“It was never personal, Black. I want you to know that. Just business.”
His eyes held hers for a nanosecond, and then he turned and left the restaurant, not trusting himself to speak.
Chapter 42
The Eldorado started with a throaty rumble. Black strapped himself in and lowered the top, the sunshine warm on his face, cleansing his spirit even as it threatened to mutate his epidermal cells. He put the tranny into drive and pulled away, leaving five dollars in the valet’s hand by way of gratitude, and pointed the long hood south, to Pico and his little office suite.
He hadn’t known he wasn’t going to take Moet’s deal until he’d sat down and observed Genesis’ flawless features, which hid a fundamental ugliness he wanted no part of. Another bad financial decision in a long string, he supposed, but for the first time in days he felt decent about himself, the offer from the rap mogul having festered like a malignancy in his psyche since it had been made.
He turned on the stereo and selected a Stevie Ray Vaughn number, one that never failed to pick him up. The wailing overtures of the guitar seemed the perfect accompaniment to his mood, which was surprisingly light considering he’d just tanked twenty grand a month of the easiest work he’d ever get. The money would have ruined him, he decided, and he was glad he hadn’t told Roxie about it – he’d never hear the end of it if she knew.
A Tesla pulled up next to him at the light, the driver a typical thirty-something power broker on his cell phone, likely making a deal or apologizing for having to break one, and Black shook his head almost imperceptibly. Glorified golf carts being driven by masters of the universe. He suddenly felt old.
At his bank, he dutifully held his thumb up to the scanner, waited for the vault door to open, and went to his safe deposit box and unlocked it. He smiled as he put the Rolex box inside, happy to see that the metal drawer was just wide enough to accommodate it. The watch had been a nice gesture, but it wasn’t him, and he felt like an ass-hat every time he saw it on his wrist. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his vintage Hamilton, which merely displayed the time rather than making a social hierarchy statement, and strapped it on, slid the drawer back into place, and locked the compartment.
It was good to know who you were, he decided, even if it turned out to be a lower rent version of what you’d hoped to become. Time flew by like the swallows of summer, with increasing speed, and it didn’t pay to fight your nature. He was no more a Rolex guy than he was a Rolls driver. It wasn’t him, and he had felt like a tight steel strap was being removed from his chest when he unclasped the platinum bracelet and nestled the watch back in its rightful resting place, cocooned in the green velvet interior of a box that said more about what he wasn’t than anything he could have.
A Nissan van cut him off and he pounded the heel of his hand into the horn, only to be reminded again that horn activation was still on his list of things to attend to. At least now he’d have the free time – and if B-Side paid him his final billing, he’d even have the money. He’d talked to the young star the prior day; he’d sounded dejected, even though he was putting a brave face on for the cheap seats. Black had seen the articles, no doubt strategically engineered by Moet, and the backlash from fans had been immediate and extreme.
Perhaps he’d still be able to make a go of it, but more likely he’d be lucky to have a year or two on the county fair circuit, and then would fade into obscurity, like so many one-hit wonders inevitably did, replaced by the newest shiny thing, left wondering how it could have all gone so wrong so fast. Black felt bad for him – he hadn’t knowingly done anything besides a little necessary duplicity about his songwriting skills – but he was still going to be subjected to the entertainment world’s equivalent of the Inquisition.
Which was all part of the price if you wanted to roll with the big dogs. Black had been there, done that, had the DVD, and knew all too well how fleeting the life could be – and how long it could take to fill the hole its absence left in a man’s soul. Some, like him, eventually made peace with themselves and moved on. Others couldn’t, and continued to chase the flitter of a dream that had never been more substantial than water vapor rising off a simmering pot, and still others drowned their sorrows with a little sniff or smoke or sip, only to discover that remorse was more corrosive than any acid.
Roxie was sitting at her desk, reading something on the web, when he opened the suite door. Mugsy was nowhere in evidence, triggering instant alarm in Black – a panicked feeling that he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand.
“Where exactly is that fat, chair-shredding bastard?” he asked, pulling the door closed behind him.
“I thought you weren’t going to bag on the cat anymore.”
“I’m a weak man.”
Roxie looked around the office, and then spied Black’s office door ajar. “Oh. Crap.”
“I’m feeling pretty good today, so I’m not going to go ballistic when I see my new chair destroyed,” Black said.
