by Jace Killan
He had a real knack for this.
Miguel Valenzuela from Sonora, looked at the stars known as Orion’s belt. In Latin America they were also referred to as the Tres Marias: mierda, sorete, y porqueria. Miguel chuckled at himself, remembering his mother’s laughter as she first taught him the bad words and giggled as though she had done something truly devilish.
Those were innocent days in their small casita in Northern Mexico. He remembered the frijoles and handmade tortillas that they lived on for years. Comida de pobres, his mother called it, poor people food.
How he longed for those days. Not for the poverty, but the innocent life. He had no more money now, though his family ate better and they lived in a home, not a shelter of sticks and abandoned plywood. But now his son also lived on drugs. And Miguel still owed the cartel for helping him cross the border some fifteen years earlier.
Miguel told himself that it had been worth it to live in a land where the government had forsaken corruption. Had he stayed in Juarez he’d be working for the cartel, the same cartel that had killed his father, leaving him beheaded in the street to make an example of him. But what was he doing now if not working for the cartel?
Still, this one act would be worth it. He’d be done with them when he finished their bidding, all his debts paid. Then he could enjoy the freedom he sought all those years ago.
He stood next to an acre of budding lettuce heads. The nightly irrigation had just started and in the moonlight, the water crept down the long straight rows Miguel had plowed just a month prior.
Wearing gloves, he donned a mask before removing the lid to the plastic gallon jug. He dumped liquid in each row on that particular section of the two hundred acre farm.
He didn’t know what the jug contained and figured he’d lose his job over it if anyone found out—still better than losing his head. The cartel wanted it done and it’d get done, either by him or someone else after they killed him for saying no.
33
Joaquin’s burner phone chimed. Who’d be texting him at three in the morning? He ignored it until Junior, his neighbor-babysitter that never slept, pounded on the shared wall between their apartments. Fine. He got up and snatched his phone on the way to the john.
The text read, “Go to CNN.com.”
While relieving himself, Joaquin thumbed the link and scanned the CNN page. One headline read: “Lettuce Culprit in Pete’s E. coli. Case.”
“Lettuce?”
Joaquin skimmed the story. A couple days prior, he’d learned that Pete’s, a chain owned by Good Food, dropped twenty-two percent upon allegations of tainted meat when several confirmed reports of E. coli. hit the media. Northern held a naked put option on Good Food, so they could now buy the stock for pennies and sell it for the put’s strike price. They’d make a couple million on the transaction, just like that.
Joaquin had anxiously watched the news for reports of death. None came. He didn’t know how Guzman had pulled it off, but the cartel was obviously behind the E. coli outbreak. Now Roxie Farms dropped like a led zeppelin. Northern, or rather, the cartel would make a killing off their shorting that stock.
He tried to convince himself that a few sick people didn’t compare to what the cartel’s drugs did to society and the economy. He only kidded himself, though. Nothing he actually did discouraged the cartel in their endeavor to sell drugs in the US.
This new article quoted findings that it wasn’t the meat contaminated with E. coli, but the lettuce. The lettuce came from a small farm in California.
Coincidentally, Northern had also bought Delicious Brands stock and covered it with a call option. The firm also made an easy but secured two hundred grand when it responded to the E. coli outbreak in its competitor.
But what about the SEC nailing them for insider trading? According to Mayhew, these few trades, out of the plethora of trades usually made by Northern, wouldn’t be suspect. Sure if an investigator saw them side by side, they might put two and two together, but to fish them out of the pile wouldn’t be likely.
Also, who in their right mind would consider this E. coli outbreak in lettuce to be anything but company oversight and mismanagement? No, probably not. He just didn’t want the ride to end so soon, shut down by the SEC while the FBI had yet to get anything significant on the cartel. But he needed to stop worrying about things he couldn’t control and focus on the things he could. Like studying for the Series 7 exam.
