“I'll take it, I'll take it,” Arthur quickly replied. “Yes, hello, can I help you?” I moved to the edge of my chair, hoping to hear Trudy's voice on the speakerphone.
“Hey, Arthur. It's Jason, your broker. You left me a message early this morning before I got into work.”
“Uh, yes, Jason, thank you for calling back.” Arthur peered at the ceiling and rested one hand on his head. His face lost all color. Frankly, I couldn't imagine the helpless pain he was experiencing, or what type of emotions or reaction I would have if someone in a third world country kidnapped my beloved Marisa—well, actually, yes I can. It wouldn't be pretty.
“Michael, I'll work with Jason on the money end,” Arthur said, while picking up the phone receiver. “I'll give you a call later if I learn anything new or if the kidnappers try to contact me.”
“I'm sure they will be in touch,” I said. “I'll try to rack my brain to see if there is anything we can do beyond getting the money together. I'll be praying for Trudy. Both Marisa and I will pray for her safe return.”
I wasn't sure that would be enough.
Chapter Eight
Feeling uneasy, almost inept, in the face of Arthur's troubles, I stopped by my office. I had poured my heart and soul into this job the last twelve months, and I believed I'd finally connected with the employees, and the paper had connected with the community, convinced of the intrinsic value a newspaper brought to the public. My only time away had been a two-week honeymoon with Marisa in Cancun...the east side of Mexico, as opposed to the west side where Puerto Vallarta sits. I thought about the irony as I dropped by my editor's office to review the top stories and plan for tomorrow's edition.
“Anything hot today?” I asked Brandon Cunningham, my first major hire when I took this unexpected role from Arthur.
“You tell me, boss.” Brandon kept his head down, reviewing two different options for the front-page layout. “You always seem to have your nose near the big story. What do you have for me?”
Brandon knew I'd never been shy to provide guidance on a story.
Brandon was a work in progress, but so far, he was passing with flying colors. Arthur had left the hiring up to me, although my journalistic experience was limited to a single class in high school. He said I had the journalism bug, which, combined with my intuitive mind and business experience, made me the right choice to lead this paper. I interviewed numerous candidates, mostly from outside the paper, wanting fresh blood to reinvigorate the staff. Brandon had worked the sports editor desk at the time, but he begged me for an interview.
Brandon exhibited a tremendous hunger for reestablishing the reputation of the paper in the community and across the region. He seemed to have journalism running through his veins. He was young—only four years out of college—and energetic. He reminded me, at least a bit, of myself coming out of school: idealistic and relentless. A bit rough around the edges when it came to managing the various personalities at the paper, he tended to be open to my coaching. So far, so good, anyway.
Brandon wore his standard uniform—faded jeans, an ironed T-shirt, high tops, and a baseball cap over his golden, wavy locks. Sometimes he even wore the cap backward, which caused me great consternation. If he only knew, I could have dealt with face-covered patches of Mike Tyson-like tattoos with less angst. But much to Marisa's surprise, I bit my lip.
“I haven't stumbled into any big story today,” I said, knowing I couldn't tell Brandon about Arthur's personal tragedy unfolding at this very moment. “Just checking in before I head out for the day. By the way, I like the layout on the left.”
Brandon nodded then raised the layout in his right hand, as if to remind me he was the editor. I liked his confidence, which at times bordered on cockiness.
“One more thing,” I said, sticking my head back into Brandon's office. “I think we need to start thinking more strategically on this drug problem. We've covered three teenagers' funerals in the last three months. We need to step up our game and try to take some new angles on this story. Let's toss around some ideas tomorrow.” He gave me the three-finger salute, and I reciprocated.
I pulled up to the home Marisa and I had shared for the previous four years. We'd been planning to upgrade our rental house, possibly take a financial leap and purchase a new home of our own. I usually took those types of steps carefully. Marisa would say I was afraid of changing our foundation. I was admittedly frugal, although cheap was another word she'd recently started to use.
“Hey, baby.” I tossed my keys in the bowl on the entry table.
Marisa came up and gave me a big smooch. I held on longer than usual, appreciating her touch and her lips, as the news about Arthur's wife lingered in the back of my mind.
I asked Marisa to sit on our old plaid couch, and I explained the bizarre, agonizing story from our friend. A worried crease formed between her watery eyes.
“My God, Michael, what can we do to help? I'm really afraid for her, and I'm sure Arthur is a wreck, especially since he has no way of contacting her.” Marisa ran her fingers through her thick locks of highlighted curls.
We nestled our heads together, silently praying for Trudy's safe return.
The calm was interrupted by the ringing of the home phone.
“Hey, Mama,” Marisa said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. She put her on speakerphone.
“How is my newlywed daughter doing?” asked her mother. “We are coming up on your anniversary, no?”
“Actually, Mama, you're ahead of the game by over a month. We were married on April twenty-seventh. Remember? You were there.” Marisa rolled her eyes, expressing both frustration and concern with her mother living over five hours away in San Antonio.
“I wonder if you and your new husband would be willing for me to come visit you,” Emilia suggested.
