by Glenn Trust
The procession continued. Each mourner had their own personal remembrances of Clara Sole and shared them with John.
“She was there for me when my husband, Marty had his heart attack.”
“She didn’t leave my side while I was going through chemo for breast cancer.”
“Clara never had a bad word to say about anyone.”
“Your mother was so proud of you, John. She spoke of you every time we were together.”
Everyone who knew her loved Clara Sole, and they made sure her son knew it. When the services ended, the prayers said, and the casket was placed in the hole an old man at the town cemetery had dug with a backhoe, John Sole was more alone than he had ever been in his life.
Clara had always been there, the sun in his universe. Lying in bed that night in the small house where he had been born, his heart ached with guilt over the time he had spent away from her, broken only by short visits home on leave. She never complained about his absence, embracing the time he spent with her, building memories to tide her over until the next visit.
In the dark, he could see her face, smiling, happy that he was home even now. John Sole smiled back at the face and wept.
***
The next day he met Billy Siever at Gurney’s Bar in Sexton, the only place to get a beer in Winscombe County.
“I always felt guilty,” Billy said after the first round arrived.
“No need to,” John replied. “No one twisted my arm that day.” He smiled. “And you sure as hell couldn’t have twisted it or forced me to do anything.”
They laughed and sipped their beers.
“Still, it didn’t seem right. Still doesn’t.” Billy leaned back and looked at John, his eyes thoughtful. “I get a slap on the hand, go to the university, get a law degree and you …” He stopped and shook his head.
“What? I joined the Marines. That’s a good thing, Billy. Best thing that ever happened.” He looked at the man who had been a boy eight years earlier, had been his friend, and was still his friend. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Besides, I like being a Marine. I’m good at it.”
Billy nodded, regarding his re-found friend. “You would be good at a lot of things, John.”
“You trying to talk me out of the Marines?”
“Not at all.” Billy gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Just saying you have options. Things you are good at in the Marines may be transferrable to something closer to home. If that’s what you want to do.” He sighed. “Look, I’m just letting you know that I could help you get resettled if you want to come home. I’ve joined a law firm over in Dahlonega.”
“You saying I should be a lawyer?” John shook his head, laughing. “No way.”
“Not that … unless you wanted. I think you’d make a fine lawyer, by the way, but you could do a lot of things. I’m just saying; I got a break eight years ago, mostly because of my father’s connections. It seems like you got the shitty end of the stick, and I’d like to help fix that … if you want.”
“Like I said, the Marine Corps has been good to me,” John said shaking his head and then added philosophically. “We move on. Life happens. It’s all good.”
“Then here’s to life.” Billy lifted and tipped his bottle, clinking it against John’s. “Anyway, it’s good to see you again. How long are you staying?”
“Heading out tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“Yeah.” John leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar top. “Have a thirty-day emergency leave, but there’s no reason to stay now. Emergency’s over.”
“I understand, but I am sorry to see you go so soon.” Billy turned on the barstool to face his friend, lifting his beer in salute. “I’m not a Marine, but Semper Fi, John Sole.”
John lifted his bottle in return, understanding Billy’s intent and the meaning of those words—Always Faithful. “Semper Fi, Billy.”
***
The flight back to Honolulu took fifteen hours and two stops. He could have waited for a Space-A free military flight headed that way, but there would have been more layovers. Besides, he didn’t want to wait. A sense of urgency had taken hold of him even though he couldn’t determine the reason for it.
The long flight gave him plenty of time to think. Mostly he thought about his mother and what she would have wanted for him. Billy’s words kept coming back to him. He had skills that he could do something with in civilian life, but did he?
Three hours after touching down in Honolulu, John was sitting in front of the man who had been his mentor for much of his time in the Marine Corps. Master Gunnery Sergeant Simpson ‘Sim’ Bradford shuffled through the personnel file on his desk for a few minutes before looking up.
Fifty-two-years-old with short-cropped gray hair, a square face etched from years of service in the field, and a lean, well-muscled physique, Bradford looked like a recruiting poster Marine with a few years added on. In fact, if ever a Marine was an example of everything a Marine should be and what service in the Corps represented, it was Master Guns Bradford.
“So you are considering leaving the Corps?”
“I am, Master Gunnery Sergeant.” John sat at attention in the chair Bradford had indicated and fought back the urge to squirm under his stare.
“How does that make you feel?”
“I …” John hesitated.
“Speak, Sergeant.” Bradford’s hawk-like eyes never left John’s face, reading every thought and emotion.
“Guilty, I suppose. The Corps has been good to me.”
“Guilt? Is that what service in the Corps means to you, Sergeant Sole? Is that a good reason to be a Marine?”
“No, Master Gunnery Sergeant. It’s just …” John shook his head. “I think I owe something to the Corps, to the people I’ve served with. If I hadn’t enlisted in the Marine Corps, I …”
“I know exactly what would have happened.” Bradford cut him off. “You would have been in prison in Georgia for taking a joyride in a car you borrowed from the local preacher without his permission. That about the size of it?” He tapped the folder on his desk. “It’s all here. Did I leave anything out?”
