Faces of the Gone: A Mystery

by Brad Parks

  I believed him. This Director guy seemed nothing if not organized—he was sending out memos, for goodness sake. Nobody with that level of competence would allow a street-level hustler to know much about the operation.

  “So how do you know when it’s time to pick up another shipment?”

  “I do it the same time every week.”

  “Same place?”

  “Naw, they call me and tell me where to meet them. Then I put on a blindfold and get in a van so I can’t see nothing.”

  “A white van?”

  “Yeah.”

  Of course it was a white van. I wondered if the Director had a fleet of them, or just one. Bat Boy, still upside down, patiently awaited my next query.

  “They always call you from the same number?” I asked.

  “Different numbers. I think they use them throw-away cell phones.”

  “They always give you the same amount of product?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what if you haven’t sold all your product from the week before?”

  “Don’t matter. I signed a contract.”

  “A contract?” I said. Generally speaking, distributors of Class 1 narcotics were not known to be real caught up in the use of legal instruments.

  “Yeah, I sign a new one every couple of months. It’s basically, like, I agree to sell so much product and they agree to provide it to me, and it’s all done out ahead of time. My contract right now is for four bricks.”

  I did the math. Four bricks was two hundred bags. Even assuming he sold each bag at a $2 profit, that was still only $400 a week. So, basically, he was risking jail, getting smoked by a fellow dealer, stabbed by a wacked-out customer, or killed by his own employer—all for twenty grand a year. True, the hours were flexible. And it was tax free. But I was guessing the health plan sucked.

  “And how did you hook up with these guys? Who recruited you?”

  “This dude in prison.”

  “Which dude?”

  “The drug counselor dude,” Rashan said. “One of my boys told me all I had to do was pretend I had a drug problem, get treatment for it, and then pretend I was cured, and they would let me out early. So that’s what I did. Knocked six months off my stretch.”

  Ah, the redemptive power of recovery.

  “So you met a guy in counseling who hooked you up?” I asked.

  “No, no. The dude who hooked me up was the counselor.”

  “The substance abuse counselor?” I asked. Just when I thought I’d heard everything.

  “Yeah. He took me aside one day and asked me if I wanted to make easy money selling the best stuff on the market. I heard all kinds of stories about how hard it was to get a job when you get out because no one hires ex-cons, so I was like, ‘Yeah.’ And when I got out, one of his boys found me.”

  “What’s the counselor’s name?

  “Umm . . .”

  “Don’t make me call my friend in the next room.”

  “No, no, come on, man,” he pleaded. “I’m just trying to think . . . It was Mr. Hector . . . Mr. Hector . . . Alvarez. Yeah, that’s it. Hector Alvarez.”

  Hector Alvarez. I guess that sounded like a plausible name for someone who worked for José de Jesús Encarcerón. But it also sounded like a name my pal Rashan Reeves could have made up on the spot. There was one way to check. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Tommy.

  “You have a lot riding on this phone call, Rashan,” I said as I waited for Tommy to pick up.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Tommy, it’s Carter.”

  “Where have you been? Tina just asked me if I had seen you.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That you were in the bathroom.”

  “Good man,” I said. “Now can you do me a favor real quick? Look up and see if a guy named Hector Alvarez works for the Department of Corrections.”

  We had a database of all state and local employees that, from an information standpoint, was nothing short of gold. It came to us courtesy of an Open Public Records Act request our newspaper made each year. It made snooping on public employees as simple as a few mouse clicks.

  “Yeah, got him,” Tommy said. “Hector I. Alvarez. Born 10/25/1963. Hired 11/01/2003. He made $38,835 last year.”

  “Excellent. Can you get an address for him?”

  “Hang on,” Tommy said, and I heard his keyboard chattering away. I cupped my cell phone and turned upside down so I could look at Rashan.

  “When you get out of here, you might want to send a thank- you note to Tommy Hernandez, care of the Eagle-Examiner,” I said. “He just saved something precious to you.”

