The District Manager

by Matt Minor

  “Should I ditch my cell?”

  “No.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE CORRIDOR

  In my haste, I had left behind some loose ends, not the least of which was my cat, Clarissa. Luckily, Keith took initiative on that one, later texting me that he had finally coaxed her out from under my bed and into the carrier and brought her with him. The two would be staying with one of his gamer buddies.

  The other loose end had to do with the D.O. and Jules’ file. Although the information in it was inconclusive, I didn’t want any of those goons, or anyone else for that matter, discovering it was in my possession. But that wasn’t altogether it entirely—however thin, I still held out hope that maybe there was something to be gleaned from it. Rusty had gone through Jules’ office prior to my arrival as police imposter. He agreed with me that it shed little light on the situation. He also agreed that we needed to snag it from the D.O. for obvious reasons.

  I also called Crane and let him know I was taking him up on his offer for a vacation.

  “So where are you thinking about heading?” he asked in his usual distracted fashion.

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe Corpus or Austin,” I invented on the spot.

  “Corpus Christi or Austin, quite a difference,” he remarked, skeptically.

  “Not sure, I just want to get out of town for a few days.”

  “Well, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it, Mason. Let me know when you get back.”

  My last task was to find a place to park the Expedition, as Rusty wanted to take his Pontiac. We decide to leave it in the historical district near the D.O. I wasn’t sure about this, and felt guilty for leaving the old gal behind.

  “I’m not even sure where it is we’re going,” I say.

  Rusty is blazing out of the historical district. “The Valley, like I told you.”

  “Yeah, but where in The Valley?”

  “Near Weslaco. DPS headquarters near the border, not far from McAllen.

  “What’s there?”

  “Who’s there, is the question.”

  “Okay, who?”

  “An old law enforcement friend, someone we can trust: someone who will cut me slack, shoot me straight…and give me confidential information. I talked to him this morning while you were asleep.”

  “Someone who will break the law,” I add, indignantly.

  “Someone who might just save your little girlfriend,” he tops.

  We move out of town, onto the highway and to I-69.

  The I-69 corridor is a main artery to and from Mexico. As we zoom forward on the passing lane, I can’t help but wonder if the countless cars going in the opposite direction across the grass median are not carrying illegal drugs or, worse, trafficking people.

  Although it’s the height of day, I am so tired that all I want to do is rest. However, Rusty, who apparently never sleeps, is wired and wants to talk.

  “Grab that file, Mason,” he orders.

  I do as I’m told and reach into the back seat.

  “Open it…read it.”

  Again, I do as instructed.

  “So what’s your final analysis?” he asks.

  “That the information is incomplete. All Jules had time to figure out was that the land that the rodeo arena and the Old Adobe sit on are owned by the power plant, which is headquartered in Monterrey. So what? Someone is leasing the land, that’s not illegal. The question is, who?”

  “That is precisely the question. So Jules established that the same people who own the rodeo arena are the same people who own the Old Adobe. That just seems real strange to me when I think about it. And I haven’t had the time to really think about it, with so much going on—dealing with Mrs. Reynolds— saving your ass.”

  “By the way, how is she?”

  “Not good. And she’ll die alone.”

  “Why?”

  “No close family left. And for me, too risky; until we have some idea of how deep this thing goes I need to stay away. She doesn’t have much time and could go any day now.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it sucks.” He looks forward, pensively and then changes the subject. “So how did you meet this Brenna?”

  From anyone else this is standard conversation, but Rusty is all business so it’s strange to me. “I’ve known her for about a year now. She works for the Fort Bryan County Judge.”

  “I’ve put that together,” he snipes.

  “Of course you have.”

  “So how did you two start dating?”

  “Well...we’d been flirting for some time, and then one night we sat at the same table at a political function, at the power plant no less. I got separated from our party during the tour and got stuck talking to this nerd from the PUC, when she interrupted. We ended up on the balcony of the lake behind the plant…” Something suddenly occurs to me… “Oh shit!”