Marisa shrugged her shoulders, looking for my response. While usually cordial, her mother had never given any indication of wanting to visit us. Maybe now that we were married, she felt more at ease, given her devout Catholic faith.
Mother and daughter talked for two more minutes, then Marisa ended the call. “Okay, Mama, we'll see you in a couple of days.”
“I guess she's okay now that we're not living in sin?” I said with a smirk.
Knowing her mother would soon invade our lives, Marisa instantly became more playful. She slipped off her sweater and unhooked her lacy, black bra.
“Mother dearest will be here before you know it, so if you want more of this, Michael Doyle, you'll have to catch me.” She stuck out her tongue and skipped back to the bedroom.
I caught up with her, tripping into her arms as I tried to hurriedly step out of my pants near the bed.
“What about dinner? Isn't that what married folks do at this time?” I asked as she rolled her naked body on top of mine.
“I figured I'd give you the dessert first,” she said, as she slowly slid down my torso.
Chapter Nine
“Asientos malditos,” Enrique cursed under his breath, as he attempted to squeeze his black laptop bag around his long legs and under the seat in front of him in the coach section of the Boeing 747.
Once finally settled—his claustrophobia controlled through some deep-breathing exercises—Enrique studied the gray and white ripples nestled below the plane as it rose to forty thousand feet above the ground. He spotted a cloud that reminded him of a recent party he'd attended—the puffy mound of fresh white coke sitting on the coffee table in the high-brow apartment just off the Dallas campus.
The six-foot Latino with strong brown eyes, a chiseled chin, and undeniable charm tried to take his mind off his new startup business for a moment, peering around the cabin. Businessmen and women made up the highest percentage of flyers, most of whom likely worked in sales. Openly envious of people who sat in first class, he wondered if those were the corporate executives, at least the ones in the five-thousand-dollar suits.
A year ago, he thought he was on the path to becoming one of those
suits. After attending the National Autonomous University of Mexico in Mexico City, he was accepted into SMU's Cox School of Business in Dallas. He excelled in every facet of the Master's program, despite having to adjust to a different culture. He graduated magna cum laude and landed several interviews with major corporations in the region. But at every interview, they emphasized his lack of experience. Why the hell had he gone through all of this schooling, graduating with a perfect 4.0 GPA? He was turned away from anything but entry-level positions six different times. Reliving those rejections elevated his blood pressure.
“Excuse me, sir, would you like a drink?” the flight attendant asked.
“Just some water, gracias. Would you have a pillow I could use?” Enrique replied.
“That will be eight dollars.”
“What? I'm not sure I understand.” Enquire raised his right eyebrow.
“It's the new policy, eight dollars for a pillow. Listen sir, I don't make the policy, I just enforce it,” she said with her thick Boston accent.
Enrique sat back, resting his goateed chin in the web of his hand. He thought about the perfect symmetry of capitalism. It's all about supply and demand. Somewhere, an executive had learned through data-driven analysis that consumers of a certain demographic would pay eight bucks for a pilly, germ-infested cushion.
That was the beauty of the business he was starting. The market had, essentially, already been established by the competition. Enrique wasn't naïve. He knew over time trends would change, forcing adjustments to the product, or how it was priced. But he would pride himself on listening to his customers and distributors for feedback. Enrique had learned a great deal during his schooling. He'd completed numerous case studies, and thus, believed his company wouldn't stumble like other startups. And, most importantly, he wasn't a junkie trying to make a buck, assembling a rickety bridge to simply make it to his next binge. The focus would be all about building an efficient, well-managed business.
An attractive girl walked down the aisle, diverting his attention. A pink-and-yellow bow sat on top of bleached hair. Maybe twenty years old or so, her bust protruded from her royal blue, V-neck sweater. She reminded him of his initial breakthrough sale at an off-campus party. He had some cocaine he'd been able to bring with him on his last trip from Mexico. Only an occasional user, he'd intended to share it amongst friends. Then he saw two fun-loving girls, both drinking like alcoholic fish. They begged anyone for something harder than the trash-can punch they'd been chugging. Hesitantly, he showed them the baggie of drugs and said they could have it for three bills—three hundred dollars. They didn't flinch and paid him in cash.
After he and Pedro, his new chief security officer, worked through some different concepts for a business model, the idea for developing a startup began to crystallize—just like the methamphetamine they would eventually produce, traffic, and sell.
The educated businessman eyed the red magazine stuffed inside the seat pocket and thought more about the name of his new venture—Sangre. Blood. The Sangre cartel. It seemed appropriate, given the credo of how they'd operate. Blood would spill, but Pedro would ensure it would flow away from Enrique, and to the benefit of their bank accounts. That much was certain.
The captain announced the jet had now crossed the American border.
Enrique could make out the rugged terrain from the window. His thoughts shifted to the abundance of prospective customers beneath him. This was the land of opportunity, one that stretched so far in every direction that it literally made his mouth water. Americanos...their demand would never diminish, especially on private campuses like the two in the Dallas-Fort Worth area and countless other affluent suburbs. Most of the college kids lived a privileged life and believed they were entitled to anything they, or their parents, could buy. The upstart Sangre cartel would gladly supply the drug of choice to meet its customers' gluttonous demands. This is what made the free world go around.