“Did they adjust your dosage, or did you have a little pick-me-up at lunch?” She made the universal sign of drinking with her hand, favoring him with an inebriated eye roll to top off the image.
“Neither.”
“Maybe you should start. I’m sorry. I forgot about closing the door. I was just in there getting a file…”
“Relax, Roxie. It happens.”
She gave him an odd look. “You get some action at lunch? Weren’t you with that PR hottie? Moet’s mama?”
“Why do you have to make everything ugly?”
“It’s just what I do.”
“I think I met your Doppelganger at Bobby’s.”
“My what?”
“Never mind. Anyone call?”
“God did. To remind you to call your mom.”
“Really? Did he sound pissed?”
“Kind of. Said you’re a rotten son if you don’t call her immediately, and your immortal soul will burn in hellfire for eternity. Seemed really dogmatic. All Biblical and stuff.”
“I’m pretty sure God didn’t call.”
“She could have. Anything’s possible.”
“Seriously. Did anyone? A client, perchance?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Ah. Well, let’s see what the damage is,” Black said, his tone resigned as he pushed his door open and approached his desk.
Mugsy was fast asleep on the cushion of his new chair, snoring softly as was his way, the seat intact, if somewhat the worse for wear from cat hair. Black pulled the door closed and smiled crazily at Roxie, who regarded him like he’d flashed her in the schoolyard.
“That bad?”
“I’m taking the rest of the day off. Going to pick Sylvia up and watch tourists ignore the bio-hazard warnings posted at the beach.”
“Nice day for it. Should I get him out of there?”
“Nah. Just check in from time to time and make sure he doesn’t tear it apart.”
“He didn’t ruin anything?”
Black shook his head and strode to the entryway, a bounce to his step that Roxie found more alarming than if he’d screamed obscenities or thrown something across the room.
“Not yet.”
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King of Swords Excerpt
Russell Blake
Foreword
King of Swords is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and real people, living or dead, is coincidental. Having said that, the backdrop and historical context of the novel is based in fact. The drug war in Mexico has been an ongoing confrontation between government forces and the ever-strengthening cartels – now the largest illegal drug trafficking network in the world, whose primary target market is the United States.
Thousands of police and soldiers have been killed over the last ten years, as the war has intensified due to a crackdown by pro-U.S. administrations. Cartel members slaughter one another by the thousands each year, as well as huge n
umbers of innocent bystanders. The brutality of the turf wars that are a constant and ongoing facet of the trade is stunning; well over a thousand children have been butchered during the last decade, as have countless family members of traffickers, killed in retribution or as a deterrent.
The last two Secretaries of the Interior for Mexico died in suspicious air crashes.
The Sinaloa cartel is real. The Knights Templar cartel is also real, as is the Gulf cartel, the Tijuana cartel, and Los Zetas cartel. New cartels pop up when the heads of the old groups die, and the names change with some frequency. The only constant is the bloodshed; the natural consequence of the economics of trafficking in an illegal substance that generates in excess of fifty billion dollars a year, wholesale, for the cartels in Mexico: a country where the average person makes a hundred and sixty dollars a month.
A Description of the Tarot Card, ‘The King of Swords’
In full regalia, the King of Swords sits proudly on his throne – with a long, upward-pointing, double-edged sword clutched in his right hand, and his left hand resting lightly on his lap. A ring adorns his left Saturn finger – representing power and commitment to responsibility. The King’s blue tunic symbolizes a desire for spiritual enlightenment; his purple cape symbolizes empathy, compassion and intellect. The backrest of his throne is embellished with butterflies, signifying transformation, and crescent moons orbit around an angel situated by his left ear, positioned, perhaps, to lend a delicate guidance. The backdrop of the sky has very few clouds, signifying pragmatic mental clarity. The trees dotting the landscape stand still, with not a rustle – reflecting the King of Swords’ stern judgment.
King of Swords Reversed
The reversed King of Swords depicts a man who is ruthless or excessively judgmental; when reversed, the King of Swords suggests the misuse of mental power, authority and drive. The reversed King of Swords can represent manipulation and persuasion in order to achieve selfish ends. He is a very intelligent character who likes to demonstrate to others his superiority, either verbally or through actions. It is best to be wary of this type of person because, although he may be charming and intelligent, he is remorseless and can do only harm. He has only his personal interests in mind and will do whatever necessary to achieve those interests, even if it means destroying others.