A few months ago a judge expunged his crimes. Now he could sit for the license exams. The 7 would be one beast to tackle, and a good notch under his belt. It would allow him to actually sell securities and place trades. He could start to officially meet with clients. Not that Mayhew or Jared would let him do any of that. But he’d pass the 7 to show them, and after that who knew, maybe he’d sit for the series 8 and 24, also.
At Junior’s prodding and his own wanting, Joaquin located and attended his first group meeting in nearly two months. He fought the urge to size up the group, knowing that judging another did nothing for his own recovery.
Still, it was easy to identify those with meth problems versus those with heroine problems. Though wrong, he played a game in his head, identifying each person’s vice before their self-introduction. Often he could guess their sobriety time, too.
White male, tall, about six two, bald, nice smile, and the forming of a gut. Pills. Size of gut, maybe eight months sober.
The man introduced himself, stating that Percocet was his drug of choice, and when he couldn’t get those, he’d graduated to heroine. Joaquin wouldn’t have guessed that. Or that he had been sober two years.
Next stood a skinny woman, tattoos up her arms. Loose tank top. Multiple piercings visible. Meth. Sobriety two weeks. She introduced herself as Catherine, not an addict but there to support a friend. The friend, who looked like a black-linebacker, had a problem with drinking.
After that Joaquin stopped playing his game. He had been out of line, and while reflecting on the steps, told himself that he owned his recovery, judging another only allowed him to avoid the pain of his own actions. Nothing anyone else did would change him.
An older gentleman spoke after the linebacker. “My name is Eric and I am a recovering addict.”
The crowd responded in unison, “Hello, Eric.”
“I lived a lot of my life lying to myself and those around me. I realized after a while that if I was lying, I was using. The first time I went through the steps, I told my wife that if she ever caught me lying that was a sure sign that I was using.
“Now, I’ve been through the steps a lot. And I’m sober. Been sober for twelve years.”
That solicited cheers from the other attendees.
“And I keep coming to these meetings because I don’t like the guy I was. I was a piece of crap liar. I hurt my family. I hurt my wife. And I’m glad she has put up with me. Even forgave me for all the crap I pulled. But as the greatest line Shakespeare ever wrote says, ‘Twas I, but ‘tis not I. I have changed.’ I was thinking the other day about that Jonny Cash song, A Man Named Sue. You know...”
He started to sing, “Hello, my name is Sue...Now you’re going to die.”
Several in the circle chuckled.
“Well, at the end of the song you find out that Sue’s deadbeat dad knew he wasn’t going to be around and wanted his kid to grow up tough, so he named him Sue, knowing he’d get his butt whooped and bullied and he’d have to learn to be tough to survive. That’s me. I’m Sue. And my addiction, even though it sucks and I hate it, has helped me grow to be strong. Lord knows it’s whooped my butt more than I can count. But now, I’m tough as hell. It don’t got nothing on me. And I tell you all that you can beat this.
“God don’t give us nothing we can’t handle. And while I don’t think God gave me my addiction, he’s sure as hell given me the strength to carry it and has helped me overcome it.” He paused as if considering what else to say, looking into the eyes of those around the circle. “Well, I guess I’ll pass.”
Two men entered the room. Those in the circle expanded so that the newcomers could join. One guy looked kind of familiar, but Joaquin couldn’t place him at first, until he saw the second man—Jared Sanderson. The other was Bruce, the security guard. For a moment, he felt as though he’d been caught. His two worlds had just collided. He breathed deeply, trying to calm his nerves.
He thought about running out, but what would that do? He could pass, but that would only lead to questions. And an addict shouldn’t hold secrets. The group offered anonymity, Jared would respect that, wouldn’t he? And he probably had his own secrets or he wouldn’t be there. No, Joaquin couldn’t run from his past. Besides, he wanted recovery. He wouldn’t start lying now, because as the man had just said, lying meant using.
He started again. “My name is Joaquin, and I’m a recovering meth addict.”
