by Glenn Trust
Blintzes and bagels. Gefilte fish and goulash. Lox, whitefish and cream cheese. Honey cake and potato pancakes. They were new and exotic tastes, for a small-town boy from the hills of North Georgia.
While his waistline had thickened a bit over the years, his genes helped him maintain his trim physique. Saul joked and said his gentile blood made him immune to Naomi’s cooking. It all made John Sole feel he had become part of something bigger than himself, no longer alone. He was home.
Then one day, Shaye gave him a gift.
“I think you’ll do,” she said.
“Oh?” Sole smiled as he washed, shaved and readied himself for his evening shift. “That’s comforting. I thought you might kick me out once the warranty expired.”
“Nope. You’re here for the duration. We’ve got graduation, college, walking down the aisle, you know, the usual things.”
“The usual things?” He lowered the razor. “Are you saying …”
“Yes.” The smile on her face seemed even more radiant than usual.
They gifts came, completing the work she had started. It was an amazing time. Samantha was born in the spring. Three years later a son, Robert came to them. They were a family. John Sole was whole.
17.
After All
The descent from the Elizondo estate to the city and port of Lázaro Cárdenas took thirty minutes. Views of the harbor and the Pacific Ocean alternated with the mottled green of the hillsides as they made the switchback turns. Sunlight filtered through the tops of tall, spindly trees that the American did not recognize, reminding him again that he was in a strange and foreign place.
The image of the man strangled to death while Bebé Elizondo stood calmly to the side, gazing out over the ocean, lingered in his mind. He shook his head as if that could clear the memory. It did not. It was another reminder. This place was not only alien to him; the rules here were different.
Death came with an unnerving easiness. One minute, a man breathed, sweated, tried to reason with the smiling, soft-faced Bebé. The next, he kicked and gagged, biting through his tongue as the life left his body. After that, they ate and talked as if nothing extraordinary had happened. The murder was merely a storm cloud passing over for a moment. Then the day cleared revealing a bright sun full of happiness and good cheer. He swallowed back the bile that surged into his throat.
The last few days had been a kaleidoscope of emotion, the surreal mixing with the ordinary as each hour passed, like an acid trip taken on a dare while he was in college. One minute, Sofia Elizondo was preparing meals. The children frolicked and climbed on their father’s lap or danced laughing in circles around his houseguest. The next they huddled to discuss their business, the need for trust and the punishment for betrayals, leaving no doubt that the consequences of failure would be severe.
Once, as the day and talks progressed, the American had thought about calling the plan off. He could shake hands with Bebé, say no hard feelings, promise to keep all the details in confidence and return to the States on the next flight. The thought flittered away as quickly as it had come. It was bullshit, and he knew it.
He was in too far now to back out. Alejandro’s stone-like gaze, watching all, waiting for a word from Bebé, reminded him that leaving was impossible.
Elizondo’s congeniality could turn in an instant into something else. He had witnessed it. The smile would fade, and he would stand quiet, imperturbable as Alejandro resolved any problems with the American.
Besides, the American needed the money. The family business he had inherited, and that had made him a wealthy man at a young age was struggling. As costs rose and profits dwindled, he had struggled to find a way to stay afloat.
Then out of nowhere, a call had come from a mysterious man who claimed to represent an investor who could provide much-needed capital for his business. The investor had a product to transport into the United States. As a partner, the American would share a percentage of the profits derived from those imports.
The American was no fool. The sums of money the caller discussed were far beyond what any legal import could provide.
There were several follow-up calls while the American considered the offer. Importing—smuggling—illegal narcotics presented unique risks. The American asked many questions. Sometimes, he received answers.
Who was the investor?
All in good time the caller told him.
He could lose everything, he had said. What about the risk?
There is a risk to every business venture, and that’s what this was—a business venture. The money would offset the risk.
Yes. That was something to consider. There was the money. So much money. More money than he would see in a lifetime of running his business, if he didn’t go bankrupt first, and bankruptcy was just over the horizon.
The caller suggested he meet with the investor and sent him a first-class ticket to Morelia in the Mexican State of Michoacán, a place the American had never been. He decided it was at least worth a conversation to flesh out the details. Within hours after his arrival, he watched Miguel Diaz struggle, feet kicking as he died. He knew then that the time for conversations had ended.
The car made the final turn from the switchback road into Lázaro Cárdenas. They stayed close on the bumper of the lead car full of armed men to provide security. Bebé was taking no chances that a rival might try to interfere in his business with the American.
They drove by the docks where the big ships were being loaded and through the city center. At last, they came to the Aeropuerto General Lázaro Cárdenas Del Rio. The cars went around to a side entrance where a guard lifted a gate and saluted as they passed. Speeding across active taxiways, they came to a remote portion of the airfield away from the main terminal and regular commercial flights.
The helicopter waited, engines already spooling up. The massive main rotor, blades, drooping at the ends from their weight, turned ponderously over their heads.