  “What? the guy from the PUC?”

  “Public Utilities Commission.”

  “I know what it stands for. What about it?”

  “What was that guy’s name?” I wonder out loud.

  “The PUC guy?”

  “Hank Garcia?” I ask, lost in thought. “Yes, Hank Garcia!”

  “What about ‘Hank Garcia?’ “Why was he there, and what about this function? You haven’t told me about any of this!”

  “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that!”

  “Forgot about what? Do I need to pull a gun on your ass?”

  “That’s it!” I exclaim as a strange calm sweeps over me.

  “What’s ‘it?”’

  “This Hank Garcia fellow from the PUC. So he finds me while our group is touring the actual plant… he’s an auditor for the PUC…. One of his accounts is UAE: United Azteca Electrico.”

  “I know what it stands for, godamnit!”

  “He tells me that he’s found discrepancies in the output to billing ratio…or whatever. Basically, they’re reporting so much output, but it doesn’t correspond with their billing. Interesting thing is…now that I think of it…”

  “Now that you think of it?” he asks as if I’ve fumbled at the goal line.

  “Yes, now that I think of it…UAE are both producers and providers. Recently, they’ve been buying out other area providers. But there are still a few holdouts. That’s where Hank Garcia said there were billing discrepancies.”

  “You gotta quit thinking about pussy, Mason. Jesus Christ, do you realize how big this is?”

  “It wasn’t at the time. It was just a distraction to…”

  “Brenna!”

  “Yes, Brenna. You’re goddamned right, Brenna!” I counter, flaring up.

  “That’s not what I mean, Mason—and you know it!”

  “Alright, alright… you’re right. I shouldn’t have forgotten something like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to diminish her, under the circumstances.”

  “It’s cool, Rusty. I understand. All this shit gets confusing.”

  “Now you know how cops feel. It’s easy to call things from the stands. Not so simple when you’re in the huddle and plays are being called on the ground.”

  “So what now?”

  “Call this Hank Garcia!”

  I keep an agency directory in my briefcase. I get it out and look up his number.

  Within minutes I’m dialing the PUC’s Government Relations Department. While it’s ringing, I look out over the dull flat landscape. You can’t see the Gulf of Mexico, but you can smell it. After the Rockport exit, unless you want to hit the coast, it’s all downhill with regards to topography until you’re damn near to Mexico.

  “Yes, hello, this is Mason Dixon with Representative Haliburton Crane’s office, could you connect me to Hank Garcia, please?”

  I’m put on hold for what seems like an eternity.

  “May I ask who I am speaking with?” a cold bureaucratic voice asks from the other end.

  “Mason Dixon, from Rep. Crane’s office, wishing to speak with Hank Garcia,” I
repeat.

  “Mason,” my affiliation, as usual, melts the ice, “This is Kathleen Wells, Director Dunkin’s assistant, may I ask the nature of your inquiry?”

  “Yeah, I was just touching base with Hank Garcia about an issue we had discussed previously.”

  “Well, Mason, I regret to inform you that Hank Garcia passed away nearly two months ago, back in August actually.”

  “Passed away?”

  “They had him killed,” Rusty states, emphatically.

  I’m shushing him with my free hand. “How?”

  “Well, Hank was killed changing a tire on the side of the road.”

  “Sounds… tragic.”

  “Tragic of course, but unlawful too. He was killed by a hit and run driver.”

  “Oh my God, that’s terrible!”

  I know. Everyone here is still just so shocked by this. If you need to speak with someone Mason, our director is currently on vacation. But she’s recently hired a replacement for Mr. Garcia. I believe his name is Horatio Sanchez. He has an impressive resume in his own right. He was managing audits for the utilities commission in Nuevo Leon, Mexico.”

  “Nuevo Leon, is that right?”