“Hello, Joaquin,” said the group, including Jared.
“I’ve been sober for nearly seven years.”
That too solicited cheers.
“My addiction has caused so much pain and suffering in others. I wish I never took that first puff. I was hooked, instantly and not a day goes by that I don’t regret that decision and so many more that followed. I still just take it one day at a time. I work the steps. Particularly ten, eleven, and twelve.” He rambled on but soon lost concentration and passed.
Bruce apparently had an opiate problem and had been sober for about six months. Joaquin could use a friend that he could check in with and vice versa.
Jared introduced himself, but passed. Maybe his secret was too hard to share in front of someone that he knew.
Joaquin shook the judgmental thoughts from his mind. They were going to get him into trouble sooner rather than later if he didn’t correct his thinking now. It was more likely that Jared didn’t have anything to share because he’d only come as a friend to Bruce.
After the meeting, Joaquin made the rounds shaking hands, hugging, and talking with those from the group. Jared and Bruce ducked out before Joaquin made it to that side of the room.
To Eric, the older man, Joaquin said, “I appreciated your words. They spoke to me. Thank you.” Eric nodded. Joaquin almost didn’t ask the question on his mind, but Eric lingered. “Do you mind if I ask what your addiction is?” He hadn’t mentioned it in his introduction.
“Porn.”
Joaquin almost laughed. But the man was serious. Joaquin thought about Eric’s words, they had hit him in a profound way. Eric obviously understood the life of a recovering addict. But could pornography actually be addictive? They were at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. What did porn have to do with any of that? If it was an addiction there’s no way it would be as addictive as a drug like Meth, could it?
Then Joaquin thought about his own pornography use. He had relied heavy on porn in prison. Just the thought of his stack of magazines that he kept in the corner of his room, tugged at his chest. He hadn’t noticed that before, but he was having a physical reaction to porn. Much like he did when he first gave up meth.
Could it be possible that Joaquin was addicted? Sure, he watched it, read it, acted on it. What else should he do? He needed it.
And that’s when it hit him. He’d made the same excuses for meth and cigarettes. He was addicted. He decided to give it up that night.
34
Luis Vargas, shined his flashlight down the hallway, glancing left and right as he passed the circuit assembly rooms. Each was dedicated to manufacturing a particular circuit board for the vehicles also built in the plant.
“This is the one you want,” Luis said in Spanish. He sifted through his handful of keys and found the one belonging to the steel door.
Three men waited for access. Luis didn’t know much about them other than they were close to Jefe Guzman. And you didn’t deny Guzman what he wanted. Not if you hoped to live beyond the conversation.
When the door opened, they entered quietly, turned on the light, and located a box in the corner already checked and cleared. One of the guys withdrew an eight inch buck knife from his side and cut open the box. They dumped the hundred or so blue-green circuit boards on the table then filled the box with identical looking boards produced from a backpack the fat one had brought in. From the same backpack, they withdrew packing tape and sealed the box again.
The deed only took a few minutes, little enough that Luis could almost convince himself it didn’t happen. He locked the room and led the gentleman out through the cafeteria where he had let them enter not even a half an hour earlier.
He resumed his rounds of the plant then took a break in the security office. While he ate a burrito, packed by his wife of nine years, he turned the security cameras back on.
Joaquin rented a tux from a shop a couple miles away. He took a cab to retrieve it, early Saturday, then spent most of his day shopping for a gift to give Kristin. He hadn’t a clue what, but he needed something to give her. That would be customary.
After looking over handbags, perfumes, expensive jewelry, and clothing in the department stores, Joaquin settled on a beaded bracelet made by a street vendor containing a simple pattern of flowers interchanging colors between their pedals and bulbs. It just felt more like her than all that designer stuff he looked at. Plus, he wasn’t trying to get into a serious relationship and didn’t want to give her any wrong impressions.