As they exited the cars, the security men jumped out of the lead vehicle and formed a perimeter around the helicopter. They were serious looking men armed with automatic rifles, eyes focused outward to detect any threats. The American wondered who would dare threaten Elizondo.
The driver rushed around to take his bags from the rear and place them in the helicopter. With a nod of thanks, the American boarded the chopper. He turned in surprise when he saw that Alejandro took the seat beside him.
“You’re coming along?”
“Bebé wants me to ensure that you arrive safely at your flight.”
With that said, the helicopter eased itself into the sky. The flight to Morelia passed in silence, followed by more silence as the American checked in for his Aero Mexico flight, passed through security and made his way to the gate. He was no longer surprised that the guards and airport staff made way for Alejandro and allowed him to accompany the American all the way to the gate.
They sat side by side in plastic chairs until the plane boarded. When the flight was called by the gate agent, the American stood.
“Well, that’s me. It’s been a pleasure.” He nodded at Alejandro without extending a hand, repulsed at the thought of touching the hand that strangled other men with such ease. It seemed safer just to smile and say goodbye.
“Goodbye,” Alejandro said facing the American. “We will be in touch.”
“Looking forward to it.” The American nodded, walked through the door and down the jetway.
With his carry-on stowed overhead and his seatbelt fastened, he ordered bourbon from the petite, brown-eyed flight attendant who gave him a glowing white smile and said, “Sí, señor.”
Drink in hand a minute later, he sat back and relaxed. For the first time since arriving in Mexico, he felt the tension ease and a sense of normalcy returning. A drink on an airplane. A smiling flight attendant eager to please him. No steely-eyed man with a garrote in his pocket staring at him.
A few minutes later, the plane lifted from the runway, climbed out over th
e Pacific and then made a long banking turn toward the northeast and the United States. Muscles relaxed and taut nerves loosened with every mile. He wanted to sleep, but first, he had to make a call to his assistant, the only other person who knew of his visit to Elizondo.
Thankful that Mexico had done away with the silly restrictions on cell phone usage in flight, he pulled out his phone and punched the speed dial number. It rang once.
“I’ve been waiting for your call. Thought I might hear from you yesterday.” The voice on the other end was eager.
“Sorry. Calling was not possible. He insisted that there be no calls from his location.”
“Understood. So where are we?”
“We proceed.” He didn’t mention to his assistant that proceeding was the only way to go. “Did you speak to them?” he asked without identifying ‘them.’
“Yes, two nights ago, and I have a follow-up meeting today to finalize the logistics.”
“Good … good,” the American said, relaxing more. “I need you to arrange something for me.”
“Okay. What?”
They spoke for five more minutes as he explained what Elizondo wanted to do to solidify their plans and protect their new business partnership.
“Interesting idea,” his assistant said. “I’ll have it set up before you get home. Anything else?”
“Not for now. I just need some rest. Been a long couple of days.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll be ready.” There was a pause before his assistant continued. “Do you mind if I ask how … valuable … your contacts will be?”
The American smiled. The younger man on the phone was the only other person he had involved. The promise of a small percentage of the profits was enough to gain his unswerving loyalty to the project.
“Very valuable,” he answered. “Multiply the estimates we discussed by ten.”
There was another pause as the assistant calculated the enormity of their expected windfall.
“That is good news … very good,” he said, his voice suddenly breathless.
“I thought it would be.”
The call ended. The American ordered another bourbon from the smiling flight attendant then stretched back and closed his eyes.
As the miles lengthened from the hacienda on the hillside, he found himself more at ease with their project. Thoughts of strangled men and threatening eyes faded away, replaced in his mind by images of dollars … enormous piles of dollars.
He drifted off to sleep, telling himself that nothing had really changed. He was the same person he always was. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone.
18.
Question of the Day
It was Sole’s turn to drive. Instead of passing by the corner without stopping, he pulled to the curb across the intersection from Luis Acero’s street-side drug emporium.
Already nervous, the drug dealer tried hard not to look at the car but couldn’t resist. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, his head swiveling back and forth casting glances at the unmarked, but plainly identifiable, Atlanta PD car. The asshole detectives inside were watching him, just fucking sitting there staring.
A heavyset woman with two small children in tow came around the corner. She stopped in her tracks as she was about to make the pass to Luis, money for cocaine. Her eyes narrowed.
She shoved the money back in the pocket of her too-tight jeans, grabbed the hand of one of the children and continued past Luis, head lowered.
“Fuckin’ five-o across the street watchin’,” she snarled and scowled at Luis, her eyes red-rimmed, her face gaunt despite the sagging excess flesh she carried.
“Ow! You hurtin’ me!” The little girl she was dragging struggled to release herself from the claw-like grip.
“Shut up!” the woman hissed, jerking the girl’s arm. “Takin’ you back to your mama now.” Then to Luis, she added, “You movin’ or what? I need my hit … need it bad.”
“Yeah, I’m movin’. Be an hour then I’ll be at the other corner … you know where.”