“No, that’s it. I would have gone to prison. Instead I …”
“You found a life in the Corps, a life of service.” Bradford’s face softened, and the closest thing to a fatherly smile that John had witnessed replaced his ever-present Master Gunnery Sergeant sternness. “The Marine Corps is not the only place to serve, Sole.”
“Yes, but I am a Marine.”
“You are.” Bradford nodded. “An exemplary one, and it would be an honor to serve with you for the rest of my career, Sole.
“So, you’re saying …”
“I am saying that you have served honorably. There is no shame in leaving, and you have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Oh.” John was quiet, not sure what else to say.
“Go home, son.” Bradford’s voice was soft. “You have done your duty, here. You don’t have to be a lifer to be a Marine. Whether you remain in the Corps or not, you are always a Marine … always will be.”
John nodded without speaking. He hadn’t expected this response.
Bradford continued as if the decision was already made. “How long do you have in your enlistment contract?”
“Two months.”
“Then take some advice from me. Start now. Make your contacts back home. Find a job you can move into. Don’t go home without a plan. Marines plan.” Bradford leaned back in his chair in a more relaxed posture taking on the role of counselor. “Have you considered law enforcement?”
“You mean the police department?”
“Seems like a good place to serve … a place where your skills, your initiative, and dedication to duty will be useful.”
“I was arrested … for a felony. I’m not sure they will let me …”
“You were seventeen, a boy. You are a man now, a Marine. I’ll put a good word in for you. There are others who will.” Bradford sat up straig
ht, closed the personnel file and looked John in the eyes. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Sole.”
“Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”
***
Two months later John Sole took his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps. A month after that, he took the entrance exam for the City of Atlanta Police Academy, receiving one of the highest scores ever recorded. During the oral board review and interview, it was brought to his attention that Master Gunnery Sergeant Bradford along with several other Marine NCOs and officers had written letters of recommendation. Bradford had even called the chief of police. The final recommendations came from William Siever, Attorney at law, and his well-connected father who had asked Judge Burlson to write a letter of support.
The criminal charges in his record were noted and then forgotten. Once again he took an oath as he had on enlisting in the Marine Corps. Along with forty-five other rookie recruits, he swore to defend the Constitution of the United States, protect and serve the people, and enforce the laws of the State of Georgia and City of Atlanta. John Sole was a police officer.
14.
Houseguest
Dinner with the Elizondos was a family affair. The children treated their father’s invited guest as a long-lost uncle and not one who had been a complete stranger until this day. When introduced, each stepped forward and politely shook hands. Bebé’s wife, Sofia greeted him with a firm handshake and smile, and then bustled off to the kitchen with her two house assistants to organize the evening meal.
True to Bebé’s word, Sofia did the cooking, although the opulence of their home showed they could afford many servants and the finest chef if they desired. Instead, Sofia performed the household tasks and cooking with the help of two teenaged servant girls.
While they prepared the meal, Bebé poured tequila into tall, thin glasses, rimmed in silver. The bottoms of the glasses came to a point and rested in small silver cradles when not being held. The children sang for them while Bebé and the tall norteamericano sipped the tequila.
Alejandro sat to one side, expressionless as he watched the children and listened to their singing. Occasionally, the little one, Rosa, would come to his knee and tug on his trousers for attention. Alejandro gave her hand a gentle pat, but his expression never changed.
Still shaken by the day’s events and the execution performed just yards away in the little building on the hillside, the American had little to say and kept his mouth safely shut except to answer questions. Mostly, he sipped the tequila and nodded at his host’s running commentary on life, politics, and family while smiling at the children’s singing. Bebé, on the other hand, was full of genial conversation and anecdotes that flowed from him like water gurgling happily downhill in a mountain stream.
The American avoided eye contact with Alejandro. After witnessing the garroting of the traitor, he was downright terrified of the silent Mexican. His hovering presence was like tornado weather on the horizon back home in Georgia. You couldn’t be sure what direction the storm would take or which way to run for safety, but you never forgot it was there.
The evening’s tranquil domestic scene was incongruous, surreal even after the day’s events. The American wondered if Sofia knew what business her husband conducted so close to their children and the bed where they had conceived them. He sipped more of the tequila and tried to burn away the memories of the day.
Dinner was sumptuous. Sofia called them into a long hall-like dining room. A massive oak table with ornately carved legs was laden with food from one end to the other.
The men went to the chairs Bebé indicated, and Sofia sat beside the American, explaining the traditional Michoacán dishes she had prepared. As the main course, there was aporreadillo, corned beef and egg smothered in salsa on the side. This was accompanied by tortillas and heavily seasoned fried pork carnitas with morisqueta, a mixture of rice and black beans covered in cheese sauce.
