The Contractors

by Harry Hunsicker

  Piper stared at me without speaking. Her eyes, normally vibrant and alive, were flat and empty. She stood, sauntered to the picture window that overlooked downtown Dallas, the skyscrapers barely visible through the rain.

  The dim, washed-out light of the city at night made her look soft and vulnerable, younger than her years. Innocent.

  I took a last sip of beer and put down the bottle.

  “People do what they have to do.” I walked to the window, stood next to her.

  “We need this next score,” she said. “It’s gonna be big.”

  “Tomorrow.” I nodded. “We get the word on the warehouse, and we’ll be good to go.”

  The warehouse was part of our regular line of work, the taxpayer-supported War on Drugs, not associated with Sinclair.

  The warehouse was going to be full of contraband, items that needed to be taken off the street. The building was our savior, a cinder block messiah, potentially the biggest payoff of our career. And what we were going to do at the warehouse was entirely legal, sanctioned by the US government, unlike many of our sideline activities for Sinclair.

  Neither of us spoke.

  “You and me. What happened?” She crossed her arms but didn’t elaborate.

  I knew the topic, the words she couldn’t say. She wanted to ask about us, the future. Unfortunately that’s not a good subject for two live-in-the-moment people mired in the damage of their pasts.

  Deep down, I wanted to know about us, too. I yearned as she did for a normalcy that would never be ours. Instead, I tried to think about the next day, not the here and now of our respective dysfunctions.

  The rain slackened and the skyline became clearer. Reunion Tower glowed a gossamer green on the west side of downtown.

  She turned, grabbed the front of my jeans, pulled me close. I let her.

  She pressed our lips together, part kiss, part bite. A hand slipped underneath my shirt, cool fingers against my belly.

  “We could get a house somewhere.” She nipped my bottom lip. “Get out of the game.”

  A topic we talked about often, leaving The Life, doing something a little more stable that didn’t involve people who carry guns and worry about each day being their last. The sticking point that always seemed to mess things up: leaving The Life together.

  I responded to her embrace and closed my eyes, luxuriated in the warmth of her flesh against mine, the taste of her skin. Then I stopped. “But somebody would screw it up and then where would we be?” My tone was playful.

  “That’s a good point.” She nuzzled my shoulder, reached for my belt. “One of us would be stuck with a house.”

  I chuckled softly and slid my hand under her shirt, grasped the smooth, contoured perfection that was the small of her back. We kissed again.

  She pulled me toward the bedroom, the only area of the apartment that bore any personal mark of the occupants. Framed snapshots of children in foreign lands had been arranged on the top of the chest of drawers. The kids that she’d sponsored, an even dozen at the moment. Hasina would make thirteen.

  I resisted for a moment, then followed her.

  - CHAPTER NINE -

  Washington, DC, at night never ceased to amaze Senator Stephen McNally.

  The city inspired awe. She humbled you, made you feel capable of anything, all in the same breath. The purity of the buildings, pale marble bathed in golden lights, the immense potency of the greatest nation in the world barely hidden behind each façade.

  New York had more energy. Paris and San Francisco and a dozen other places were more attractive. But for the feeling of raw power—the low hum of influence that affected the entire world—no place beat Washington.

  DC was the ultimate city for a deal maker.

  Senator Stephen McNally and Patrick Hawkins, his chief of staff, were in the backseat of a gray Ford Expedition, two armed guards in the front. A similar vehicle with four additional security personnel followed close behind.

  As the driver sped through the late-night traffic, Senator McNally caught a glimpse of the Capitol on one side and the Washington Monument at the far end of the National Mall on the other. Like always, he felt a tiny lump in his throat to be part of a special group of one hundred women and men, the US Senate, entrusted with governing America.

  The guards in both vehicles were employed by one of the Senator’s charitable trusts and answered to him alone. His government-provided security detail had been sent home, their protests duly noted.

