by Jon Land
“You did,” Pam blared at him. “It’s written all over your face. You look like a fucking dog who’s just turned back an intruder into his territory. Come on, love, look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t glad when the opportunity arose for you to use your fists.”
Drew didn’t bother. Lying was pointless. Pam knew him better than he knew himself.
“You go off in the woods and play Rambo,” she continued, “and now you can’t get it out of your system. The games aren’t enough anymore. You want to play hero for real.”
“They were mixing a friend of mine’s face in Caesar salad.”
“So it was Drew Jordan to the rescue. No white horse and six-shooter, just a pair of fists the punching bags aren’t enough for anymore. And instead of leaving a silver bullet behind, you left with a smile.”
She started to stand up. Drew restrained her gently at the shoulders, her resolve more than equal to his strength.
“You’re too tired to drive,” he said with curt seriousness.
“And if I disagree, what are you gonna do, punch my lights out, too?”
“Nope, I’m hopeless without Tonto. Besides, if I knock you out, taking advantage of you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”
She started to pull away from him, then sighed with a weak smile. “You know why I can’t stay mad at you for more than thirty seconds? Because you won’t argue with me. You stand there and nod at everything I say.”
“Not all the time. Tonight it happened to be the truth.”
“Know thyself …”
“Doesn’t mean I can change or even that I want to. I keep going to that camp mostly because it makes me feel alive, and tonight I felt even more alive because what I did mattered. I helped someone who was in trouble. What you don’t realize is that when it comes to some people, you can throw all your values clarification and moderating skills out the window. Approach them with a ‘come on, fellas’ and you’ll be lucky to get the ‘on’ out before a quick fist has you talking with a permanent lisp. I did what I had to tonight. How I felt about it is irrelevant.”
“Savage to savage, right?”
Drew winked and squeezed her shoulders tenderly. “Speaking of savage …”
“There you go again.”
“Me Tarzan, you Jane. What you say we go make boy?”
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t love you so damn much.” And they kissed.
“My place or yours?” he asked her.
“Whichever’s closer.”
Drew had made love with many other girls and women, but seldom did he have the desire to do anything but go through the motions once the act was over. With Pam, the act itself was just the beginning. He loved simply sleeping with her, their arms interwoven and chests pressed tight together. He loved waking in the early morning hours and just seeing her there next to him. He would hug her tight and somehow in her sleep she would hug him back. She loved him without accepting all his actions, and this constant give-and-take had brought them even closer together. Drew liked criticism, saw it in a sense as one of the greatest ways someone could show they cared. Tolerance or passive acceptance had never worked with him, nor could he involve himself with a woman who treated him with too much deference. Pam’s strength was not physical, but, undeniably, it was there and in many ways far greater than the force that had allowed him to effortlessly put down the Ryker brothers in Clyde’s.
Thing of it was, no matter what she might have said about him being a savage, in bed that onus fell willingly upon her. She knew when to take command and when not to, and tonight was no exception. Her hands probed, rubbed, guided. Drew never ceased to be amazed at how she could arouse him no matter his mood. Tonight he was ready and that served to increase his pleasure. He rose over her and moved patiently, trying to time every move, but after a few seconds instinct took over and he lost himself within her. Minutes later it was over and he felt full and warm.
They tried again not long after, this time reversing the positions so Pam might have a turn in the lead. They broke off after that, collapsing in exhaustion with Pam falling almost immediately off to sleep. Drew lingered awake for some time and it seemed as though he had barely fallen asleep at last when the phone ringing on his night table jarred him. He fumbled for the receiver in the darkness, grasping it finally and remembering how much he feared late night phone calls.
“Yes? Hello.”
“Is Mr. Jordan there, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Andrew Jordan, this is Dr. Morris Kornbloom. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you… .”
Chapter 5
“THE LIFE OF A person is judged on …”
The rabbi’s voice droned on through the heat of Doris Kaplan’s gravesite in West Palm Beach. The memorial service at Temple Beth El had been attended by perhaps two hundred people, and about half that number had formed the procession to the cemetery. According to Dr. Kornbloom, Drew’s grandmother had died in the early morning hours on Thursday of a massive heart attack. Now, Friday afternoon, he watched as they buried her.
He had made it through the day thus far in a daze. He accepted polite, sincere condolences from dozens of people, few of whom he had ever met. It was all very eerie and unnerving and Drew had never felt more alone. Pam had desperately wanted to accompany him down here, but he refused to let her, aware of her work load and how far back she’d be set if she lost even three days. So, he would go it alone as he had gone so often through his life.
Of course, tragedy was nothing new for him. It had struck once before, twenty-one years ago to be exact, on a rainy night back in Westchester when news of his parents’ deaths was brought to the door by a state trooper. His grandmother had handled everything. At their funeral he hadn’t felt alone because she was with him. Now it was her funeral and he had cried more than he had back then.