When it seemed they could not possibly eat another bite, Sofia introduced the American to chongos zamoranos, a dessert made from curd, cinnamon, and sugar. She smiled as he relented and accepted a portion and then did not refuse the second helping she offered.
The meal was like a family party. All of it was washed down by an assortment of Mexican wines, the children tasting the vintages from smaller sampling glasses.
Feeling the warmth from the combined effects of wine, chilies, and spices, the American was ready for bed. Yet, the meal continued and then continued some more.
They had commenced at eight in the evening. It was now past ten. He craved a bed where he could sleep off dinner and perhaps dull the memories of the day’s horrors.
At last, the host pushed his chair back from the table. “Come, children. It is time for bed. Kiss your father good night.”
One by one, Bebé’s three daughters came to him, kissed his cheek and received a kiss from him on the forehead, along with a pat on the cheek.
“Now a kiss for our guest and for Tio Alejandro.”
The girls performed the duty, smiling as they stood before Alejandro and then the American to plant kisses on their cheeks. Surprised, the American watched and followed Alejandro’s example, accepting each kiss without offering one in return.
A little bow and “Good night, Tio Alejandro. Good night, Senor,” and they were herded off to bed by their mother. Elizondo watched them leave the room, a loving paternal smile spreading across his baby smooth face.
“Do you have children?” he asked the American as they disappeared into the hallway to clump up the stairs to their bedrooms.
“No.”
“None? Really?” Elizondo turned his curious gaze on the man sitting in the chair beside him.
“None.” The American nodded and shrugged. “We wanted children. It just never happened.”
“Ah, yes,” Elizondo said, a knowing smile on his face. “I hear such matters can be difficult.” His smile widened. “I have no problem in that area.” He made a fist and pumped his arm to indicate his bedroom stamina.
“Yes, well you have a beautiful family,” The American said, ready to change the subject. He yawned. “And now I think it is time for me to head to bed. It’s been a long day.”
“So soon?” Elizondo’s brow furrowed in surprise that the American would end the evening at such an early hour. “We have business to discuss.”
The American remained silent for several seconds, unsure about what would happen if he insisted on retiring for the evening.
In fact, it had been a long day. Alejandro and two bodyguards had picked him up at General Francisco Mujica International Airport, in Morelia at seven in the morning, local time. From there they boarded a helicopter to make the leg to Lázaro Cárdenas.
The hour and a half flight over pastoral Michoacán State was restful enough although his companions in the chopper remained silent to the point of surliness. It was apparent that they had been instructed to have no interaction with the norteamericano.
On arrival at the Elizondo estate, they hustled the American off to the outbuilding that served as an office. One of the smiling but silent, servant girls came from the house to serve him breakfast that consisted of strong black coffee and pastries, loaded with the Mexican staples of cinnamon and sugar. He ate while taking in the view through the bank of windows. The spectacular views of the harbor and Pacific Ocean beyond were impressive.
After an hour or so of waiting, they brought the man they called Miguel into the building and proceeded down the spiral staircase. The American was instructed to stand in the corner behind the chair where Miguel sat, sweating and wide-eyed with concern.
A few minutes later, Bebé came down the staircase with Alejandro. A few minutes after that, Miguel met his fate, and the guards were cleaning up the mess.
Miguel’s execution was followed by a pleasant lunch. Then, Alejandro had dispatched some men to provide him a tour of the harbor and Elizondo’s shipping facilities. This had lasted all afternoon, returning him to the hacienda just in time for drinks and
then dinner.
“Stay, please,” Elizondo said, regarding the American over the top of the glass as he sipped tequila. It was a command, not a request.
“Of course.” The American nodded, casting a sidelong glance at Alejandro.
“So, you are still concerned about our demonstration this morning, are you not?” Elizondo smiled.
“Is that what the murder was? A demonstration?”
The American tried to control his voice and meet Elizondo’s gaze as an equal partner, but he had come to realize their partnership was anything but equal. Bebe’s enormous wealth and power from drug trafficking dwarfed any pretense of riches and influence the American might display. He was terrified by this man who played with his children and then had people murdered just feet away from where they slept.
“Not murder.” Elizondo waived a finger, correcting him. “An execution. He betrayed us. I was a friend to him. I trusted him, yet he betrayed me.” His eyes narrowed. “For that, there is a price to pay.”
“I already understood the price. Your demonstration was …” The American hesitated. “It was unnecessary.”
“Very good.” The ever-present smile on the babyface widened “We can disagree on this point, but you should know that I think it was necessary. It is important for you to understand the nature of our relationship.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now let us discuss business. I have many questions. Your people have spoken to my contacts in the States. Now, I want to hear from you how it will be done.”
At two in the morning, Elizondo stretched in his chair, put the glass of tequila on the table and rose. “An excellent discussion! Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” The American was fatigued to the point of exhaustion.
“Good. You shall stay here for another day or two as my houseguest.”
“But …”
Elizondo raised his hand to cut off any objections. “I insist. My wife has more cooking to feed you and my children have many questions about your home in the United States.”