  The driver maneuvered through Columbus Circle and then turned off of Massachusetts Avenue and onto Capitol Street, a major thoroughfare heading north. More buildings, three and four stories of limestone and granite, full of the suckerfish of government: lobbyists and lawyers, pollsters and prostitutes, consultants of every flavor.

  “Where are we going?” McNally looked at his chief of staff.

  “Maryland.” Hawkins pulled out his phone. “Some place called Langley Park.”

  McNally frowned and shifted in his seat, nervous energy from the day’s activities and the failed vote boiling inside of him.

  He’d never heard of that area. Most of the influence peddlers made their headquarters, even temporary ones, near the White House on K Street or in Georgetown.

  The office buildings gave way to a series of row houses, charming places that had been updated with fresh paint and manicured landscaping.

  After a few miles, the Ford veered to the right on Riggs Road, also known as Highway 212, and crossed under a set of railroad tracks, and the neighborhood changed again. The houses became smaller and smaller, the paint jobs less fresh. Small weed-filled yards and driveways with battered cars. The commercial buildings changed, too. Gone were the well-groomed offices, replaced by tired-looking retail centers and worn-down apartments with the style and charisma of a Soviet-era dormitory.

  McNally had never been to this part of the District before. He prided himself on being self-sufficient, but for once he was glad to have armed guards around. Ten minutes later, after the driver consulted with Hawkins, the Ford pulled into the parking lot of a small strip center behind an all-night Rite Aid drugstore.

  The strip center contained a check-cashing store that advertised in Spanish, a shop called Arcade y Musica Latino, and a restaurant named Mariscos el Ceviche Loco, the last of which was the only place open.

  The driver parked in front of the restaurant and looked in the back of the vehicle, awaiting instructions.

  Hawkins chuckled. “Who knew there was a barrio inside the Beltway?”

  “Where’s their office?” The Senator peered out the window. His skin felt tight, palms clammy.

  Several groups of young men loitered at either end of the strip center. They were drinking from cans wrapped in paper sacks, roughhousing with each other.

  Music blared from the open windows of an early 1980s Chevy Monte Carlo parked by the Dumpster. The car was immaculate, neon green with oversized chrome wheels.

  “The restaurant. That’s the address they gave me.” Hawkins opened his door, exited.

  The security guy in the passenger seat got out as well, as did two men from the second Expedition. The security guy from McNally’s vehicle surveyed the scene, one hand under his suit coat. After a few moments, he tapped the window, and Senator McNally departed the safety of his SUV.

  One of the young men at the end of the building shouted something in Spanish, and several others laughed, made catcalls. No one approached, but the Senator’s men tensed, hands underneath their coats.

  After it became clear the young men were no immediate threat, Hawkins and a guard from the second vehicle walked on either side of the Senator to the front of the restaurant.

  The three men paused at the entrance.

  Senator McNally peered through the glass, a moment of hesitation, as he considered what he was doing in this part of town.

  His goals were worthy: regain control of the border, increase prosperity (and the tax base) for the region, restore dignity to some of t
he poorest citizens in the land. And last but certainly not least—win an election.

  But, worthy endeavor or not, if you wanted to succeed in today’s environment, sometimes you had to use unorthodox methods.

  Crack a few eggs so everybody could get a taste of the omelet.

  He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The place was a mom-and-pop operation, a little more than a fast-food restaurant but not by much. A dirty tile floor, white walls streaked with grease and grime, cracked vinyl chairs and booths. The steamy air smelled glorious, however—tortillas and freshly cooked onions, grilled fish, herbs, the yeasty tang of Mexican beer.

  The kitchen was along the back, separated from the dining area by a waist-high barrier that served as a waitress station. The only decorations on the walls were menus and pictures of bullfighters.

  A pair of Hispanic men in dirty aprons milled about in the cooking area, banging pots around, arguing in Spanish.