  It didn’t take much convincing to get Rashan to join my field trip to Hector Alvarez’s house. Anything that didn’t involve his penis in close proximity to Kevin Mack’s hunting knife sounded like a pretty good idea to Rashan.

  By the time he was untied, redressed, and debriefed—a short, scary lecture from Bernie Kosar about the consequences of ever again tussling with the Browns—it was after five. A cold, blustery night was settling in outside. Rashan had his backpack returned to him, soda can tabs still attached, then was blindfolded and released into my recognizance. As an honorary member of the Brick City Browns, I was bound to protect the secrecy of Brown Town’s location. So I escorted him to my car, then drove around for a few blocks before allowing him to remove his blindfold.

  It wouldn’t have surprised me at any point if Rashan had simply bolted. After all, it was clear I wasn’t the muscle. It was possible Rashan was afraid the Browns would hunt him down if he ran. Or he might have felt beholden to me for having helped save him from horrible disfigurement. Either way, he had become quite docile, even cooperative.

  And as we drove across town toward Hector Alvarez’s home—the address Tommy gave me was on Sanford Avenue, in Newark’s West Ward—he seemed amenable to chatting.

  “So tell me again how Alvarez picked you out,” I asked. “I don’t know, man. I was just going through the program like everyone else. I was getting toward the end. I think he knew I was about to be released. And he asked me what I was planning to do when I got out. I told him I didn’t know. Then he started telling me about The Stuff.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That it was the best. That I’d make a lot of money. That junkies went wild for it.”

  “Did they?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. I got out like four months ago. My first contract was for two bricks—I was a little worried about biting off more than I could chew. But I didn’t have no problems selling it. So I went up to four. I sold out every week. I didn’t even have to find customers. They was finding me. I was thinking about going up to six or eight bricks, but now I don’t know. I might quit.”

  “Why?” You know, besides the fact that it was illegal, immoral, and dangerous.

  We idled at a stoplight. Rashan was staring out the passenger side window as he spoke. “That Ludlow Street thing, man,” he said. “That’s some cold business. I don’t want to end up like that because some dude thinks I didn’t follow my contract.”

  “Was that really in the contract you signed? The part about not cutting?”

  “Yeah, man. I mean, I guess it was. I didn’t realize they were that serious about it, though.”

  “You keep a copy of the contract?” I asked hopefully.

  “Nah.”

  “Too bad,” I said. There’s something about documents supporting a story—any kind of documents—that editors absolutely love. I would estimate documents were the source of a third of all Brodie’s newsroom erections.

  “So did you know any of the Ludlow Four?” I asked.

  “Nah.”

  “None of them?”

  “Nah. I don’t know any of the other dealers,” he said. “It’s like we all got our separate little things going on. The guy who gives me The Stuff, he tells me I’ll never have to worry about competition. He said we all got our own turf and we’ll never bump in
to each other.”

  “So that’s why you don’t quit?”

  “Yeah, man,” he said. “It’s like guaranteed profit. Where else is a guy like me going to make that kind of money?”

  Twenty lousy grand a year? How about down at the ports. In a trade union. Driving a truck. In fact, there were dozens of jobs where a young man like Rashan Reeves could make much better money and do it legally—but only if he was willing to be a little patient, get some training, and establish a decent work history.

  “I think this is it,” I said as we pulled up across the street from the Sanford Avenue address Tommy had given me. It was a two-story duplex with separate entrances adjacent to each other. Both sides were dark and there were no cars in the short driveway.

  “Hang here for a second,” I said.

  I got out just in time to get sideswiped by a cold gust of wind. I walked quickly up the five stairs on the front porch. Hector Alvarez’s address had an A after it, so I rang the doorbell on the left.

  I hadn’t necessarily formulated a plan for what I would do if Alvarez actually answered but it didn’t matter. There was no one home.