  “He’s not set to start until Director Dunkin returns. Would you like me to have one or both call you next week?”

  “Sure, just the director will be fine.”

  I get off the phone with Kathleen at the PUC and stare at the patches of dried bug guts all over the front windshield.

  “So what’s so terrible? Nuevo Leon? What the hell’s going on?” Rusty asks, but he already knows.

  “Garcia was killed changing a flat tire by a hit and run driver. Coincidence?”

  “Coincidence? Are you fucking kidding me? They had him killed.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The people who own that power plant in Bowers. The people that own the rodeo arena and the Old Adobe. The people down in Monterrey. That’s obvious for anyone to see who wants to see it. I don’t think BPI is leasing to anyone. I think they’re using it for their own interests. But what are those interests? That’s the new equation that needs solving.”

  “Man, this is getting creepy.”

  “And Nuevo Leon?”

  I tell him what Kathleen just told me.

  “Don’t call back. My gut tells me these people have just infiltrated the PUC.”

  “I only asked for the director to call back, as you heard.”

  “Sounds far-fetched I know,” Rusty says. “I’m not being paranoid.”

  “Jesus Christ, what have we gotten mired in?” A sinking feeling is pulling on my gut.

  “I can’t believe you forgot about this Hank Garcia! Do you realize the time we could have saved if I had known about this? We wouldn’t have had to go to that dog fight last night—I was grasping at straws, Mason!”

  “So now it’s my fault that they kidnapped Brenna?”

  “That not what I’m saying. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. It’s just a bad turn of events.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, it is. So let’s calm down.”

  Rusty switches on the radio and listens to baseball the whole way south.

  I drift off.

  We arrive in McAllen around dusk and pull into a Holiday Inn.

  When I wake up, the air is a bit heavy. I feel like shit.

  Rusty goes into the motel to check us in while I gather myself.

  I throw the strap of my briefcase across my shoulder, get out and stand, looking out over the parking lot. A feeling of total stupidity over takes me.

  How could I have let this situation escalate? If I don’t make it out of this alive…that’d be justice.

  “We’re sharing a room?” I ask him as he swipes open the door.

  “Do you want to pay for another room?”

  “Well, yeah. Dude, I haven’t slept in the same room with another man since I was a fuckin’ kid.”

  “You’re still are a kid. Do what you like, but I’m a cheap old son-of-a-bitch and I’m only paying for one room.”

  “Okay, Rusty Stern,” I retort. Then I turn and head back to the lobby.

  I check into my room, which is located on the other side of the hotel, then immediately go find Rusty.

  “Shit, man, damn near one hundred and fifty dollars—no wonder you’re being so cheap.

  “No shit, Mason. So hey, you hungry?”

  “Yeah, there’s a Chili’s within walking distance.”

  We saunter across the concrete dead zone in silence—for a change.

  When we get to the restaurant we are seated in a booth. We order a couple of beers that I know I’m going to drink faster than the waitress can serve.

  “So who is this guy we’re meeting tomorrow?”

  “Ray Curlee, an old friend of mine, and Jules’ as well.”

  “Old friend from where? The military?”

  “College. We all went to ’Bama, met in Tuscaloosa. Curlee went straight into law enforcement.”

  “With the Texas State Troopers?”

  “No, he started out as a trooper back home. He’s the one that snagged me a job when I got out of the Marines. We old dogs stick together, you know.”

  “So how can he help us in this fucked up situation?” Where are my beers?

  “Information, plain and simple. I’ve waited to bring him into this because I knew when I did, he could only sit on something I might have for so long. I needed time. But time’s run out.”

  “But I thought you said, explicitly, not to get law enforcement involved.”

  “Not local law enforcement. DPS is a different breed.”

  “You’re only saying that because you were a trooper, albeit not a Texas State Trooper, but state police nonetheless.”

  “I know you hate cops, Mason, and I know why.”