Introduction
Three years ago, Pacific coast, Mexico
Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just north of Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat overlooking a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine-foot-high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.
The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servants’ quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.
The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the assault rifles they held with nonchalant ease.
Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.
At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers after undergoing scrutiny from the guards charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed gunmen patrolled the flat expanse, weapons cocked and loaded.
In the constant drug battles that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.
The Sinaloa cartel was one of the most powerful in the world, and for some time had nurtured aspirations of expanding its lethal tentacles into Jalisco, the neighboring state to the south – Salazar’s home turf. The Sinaloa cartel controlled much of the marijuana produced in Mexico and had grown to be the largest cocaine and heroin trafficking entity in the world, handling over seventy percent of all Colombian product that made it into the U.S. Salazar’s operation was considerably smaller, but the brutality of his tactics made him a difficult adversary to encroach upon; after ten years of unsuccessful attempts to execute him, an uneasy truce now held sway.
The lush, planted areas of the compound were lavishly appointed. The beachside pool deck’s verdant landscaping was circled with the flicker of tiki torches – placed there for the big event that was just getting underway. An eighteen-piece mariachi band in full regalia had assembled by the massive palapa over the hotel-sized outdoor pool bar. The musicians aired their traditional music for the guests, who were almost exclusively children and their mothers. It was Salazar’s oldest son’s seventh birthday; the party was an important event. Attendees had come from as far as Mexico City to honor Julio junior’s big day. There was a giddy sense of privilege and wealth in the festivities – the boy had been presented with a pony, along with every imaginable video game and technological miracle a young man could wish for.
Clowns and acrobats japed and tumbled around the sidelines, performing astounding feats of dexterity and contortionism amid long bursts of yellow flame from a troupe of fire-breathers. Peals of adolescent laughter punctuated the melody of strumming guitars and blaring horns and violins, while the women circled the children’s area clutching piña coladas and daiquiris in their lavishly bejeweled hands. All the guests knew one another – Salazar’s social circle was small and exclusive.
Off to the side, Salazar and a handful of his closest male friends and associates stood beside a fifteen-foot-diameter fire pit, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking five-hundred dollar tequila from brandy snifters as they discussed business in hushed tones, occasionally glancing a watchful eye over their wives and offspring. Salazar was easily distinguished from the group due to his height and distinctive facial hair �
� he was barely five four, and sported a Lincolnic beard in the fashion that his father had affected until he’d died in a car crash when Salazar was nine years old.
Two female dancers in traditional folk garb approached the specially erected stage with a male dancer in the classic Mexican vaquero outfit, who executed a series of exhibition tricks with a lasso, dancing with the whirling rope to the delight of the assembled children. When he was finished, the trio remained on the stage. A spotlight flicked on. From a newly pitched tent adjacent to the pool, a man in a black suit emerged, flamboyantly brandishing a large sombrero. He bowed to the arc of enraptured kids before finally placing it onto the head of the birthday boy.
The crowd laughed and clapped in mutual surprise – this was one of Mexico’s most beloved singers, popular for two decades before Salazar’s son had been born. He swiveled and moved onto the performance area with a practiced ease and began singing one of his most famous ballads, a perennial favorite with young and old alike. The adults sang along and clapped, as did the children, who were captivated by the theatrical production numbers and the pomp of the event.
A small prop plane meandered along the coastline at an altitude of nine thousand feet, its lights extinguished, its radar off and its radio silent. The pilot held up a hand with two fingers extended, and then watching his digital timer, made a curt gesture, signaling to the man in the rear that it was time. The passenger, dressed head to toe in black and with a balaclava covering his face, nodded and gripped the lever of the sliding door on the fuselage’s side, twisting it and forcing it open. He was instantly buffeted by a blast of warm air which tore at his clothes and burned his eyes, until he pulled a pair of night vision goggles into place and hurled himself into the dark, rushing void. The wind clawed at him as he tumbled through the night sky, the plane’s droning engine inaudible over the howl of the wind. After counting to twenty, he pulled the handle of his specially configured parachute harness and whumped to a near halt, the straps straining at the arrest of his descent.
BLACK Is Back Page 25