She was a strong woman and Drew had always thought her to be a physical giant. Only when he began his growth spurt at the age of eleven did he realize that his grandmother was barely five-four and that he had fallen into the syndrome children often do of making adults they respect or love mammoth in size. She had been everything to him for so long, but Drew had pulled away from her this last year and now the pangs of guilt felt like stray marbles in his stomach.
His reaction, actually, had been normal. Supported through college and beyond, he at last resolved himself to make it on his own. It was time to grow up, or at least, to try. He was too old for college and too old to be supported by his grandmother. So for the past year he had driven himself madly, pounding out article after article. Half were rejected. But half were published and he saved enough to put the articles aside for a while and start work on his book.
Saved enough … who was he kidding? Only the fact that his grandmother handled the payments on his car and condo allowed him even the semblance of a writing career. When he had begun refusing her regular checks, her response had been that Drew would never have to worry about money. She had taken care of everything.
Doris Kaplan had been a feisty woman who never took crap from anyone. Now, as the rabbi’s voice droned on, Drew found himself sadly recalling incidents that typified her spirit. Like the time she had settled a strike at the manufacturing plant by threatening to run all the machines herself and actually doing it for an hour before the workers tossed down their picket signs and went back in. Or when a teacher gave Drew a poor quarterly grade for no good reason and his grandmother had staged a one-person sit-in in the principal’s office until she received a fair hearing with all parties involved. The stories went on and on. Drew realized only now how much they meant to him, and that made the last year even harder to accept. He couldn’t help but think that his insistence on turning away her checks had been tantamount to turning away her love. It was difficult to draw the line and in the process of not trying to, he had made himself a stranger to her.
In fact, she had visited Washington only once since his graduation, in spite of his constant urgings to come up. Sh
e always had an excuse ready, but Drew was certain that the truth was she didn’t want to impose on whatever life he was building. For his part, Drew visited Palm Beach at least twice a year for a week or so, always staying at the exclusive Breakers where his first realization that adulthood had officially set in came when he was told he had to don a jacket in the lobby after six.
Andy (she never would call him Drew, which he much preferred), this is your grandmother. I hope I’m not bothering you… . All her phone calls started that way and they never did bother him.
The rabbi was reading from a prayer book now, words as simple as the gravesite itself. Drew shared the chairs placed at the front with two aunts he knew barely at all and whom Doris Kaplan had never had much good to say about. The only person he had really come to know here was Morris Kornbloom, who had been supportive and caring right from the awful phone call in the early morning hours on Thursday. Kornbloom had mentioned something about the will when he arrived, and Drew guessed he would have to stay around for the reading although it was the last thing he would have preferred.
Drew shifted uneasily in his chair. It was unusually hot for this time of year in Florida and the only suits he owned were made of wool. His shirt was already soaked all the way through and he could feel the warm sweat reaching for his vest.
At last it was over, and Drew did his best to separate himself from his never seen and now last remaining relatives. The rabbi came over to offer his final condolences and Drew thanked him for everything, which wasn’t really much. Then he melted away, escaping all except Dr. Morris Kornbloom.
“We have to talk,” Kornbloom said softly.
Drew shrugged, the doctor gauging his reaction.
“This is different,” he continued, extracting an envelope from his jacket pocket. “This was among your grandmother’s effects. As executor of her estate, it was given to me along with a note from her saying that I should deliver it to you personally in the event that her death was unnatural.”
“Does a heart attack qualify as unnatural?”
“The circumstances do. Delirium’s a convenient enough explanation, but it doesn’t wash, not for me. Then there are the deaths of the other three women to consider. All explainable as well, and I might be able to accept them if your grandmother hadn’t been found outside the Breakers, perhaps trying to escape something.”
“Doctor—”
Kornbloom jammed the letter into Drew’s hand. “I haven’t read this and I want you to take it now so I won’t be able to.” His voice trailed off. “I’m here if you need me, though. I … just want you to know that.”
Drew started to open the envelope. A rigid hand from Kornbloom stopped him before he was halfway through the tear.
“Not here,” he advised. “My impression is that the letter’s contents are personal.” He paused, eyes mournful. “You’ve got my number. I know you have no reason to trust me, but if—”
“My grandmother trusted you,” Drew interrupted. “That’s plenty reason enough.”
Drew finished opening the envelope in the backseat of the limousine as it wound its way back to the Hyatt Palm Beaches. The glass divider was in place and the window typically dark, making him feel as though he were inside a coffin himself. The letter was neatly typed. Drew absorbed each word, with his grandmother’s voice whispering softly into his ear.
Andy—
I’ve been working on this letter for days now. So many times I’ve crumpled it up and started over. Even now I’m not satisfied with what I’m writing. Maybe I should destroy this draft as well and spare you the truth.
But you deserve the truth. You must have the truth because I fear what I have become involved in might reach out somehow and destroy you as it has destroyed me. I am at this instant an extremely wealthy woman, which makes you an extremely wealthy young man. I lied to you about your grandfather’s trust fund; there never was any. Sam was never much of a businessman and never would have had the foresight even if he’d had the money. But none of this is important to you. What is important is that I sought whatever means were available to secure your future.