Chapter Ten
Leaning back in a swivel chair, I sat in our glass-enclosed conference room and observed the controlled chaos of the newsroom around me. The next deadline was still hours away, yet the march of the ants was constant, each person understanding his role, purposely moving toward achieving his daily goals. I felt like a proud papa. Arthur had given me full reign to mold the newspaper in the way I saw fit. He knew I wouldn't force my will in an area I had little knowledge, at least not without consulting the right set of people. For the most part, that's exactly what I'd done.
I had grown to love this business...you couldn't outsource it. It took people, on the ground, listening to the pulse of the community to understand what was important. At times, staff members needed to step up, use their intuition and inquisitive minds to dig a little deeper, question the status quo, and try to facilitate solutions. Despite ruffling feathers in just about every government entity and a few corporations, advertising revenue, subscriptions, and off-the-rack sales had increased. In addition, I'd stepped up our presence on social media. I kept the costs low by utilizing interns from the local universities to help chase down stories for the web, and generally support our more senior reporters, columnists, and photographers. I knew there were “training hospitals.” I wanted the Times Herald to be known as the top training newspaper, one that exuded pride on all levels, inside the industry as well as across the region.
A classic multitasker, Brandon twice walked briskly by the windows holding up a finger, his way of signaling he had one more task to complete before joining me. Each time he was juggling three papers in his hand while also engaged in conversation with a colleague. God love him.
“Morning, Stu,” I said, as he walked into the meeting room with a glum look on his face. His moods notwithstanding, Stu had developed into a well-respected reporter in the last year, so much so that Brandon and I had decided to promote him to our one and only investigative reporter position.
Rose and our senior photographer, Hector Morales, waltzed in discussing something fun from their weekends. They noticed Stu's blue mood and lowered the chatter volume.
“Everything okay, Stu?” I asked, looking around to see if our late-arriving Brandon would soon bless us with his presence.
“I think so. It's just that Courtney never came home last night. She's done this before. She ends up spending the night at a friend's house and never calls us. Her mother and I worry. Damn teenagers. I can't wait until she grows up a bit. Maybe in college. We can only hope.”
I chuckled to help relieve some of the tension, knowing Stu was still noticeably concerned.
“Sorry I'm late, guys.” Brandon raced into the meeting room carrying a couple of folders, a few editions of our paper, and his ever-present cup of coffee. He was a pack rat and wasn't fond of throwing anything away, including cardboard coffee cups, which he reused with gusto.
I hesitated, seeing, once again, he'd broken the sanctity of America's Great Game by turning his baseball cap around. Brandon took the pause as his moment to throw out the first pitch.
“We want to hear feedback from all of you on this topic. How should we tackle this drug problem plaguing our community?” Brandon asked, kicking off his brainstorming session.
“Well, I've got the education angle.” Rose, just three years out of journalism school, arched her back. “I think I can talk to the superintendent and try to understand what they intend to do differently, given the recent overdose deaths.”
Organized like no one I'd ever witnessed, Rose had her shit together. Even her green notepad and pen sat perfectly parallel to each other. Her outfit matched her perfect posture: laundered khaki pants, a white business shirt, two—not three—buttons open, highlighted by a colorful scarf around her neck. Her curly, black hair was pulled back, exposing high cheekbones and a flawless, brown complexion.
Her mental life box appeared to be as structured and formulaic as her appearance. Early in my tenure as associate publisher, I would have jumped all over her response with opinions of my own. Whether I felt more comforta
ble in my role, or more comfortable with Brandon in his, I'd learned to let the ebb and flow of the meeting play out. I was there to support my manager, not steal the spotlight.
“That's a good start, Rose, but we need to look at this a bit differently than a textbook story,” Brandon remarked, setting the creative tone.
“That's why we've brought Stu in. This isn't a problem that got started over night, and it's not going to go away overnight. I want us to look at this from various angles. As we make progress and gain feedback, it should open our eyes to new angles. For example, I think Rose did an outstanding job capturing the emotion and call-to-action from the minister at the funeral for Ashley last week. We could follow up with him and other religious leaders. How are they working with the kids and the parents to deal with the daily pressures and their exposure to drugs?”
I glanced at Stu, hoping he'd offer his experienced insight. But he seemed noticeably absent. It reminded me of my first meeting with him more than a year ago in Arthur's posh office. Good gosh, Arthur must be a mess by now, worried for his wife's very existence and the lack of communication from those who stole her from him. Hopefully she was still alive and unharmed. I knew I had to touch base with him today.
“We need to try to find out where the kids are getting these drugs. How accessible are they? Is it different now than it was five or ten years ago? It seems to go in waves, from my perspective, but that may not be reality. You know what needs to happen. We can talk to the police, but let's dig and follow the path of this insidious drug trail.” Brandon eyed each person the room.
Stu's cell phone buzzed, and he quickly exited the meeting room to take his call. Brandon continued to review story ideas with the team. Hector was gung ho about trying to find the dirty, seedy pictorials that represented drugs, a picture of someone shooting up, a dirty needle, a drug deal gone bad.
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