully insisting that she’d do anything, anything it took to be a mother to her two boys. Anything, the county attorney representing Social Services had pointed out, except turn in clean drug screens, complete her drug and alcohol rehabilitation courses, and stop living with men whose houses were raided on a regular basis by the county drug squad, as testified to by the sheriff himself, the Honorable Wyatt Cortland McGee. It had taken the judge less than a minute after the close of all the evidence and the closing argument of Savannah’s well-meaning but hapless court-appointed attorney to declare that not only did sufficient legal grounds exist to terminate the parental rights of Savannah Jakes and, in absentia, the father or fathers she refused to identify, but also that it was in the boys’ best interest that they be freed up for adoption. Preferably, the judge said while looking over his wire-rimmed glasses directly at Savannah, by people who cared more about their child’s welfare than they did about their next party. That had set the young woman off. She’d raised her head from where she’d been weeping onto the counsel table, shoved her lawyer out of his chair, and charged the bench, long red hair flying and fists clenched. Wyatt had stepped into her way and almost been bowled over before he and an elderly bailiff had managed to subdue her as she kicked and spat curses. When another pair of deputies showed up to cart her off to jail, Kassidey had come over to where he sat on one of the courtroom chairs. “That’s a pretty nasty scratch,” she said.

  He was wiping the blood from his arm with his handkerchief. “Yeah.”

  She’d leaned over to whisper to him. “Let me take you home and patch you up.”

  They’d been seeing one another since two weeks after the incident where they’d picked the boys up. They thought their affair was under the radar, but Wyatt was to find out within a month of the hearing, on the day he was served with divorce papers, that it was the least well-kept secret in the county. At the time, though, the thrill of what Wyatt thought was secrecy made their meetings all the sweeter.

  Wyatt shook his head and tried to put that history out of his mind.

  Savannah had spent thirty days in jail for contempt and had dropped off the radar as soon as she got out. Mick, the older boy, had been hard to place. He was a wild one, prone to sudden outbursts of physical violence that disrupted every home and several facilities where he’d been placed. Wyatt had eventually lost track of the various placements. Keith, however, was quickly adopted by his foster parents, Carl and Marian Welch, who renamed him Tyler, all record of his prior name and history blotted from public records. He’d grown up to be a straight-A student, a talented athlete, and a dutiful churchgoer. Every time Carl or Marian had run into Wyatt in town or at so
me social function, they were overflowing with the news about their boy and with gratitude toward Wyatt, who they credited in large part with making his good life possible. It seemed improbable that polite, well-behaved Tyler Welch would just up and leave like that, without so much as a goodbye to his doting parents. It seemed even less likely that he’d be involved in a robbery like the one up in Spencer. Unless, he thought, he’d been more like his mother and brother than anyone suspected.

  Wyatt frowned. Had Tyler really gone willingly with his brother? Wyatt had seen the gun in his hand, but did that necessarily mean that Tyler wasn’t under duress? He needed to talk to whoever was investigating the robbery up in Spencer. He knew the sheriff there, but not well. It wasn’t a sure thing that anyone there would talk to a retired lawman, especially one who’d left under the cloud he had. What the hell, Wyatt thought. The least they can do is tell me no. First, however, he needed to fill in the gaps in his knowledge about where Mick had gone. He started the truck.

  TYLER SAT up, blinking in confusion. It was daylight. Out the window of the car, green fields rolled by on either side. His neck was sore from the awkward position he’d slept in. He looked over at the other seat. Mick had his eyes locked on the road, staring straight ahead, his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel. As Tyler watched, his head began to droop forward, his eyes slowly closing.

  “Mick,” Tyler said.

  Mick’s head snapped up, his eyes widening.

  “You need sleep,” Tyler said. “You’ve been up, what, a day and a half now?”

  “Two.” Mick’s voice was low and raspy with exhaustion. “But I’m okay.”

  “Bullshit. You’re not okay! I just saw you nearly nod off. You’re going to get us all killed!”

  Lana spoke up from the back seat, her voice slurred and sulky. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

  “South Carolina, baby girl,” Mick said. “You hungry?”

  “I guess.”

  “I got sandwiches. Pass Keith up his. It’s got his name written on it.”