  Still, there were signs of continued occupancy: only one day’s worth of mail in the box, a girl’s bike chained to the railing, jackets hanging in the foyer. There was definitely a lived-in aura. It seemed worthwhile to stay for a while to see who might show up.

  “Mind hanging here for a little bit?” I asked when I returned to the warmth of the Malibu.

  “You mean, like a stakeout?” Rashan asked.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Cool,” he said, sounding genuinely enthused. “You got yourself a pretty cool job, huh?”

  “There are lots of cool jobs out there, Rashan,” I said. “We’ll have to find you one someday.”

  Ten minutes later, I was in the midst of explaining to Rashan the process of how a story got into the newspaper when a brand- new red Audi A4 rolled slowly past us and turned into the driveway. A short, round, middle- aged Hispanic man got out and Rashan practically jumped over the dashboard.

  “That’s him,” he said. “That’s Mr. Hector.”“Come on, Rashan,” I said. “If you want to see how a reporter gets a story, this is a good place to start.”

  Or at least it was a good start if he wanted to get a feeling for ambush-style journalism, which is what this situation demanded. I closed in fast, with Rashan right behind me. Alvarez was barely out of his car when we were already on top of him.

  “Hi, Hector, Carter Ross from the Eagle-Examiner,” I said. “And I’m sure you remember Rashan here.”

  Alvarez rocked back on his heels. He pretty clearly did remember Rashan and was too stunned to open his mouth.

  “Rashan tells me you recruited him on behalf of a local drug syndicate,” I continued. “You want to tell me who you’re working for?”

  Rashan and I had Hector more or less pinned against the open door of his Audi, which still had a faint new-car smell to it. Alvarez had a broad, fleshy face that was registering complete surprise.

  “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to recover from his shock but not doing very well.

  “Well, then, let me remind you: Rashan was one of your patients in a drug and alcohol rehab program at East Jersey State Prison. When you realized he was nearing the end of his sentence and going back home to Newark, you offered to hook him up with a source for heroin.”

  “I don’t know who he is. He’s got me confused with someone else,” Alvarez said halfheartedly. Rashan just scoffed.

  “Sure, sure he does,” I said. “Let me lay this out for you right now, Hector. You’ve been doing something very bad, something I’m sure the commissioner of the corrections department would be eager to hear about. Now, if you can help me out and tell me who you work for, maybe I can forget your name, you can forget your little sideline business, and everyone can move happily on with their lives. Or if you don’t tell me who you’re working for, I’ll plaster your name in a nice big headline, and you’ll not only lose your job, you’ll end up serving time with some of the very same people you’re counseling now.”

  I was pretty sure I had the man soundly beaten and just moments away from full confession. But apparently Hector Alvarez was a little more stubborn than I gave him credit for. That, and the shock was wearing off.

  “He’s lying to you,” Hector said. “I’m a certified drug and alcohol counselor. I got a degree. Who are you going to believe, me or some punk?”

  I glanced at Rashan, then back at Hector.

  “The punk,” I said.

  “Then you go ahead and print your story and I’ll sue your ass off,” Alvarez said. “My cousin is a journalist. I know how this stuff works. You can’t just print something because someone says it’s true. This punk is lying.”

  Rashan shouted a few excited obscenities and faked a charge at Alvarez, who cringed. I grabbed Rashan by his backpack, and he allowed himself to be restrained—basically because he wasn’t planning on jumping Alvarez anyway.

  “Calm down, Rashan,” I said. “We’re just having a conversation here. Because now Hector is going to explain how he can afford this very nice new automobile on a drug counselor’s salary.”

  Alvarez gazed longingly at the Audi for a second then turned back to me like I was talking about stealing his firstborn.

  “That’s none of your business,” he said.

  “You make thirty-eight grand a year, Hector,” I said. “I looked it up. I can also look up how much money you owe on your house. I’m guessing between your house payment and car payment, something won’t add up. Unless, of course, there’s some, you know, outside stream of income. But I’m sure you can explain that all to the IRS after I run my story.”