  Two men were the dining room, the only customers. They were positioned apart from each other—one with his back to the wall in the rear of the restaurant, the other in a booth a few feet away from him—but were clearly together.

  The man at the back of the room was heavyset, vaguely Middle Eastern–looking. He wore a cheap gray suit with the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster under one arm. There was no table in front of him, just an open space and a clear view of both the kitchen and the front door.

  The second man, lounging in the booth, was eating a bowl of soup and leafing through the contents of a manila folder. A mug of beer and a cell phone rested on either side of his meal.

  The man in the gray suit was built like a linebacker. He was completely still, hands in his lap. His eyes never rested, however, surveying every movement in the restaurant.

  Hawkins swore under his breath. Their contact person clearly not anywhere to be seen. He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

  An instant later the device resting next to Soup Man’s plate vibrated. He glanced at the screen and looked up.

  McNally waved off his guard and chief of staff. He strode to the table. Hawkins followed, shaking his head.

  The man was in his early forties and the polar opposite of the big guy in the gray suit. He was thin, almost dainty, pale skin dusted with freckles and thick gray hair cut a few inches above the shoulders, bangs swept back. He wore a black velvet jacket, a purple shirt, and a gold Rolex.

  Senator McNally sat down across from Soup Man without being invited. Hawkins eased into the booth next to McNally.

  McNally said, “We’re looking for Raul Fuentes-Manzanares.”

  Soup Man put down his spoon and said, “He’s not here.”

  The barest trace of a Mexican accent, his voice was low and throaty but feminine, a Latino Lauren Bacall.

  “Who the shit are you?” Hawkins pointed to the man’s phone. “I thought—”

  Soup Man raised a hand. “I am Raul’s brother, Ernesto.”

  “Where’s Mister Fuentes-Manzanares?” the Senator said. “We had an appointment.”

  “He’s in the process of moving to the United States.” Ernesto stirred his soup with a spoon. “Mexico is not a safe place these days.”

  “This is not a good way to start off a relationship.” McNally gave the man his stare.

  Raul Fuentes-Manzanares was part of a very wealthy and powerful Mexican-American family as well as the leader of the Manzanares Political Consulting Group. Descended from Spanish conquistadores, the family had made the bulk of their fortune in manufacturing and mining during the colonial era before going into banking.

  “You have such beautiful eyes.” Ernesto returned the Senator’s gaze. “So blue. Like the sky at Mazatlán in wintertime.”

  The Senator blinked, sat back.

  “Travel is difficult for Raul at the moment. He has a family, small children.” Ernesto smiled ruefully. “I, alas, do not. So it was easier for me to be here.”

  McNally nodded, looked around. “And this is your… office.”

  “We have interests in many different areas,” Ernesto said. “This is one of them.”

  Hawkins glanced at the Senator, shrugged.

  McNally squelched the anger that was building inside him. Who the hell did these people think they were, meeting with a US Senator in this rathole of a restaurant?

  “You need someone to provide insight into the border region, yes?” Ernesto took a sip of beer. “To advise on getting votes, too?”

  McNally didn’t reply. After a moment, he nodded, lips tight.

  “Do you wish to engage our services, Senator?” Ernesto pushed his food away.

  The arrangement was straightforward. For a monthly fee, the Manzanares Political Consulting Group would provide McNally’s campaign with expert help in wooing the Hispanic vote in the upcoming election as well as other, unspecified services labeled “miscellaneous.”

  As a gesture of good faith from both sides, McNally, a member of the Senate Banking Committee, had agreed to sponsor a bill that the Manzanares organization favored. In return, Manzanares would offer immediate help in passing the new immigration legislation.

  The bill was simple, a loosening of the rules regarding transactions between banks in the United States and Mexico. As it would be a boon to business, the Senator would have supported the law without the arrangement between his campaign and this new consulting firm. He’d been surprised something similar hadn’t passed before.