“I know. I’ll be there, you make sure you there too.”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do, bitch. You want your shit, be there in an hour.”
Luis turned and walked inside the corner market that served as his street headquarters as well as the neighborhood liquor store, pawn shop, and source of paycheck loans. He ignored the old man behind the counter who ignored him in return and walked to the backroom. Pulling open the beer cooler door, he deposited his pocketful of drugs in an empty milk crate and stacked several cases of beer on top for safekeeping.
He watched for a minute from the cooler, gazing past the greasy fingerprints, fly specks and window glass to the corner across the street. It was empty, the police car gone.
“Motherfuckers,” he muttered, leaving the cooler and walking to the front door.
After scanning both ends of the block through the glass, Luis went out into the street. There was no reason to warn the old man not to touch his stash in the cooler. They had a working relationship. In exchange for the use of his store and cooler, Luis provided the owner a small percentage of his profits. These added up over time, making a nice supplement to the old man’s future retirement.
As he made the circuitous walk around several blocks to wind his way back to the alley, Luis’ temper flared. Motherfuckers, parked across the street! How the fuck was he supposed to make living, them doing shit like that? By the time he made it to their hidden meeting place and jerked the Ford’s rear door open, he was fuming.
“What the fuck …” he began, his voice rising in anger as he thumped into the seat and slammed the door shut behind him.
“Shut up.” Sole’s voice was quiet, firm and not to be challenged.
They sat without speaking for almost a full minute. Travis stared at him in the mirror. Sole stared at him from the side. Luis stared out the window and felt the urge to squirm and pull his shorts out of his ass. He didn’t. Finally, he spoke.
“I gave you …” Luis whispered, changing his tone, trying to bring the tension level down a couple of notches.
The tension level did not come down.
“You gave us shit,” Sole said.
“But …”
“Shit!” Sole’s voice rose.
Luis reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes and placed one in between his lips, trying to hide the tremble in his fingers. He patted his pocket for a light, came up empty and looked at Sole. This time there was no accommodating lighter waiting for him.
Sole broke the silence. “Well?”
“Why?” Luis responded with his own question.
“Why what?” Sole leaned in close. “Don’t fuck around with us, Luis!”
“Why you say I gave you shit?” Luis said, trying to maintain eye contact with Sole and reason with him. “It was true. The white dude was there. He didn’t belong there, not on the third floor huddled up with Ortega … and then Esteban got in my face.” Luis shook his head, the unlit cigarette wobbling between his pursed lips, teeth clamped together as he spoke. “I’m tellin’ you; this is something big. They got something planned with that white dude, and it got to do with the supply from down south … you know Mexico … Colombia … wherever.”
“Just one little problem,” Travis said, drawing his eyes away from Sole’s stare.
“What?”
“No way to single out the white dude you saw.”
“What you mean no way? You talk to that Russian son of a bitch … sock-love or whatever the fuck his name is?”
“Yeah, we spoke to Sokolov,” Sole said, his voice rising by several decibels so that Luis’ head jerked back in his direction. “He doesn’t remember any white dude with Ortega. In fact, he doesn’t remember Ortega at all … never heard of him.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Yep.” Sole nodded, his eyes fixed on Luis. “The deepest kind, but doesn’t change the fact that we can’t name the white dude.”
“So why you hasslin’ me
?”
“Come on, Luis,” Travis said. “Do we really have to go back through that again? You owe us something big. You need to pay up before the heat gets turned up on you and your little business.”
“Tellin’ you,” Luis whined, sounding like a child pouting. “This is big.”
“Maybe, but not unless we can identify the white dude huddled up with Ortega,” Travis replied.
“You get us a name,” Sole added sharply. “Or you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the narcs from now on.”
“How I’m supposed to do that?” Luis whined.
“We don’t give a shit how. Just do it,” Sole snapped back. “Here’s how this works.” Sole used his thumb to motion at Travis and himself. “We are the cops. You …” He pointed a thick index finger at Luis. “You are the criminal. That makes you the criminal informant … the one with the connections to other criminals. You use those connections to find out who the white dude is. That might get you paid up. Do that, and we keep looking the other way while you do that other thing you do.” Sole smiled. “You know, criminal stuff.”
“I go back in there, they figure it was me for sure that ratted. Esteban will make me disappear for good.”
“Hell,” Sole said with a chuckle. “Probably just a matter of time before he does that, anyway. Moya is one bad-tempered son of a bitch.” He nodded at Luis, a somber look on his face, the humor gone from his voice. “Find out who the white dude is, and maybe we can keep Moya and Ortega from dumping what’s left of you into the Chattahoochee.”
“You gonna get me killed,” Luis muttered and pushed the door open.
They watched him retreat down the alley, patting his pockets in search of a lighter for the bent cigarette dangling from his lips.
“What do you think?” Travis asked.
“Longshot,” Sole replied. “Identifying the white guy in the suit and why he was huddled with Ortega is the key … to something.”
“Yeah, but what?”
“That would be the question of the day.”