  “Screw you,” Hector said.

  I lost control of my inner wiseass and pulled out my notepad.

  “Is that your official comment, Mr. Alvarez? ‘Screw you’?”

  “Suck my dick,” he said.

  “Interesting,” I said, pretending I was writing that down, too. “Not only is he the Crooked Drug Counselor of the Year, Mr. Alvarez is also a homosexual.”

  Alvarez slammed the door to the Audi and stormed past us toward his house. “If you got anything more to say to me, you can talk to my lawyer,” he said.

  “I’m not going away, Hector,” I called out as Alvarez fumbled with his keys. “But you can end this little problem in one sentence. Just give me a name and you get to keep your job.”

  He stuck the key in the lock, turned it, then looked at me.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said, shortly before disappearing through his front door. “You think I’m worried about my job?”

  • • •

  The door slammed. I stuffed my notebook in my pocket and turned to walk back to the car. Rashan didn’t follow. “What!?” he said. “That’s it? You’re not going to go break

  the door down?”

  “I’m a newspaper reporter, not a bounty hunter,” I said. “But he’s lying!”

  “I know. No law against lying to a newspaper reporter. It

  happens all the time.”

  “So you just let him go?”

  “I may call him later—but only when he’s cooled down,” I

  said. “I took a chance that ambushing him like this would catch him off guard and he’d just start blabbing. It didn’t work.” “But you’re going to go write the story now, right?”

  “Before I write it, I have to prove it,” I said. “Rashan, I know you’re telling the truth. And I could tell that guy was full of crap. But unfortunately, Hector is right: no one is going to believe a drug-dealing ex-con over someone who works for the Department of Corrections. I need to verify your story two or three different ways before my editors will even think about printing it.”

  Rashan stuck out his lower lip in a convincing pout, making it clear his first brush with journalism had left him rather unsatisfied.

  “This isn’t a Wes
tern, Rashan,” I continued. “The guys in the white hats don’t always win. At least not right away. Sometimes you got to keep at it for a long time before you get the payoff.”

  With that particu lar bit of advice, I was talking about more than just journalism. But it was hard to tell if Rashan was listening anymore. I had disappointed him and now he was tuning me out.

  “Get in the car,” I said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Nah,” he said. “I ain’t going back there.”

  I didn’t know if he meant now or ever.

  “Okay. Well, here’s my card,” I said, handing it to him. “Give me a call sometime, okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” Rashan said, then, without looking at me, turned and walked off into the night, his soda can tabs jingling as he went. I watched him go until all I could see was the night reflector strip on his backpack bobbing up and down. Then I went back to the Malibu, feeling the weight of the day settle on me.

  It was getting to be six, which felt a lot like quitting time. And on a normal Friday, after a rough week at the office, I might just head home, curl up with Deadline, and watch Braveheart for approximately the fiftieth time. Except now my copy of Braveheart was just one more piece of ruin in what used to be my house. And, sadly, so was Deadline.

  Then there was the other standby Friday-night activity for the suddenly overstressed: going out to some local bar, getting mindblowingly drunk, and hitting on anything under the age of forty that wasn’t utterly repulsed by me. Except there was the small problem of what I would do if I actually succeeded in luring some lovely young lady into my clutches. Hey, honey, what do you say we go back to my place. I’ve got this great little debris pile not far from here . . .

  No, I was pretty much cruising for another night on Tina’s couch—or maybe, if I could stop being such a loser, Tina’s bed.

  I just had one last errand to accomplish before I started traveling that way. Call it a mission of guilt: I wanted to see if I could find anyone who had seen Red or Queen Mary since their building got blown up. It wasn’t going to do them a lot of good if they were, in fact, underneath the rubble of Building Five. But I felt like I at least owed it to them to check.