  “First of all, I don’t hate cops. Secondly, I disliked law enforcement long before what happened to my wife.”

  “So what do you want me to say? Yes, they’re a lot of bad cops…but there are a lot of good ones too.”

  “How? How can good cops be good cops when all they ever do is protect the bad cops?” My beers finally arrive. At last!

  “Look, I know the full story…I know what happened that day.”

  “Do you?”

  “I know that your wife was pregnant. I know that when the deputy hit her with the taser he jabbed it into her womb. I also know that her death was attributed to a congenital heart defect.”

  “Do you know why he tased her?”

  “Because she slapped the shit out of him, which is why all the ‘good cops’ rushed to his defense. It was a bad turn of events.”

  “You keep saying that. She slapped him because, when he pulled her over for speeding—less than ten miles over the limit— there was an open container sitting in the six pack of beer on the floorboard of her back seat.”

  “She claimed that it had fallen over and busted open, thus the contents had been compromised. I’ve read the police report.”

  “Ann hated beer! She was a wine…vodka tonic girl. She never drank beer. The beer was for me. I asked her to stop and pick me up a six pack on her way home from work!”

  “Calm down, Mason. You don’t have to defend her to me.”

  “I’m not defending her, motherfucker!” I lean halfway over the booth table, spilling one of my beers in the process. “That deputy deserved a firing squad!” I bellow with a finger in his face.

  “He got worse. And if, by chance he’s still alive, he wishes he were dead.” Rusty concludes morosely, watching suds pour off our table to the floor.

  “Is there a problem here?” a man, donning a manager’s tag suddenly asks.

  “None at all, sir. My friend and I would like to order, if that’s alright.” Rusty answers with utter calm. “I think he’s gonna need another beer.”

  “Sure, I’ll get your waitress.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE PARK ALONG THE RIVER

  Rusty and I
didn’t get into a fight at the Chili’s that night. We managed to have a halfway decent meal. We didn’t talk about the situation at hand, but talked about sports and politics instead.

  I had more than just a few beers and felt like shit the next day. But at least the alcohol helped keep the wasps from my stomach and the demons of guilt from my mind. And while they weren’t detectable, they were there loitering on the periphery, waiting to be welcomed when Rusty called me at dawn.

  “You up?” His gumbo mouth jolts me awake.

  “What the fuck, man? What time is it?”

  “Game time, Mason! Meet me down in the lobby at o’ eight hundred. That’s one hour from now, by the way.”

  “Eight o’clock?” I ask in bewilderment.

  I pull myself out of bed, shower and get dressed. I meet him in the room off the lobby for the continental breakfast.

  He’s been here a half-hour prior to my arrival. He reads the paper while I struggle to swallow a muffin.

  “Get that shit down. We’re meeting Curlee at o’ nine hundred.”

  “What’s with this o’ eight hundred nine hundred shit? Are we in the fuckin’ army?”

  “Trying to get your ass in gear. Figure if I talk like a drill sergeant, it might light a fire under your ass.”

  “I can’t believe all this is happening.” I can hardly get the coffee to go down.

  “I was wondering when it’d hit you. You held out longer than I gave you credit for. It only gets more real from here, Mason.”

  “I know.”

  “Let me tell you the plan: We’re to meet Curlee at a park situated in between McAllen and Weslaco.”

  “Why there?”

  “It provides access to the Rio Grande, and is a loading dock for the Department of Public Safety’s boats. Their open air cruisers are so heavily armed that they make the crafts the Border Patrol operates look like floating ice cream trucks.”

  The air is sticky this late September morn, the soft traces of fall from a couple of weeks ago are a faint memory. The morning sun struggles to define itself as we enter a thick canopy of hunching trees.

  We exit the Pontiac and I follow Rusty towards a picnic area some fifty yards from the river. Numerous vessels jostle against the dock. Stray DPS troopers maneuver about the area. They look more like soldiers than police.