How I would love not to tell you this … Andy, for the last five years, I and the other grandmothers whom you know have served as cocaine smugglers. All those trips to Nassau were just fronts for us to pick up shipments and deliver them back to the States. I would never say I approved of what I did, but I believed in it because I wanted to have the money.
Then, recently, the guilt set in. I guess it happened over a long period of time, but I only truly felt it these past few months. All those children’s lives ruined by the substance I was helping to make rampant. I was just a small part, but a part all the same. I felt each tragic story related over the news personally. It started to eat me up. I had to make amends.
I went to the DEA, Andy, to an agent named Sam Masterson. My only condition for helping him was that the other grandmothers would be left out of it. The plan was for him to follow the cocaine from the time we brought it in all the way up the ladder. He assured me everything was routine, promised me protection.
If you are reading this, it means that protection was not enough and that the people I worked for have taken their revenge. But this letter is more than a confession; it is also a warning. I fear your life is in danger, too. Those behind my employ will have no choice but to believe you were in on everything and thus could hurt them as much as I could. Contact Masterson. His private number is on the back of this letter. Tell him who you are. There are ways he can help you. God knows he owes it to me… .
Ending letters has always been hard for me. I feel that so long as I sit here typing, you are with me. Remember, then, that I will always be with you.
My love always …
Drew read the letter for the fifth time while seated in his hotel room chair. His breathing stayed rapid, more tears choked off by the shock contained in what he could not allow himself to believe. Doris Kaplan a drug smuggler? Within that bizarre proposition lay a shred of credibility, enough truth for whatever self-denials Drew might have been able to mount to be futile. It was all there in black-and-white, a confession, a warning. Yes, it was something she would do. His grandmother, a woman without fear, strong in a way others could only dream of. Life could snap out at her, but she would snap back just as hard; no, harder.
… protection was not enough and the people I worked for have taken their revenge.
Drew’s eyes kept coming back to that sentence, reason unclear and thoughts jumbled. All that was clear was that he had to call this man Masterson. His eyes looked toward his hotel room door. Were people waiting outside to arrange an accident for him? Or would their approach in this instance be more direct, a bullet in the head or a blade thrust from beneath a newspaper in a crowded airport?
Drew’s hand trembled as he pressed out Masterson’s private number at DEA headquarters. He gripped the receiver in a sweat-drenched hand hot against his ear.
“Agent Masterson’s office,” came a receptionist’s polished response.
“Agent Masterson please.”
“Who may I say is calling, please?”
Drew started to give his name, then stopped. “I wouldn’t have his private number if he didn’t know me.”
She didn’t hesitate long. “One moment.”
A pause, then a man’s voice.
“This is Sam Masterson.”
“This is Drew Jordan. I assume you know me.”
Drew could feel the agent’s breath leave him from across the line. “Who gave you this num—”
“My grandmother. In a letter. We’ve got to talk.”
“No! Not now. Not … this way.”
“How? When?”
“It can’t be for a while. Too many—”
“Never mind that crap. Maybe I should read you the letter. We’ve got to talk, and quick.”
The agent paused. Drew could hear him breathing.
“Give me two hours. Brown Ford sedan. Be waiting outside—Where are yo
u by the way?”
“Hyatt Palm Beaches.”
“Okay. I know it. Just be waiting in two hours at the front.”
“What if they’re watching? They’ll see us together.”
“They don’t have to watch. They already know where you are.”
The brown Ford sedan pulled up before the Hyatt five minutes past the stated two hours.
“Get in,” Masterson said, throwing the door open for Drew before the doorman had a chance to move. “Quick.”
He pulled away before Drew had the door fully closed. Masterson looked to be near forty with close-cropped dark hair showing the marks of recession and blue eyes that never stopped shifting about. He spoke rapidly.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Meeting with you. It’s wrong, all wrong.”
“What happened to my grandmother is what’s all wrong.”
The nervous eyes locked briefly on Drew. “It wasn’t my fault. She knew the risks.”
“All she knew was that she wanted to do something to make up for her mistakes and it ended up costing her her life.”
Masterson swung right onto the freeway in the direction of Palm Beach International Airport. “So what am I doing here?”
“I’m not really sure. First off, I figure you owe me some answers. Like what exactly was my grandmother involved in?”
“You must know that, if you know everything else.”
“But I don’t know why. Why would someone use old ladies to smuggle drugs?”
“Lots of reasons,” Masterson answered, screeching into a left-hand lane-change with nervous eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “To begin with, we’re starting to make a dent in the drug lords’ business by disrupting or destroying major cocaine distribution chains. The supplies we’ve seized amount to barely twenty percent of what eventually reaches the street, but for their tastes that’s too much. Add to this the pressure Washington has been placing on South American governments to cut down their export of the stuff and you’re left with a scenario in which the drug lords have been forced to find alternative means to get their product into the country.” Eyes back on Drew. “Like the grandmothers. Think about it.”