Junior had been specific and he wasn’t about to piss his babysitter off. But he looked forward to the date with Kristin, even if Junior viewed it as something different. Joaquin may have spun the outing as a get together with people from work. He needed to be cordial or he’d come off as stuck up or unfriendly and that could draw suspicion.
Junior gave his blessing. “Just don’t stay out too late.” This coming from the guy that never slept.
Sure, mom. Joaquin hadn’t said that but wanted to. In his mid-twenties and he had to ask permission to go on a date. Chorch would call that pathetic. Chorch would be right.
But Junior had relaxed over the past few months. The original half a billion had increased by contribution and return of investment to nearly a billion and a half over the past year. No doubt the easiest forty million Guzman had ever made.
Donning the tux, he arrived just after four at her apartment, by taxi. She had an apartment across the river in Hoboken.
He texted her. She appeared in the dilapidated apartment building entrance and sashayed down the steps, wearing a slender red dress that sparkled about the edges. A ribbon-like strand of hair, curled down the side of her face.
Joaquin’s chest pounded. He was in way over his head. He jumped out of the cab and held the door open for her. He didn’t expect the simple kiss she gave him on the cheek. He awkwardly moved to embrace his date, but before he could, she had kissed him and was entering the car, so he patted her on the back as if saying, “Way to go.”
He shut the door and started around the taxi to the other side, but could see through the window that she had scooted across the seat expecting him to enter the same door as her. So he returned to the curb and opened the door, finding her now on that side.
“Sorry,” he said.
She just laughed and scooted back over. “Get in already.”
Hearing her laughter put him at ease. He managed to make small talk as they traveled to the bridge, then crossed the Hudson.
“I got you something.” He’d debated on how to package the artisan bracelet he’d acquired earlier. His options were limited to what he had in his apartment, so it was either nothing, or a plastic bag, or...
He grabbed the Rolex watchcase from the floor and held it up for her to see.
Confusion, surprise, and a thread of panic crossed her face. When he lifted the lid to show her the handmade flower bracelet, she smiled big, relief replacing her other features. “It’s beautiful.”
He took it out and returned the watchcase to the floor, then held up the brac
elet so she could see it more clearly.
She gave him an unexpected hug. She smelled nice, like vanilla. She put on the bracelet and examined it. The fruity colors contrasted with her dress, but she didn’t seem to mind. “I’m so excited,” she said.
“Me too. Have you been to a Broadway play before?”
“Cats and Phantom. And Wicked. I absolutely love Wicked.”
“So you’ve never seen Les Miserables?” He did his best pronunciation with a proper French accent.
“No. I mean, I’ve heard the music, but I’ve never seen the play.”
“Me neither. I’ve got the songs memorized, but I’ve never been to any play.”
“Not even in high school?”
“Nope.”
“So, why Les Mis?”
“It’s the best. Incredible. Victor Hugo was an amazing man.”
“Did he write the play?”
Joaquin smiled. “No, Alain Boublil and Jean-Marc Natel wrote the lyrics based on Victor Hugo’s book.”
“It’s a book?”
Joaquin only nodded. Lost in thought. “The best book I’ve ever read.” After a moment his thoughts circled back. “Claude-Michel Schönberg wrote the music. All three were Frenchmen, like Victor Hugo. I think the story is its purest in French.”
She looked at him, brow furrowed. “You speak French?”
Joaquin nodded. “Well my accent isn’t very good, but I understand it fluently and can read it.”
“Do you like Zaz?”
Joaquin thought that an odd question. “Um yeah, I like Jazz.”
“No, Zaz. She’s French.” Kristin pulled her phone from her a black leather purse and tapped it a few times. A picture of a beautiful musician filled the screen while music started.
The opening sounded like a kazoo. Joaquin would later discover that the Zaz made the sound herself. Je Veux—I want.
Joaquin listened intently. Kristin tried to sing a long though she obviously didn’t know the French words. After the first chorus, she asked, “What is she saying?”