  McNally hesitated for a moment. The urge to win churned his belly. The Hispanic vote was key to an easy victory.

  “The election is important, of course,” Ernesto said. “But the border region cries out for a man with your influence.”

  McNally straightened his tie.

  Ernesto continued. “Together, we can accomplish much. The immigration issue and the election, that’s just the start.”

  McNally didn’t say anything. His eyes drifted across the room. A cockroach crawled along the baseboard. In the kitchen, one of the cooks cranked the volume on a radio, Mexican rap music, and lit a cigarette. Outside, a siren grew loud and then soft as a police unit passed by.

  Ernesto followed the Senator’s gaze. “This place makes you nervous?”

  “I’ve seen worse.” McNally turned away from the filth of the restaurant. “You should see where I grew up.”

  The Pleasant Grove section of Dallas. Poverty and crime abounded.

  “These people vote, too,” Ernesto said. “The legal ones anyway.”

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  “What about in the Senate?” McNally said. “You can get enough votes for SB 994?”

  “We have many friends in both houses of Congress, but we also have faith.” Ernesto touched a small gold crucifix around his neck. “With faith, one can move mountains.”

  McNally took a deep breath and pulled the envelope from his pocket. He held it in his hand, rubbed a finger along the edge. The envelope contained a retainer check and the contract between the Senator’s campaign and the consulting group, the results of a weeks-long negotiation between Hawkins and the Manzanares people.

  “With a leader such as you and our help,” Ernesto’s voice was soothing, “the United States might regain control of the border and stop this narcotrafficker violence.”

  Control the border, the Senator’s ultimate goal.

  A win-win for everybody, his favorite kind of deal.

  “Okay.” McNally handed over the envelope. “I expect results. And soon.”

  The man in the gray suit shifted his weight slightly but didn’t get up.

  “Thank you,” Ernesto said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  McNally nodded, mind moving on to other issues.

  “The details of our agreement.” Ernesto placed the envelope in his breast pocket. “Perhaps I might have a quick word alone with your chief of staff.”

  McNally nodded.

  Politics was often like sausage—everybody liked the end product, but nobody wanted to
see it get made. This was one of those times. Things might be said that a Senator didn’t need to hear. Such was the burden of leadership.

  Hawkins pointed to the parking lot. “Wait in the car while I talk with our new friend.”

  McNally had no idea what Ernesto wanted to discuss with his chief of staff and didn’t really care. He had an election to win and a border to reclaim for the United States. He slid from the booth, headed toward the exit, his security person holding open the door to the grimy restaurant.

  The man in the gray suit watched him go.

  McNally had mentally shifted gears, thinking about future legislation and election scenarios and how best to use his new consulting group.

  The hunger flamed in his belly, the compulsion to win at all costs stoked once again.

  - CHAPTER TEN -

  I lived by nickel and dime jobs, a skinny chicken scratching in the dirt for a meal.

  The proverbial hand-to-mouth existence, dropping half of what was in the hand on the way to the mouth. Tough to make a living, times being what they were, especially since there wasn’t a lot of stimulus money floating around for guys who rough up Korean pimps.

  My life didn’t used to be this way.

  In a time before this, I’d been on the fast track at the Dallas Police Department, the golden child at the Central Patrol Division. I was ex-military, fresh off of a couple of tours in the Middle East. I was also third generation old-school Texas law enforcement, what the country club set would call a scion.

  My father had been a county sheriff of some renown.

  My grandfather had been a legendary commander in the Texas Department of Public Safety, a man who once told a capo of the New Orleans mob to “Stay the hell out of East Texas or I’ll give you a forty-five-caliber enema, too.” The capo, so the story goes, had slowly backed out of the room with his hands raised. He made no move to help his underling, the guy trying to set up operations in Texas, a pedophile from Shreveport who was dying from a bullet wound in his rectum. All of this had reportedly occurred in one of the capo’s bars in the French Quarter.

  Yes, I was going places.