* * *
I’ve shared with you about my social network back home and people I was connected to, but I needed someone I could trust with issues relating to personal safety without escalating the situation. I needed someone without a criminal record, who wasn’t on parole, who wouldn’t get carried away, who I could trust to house-sit while I researched Canada and its economic relationship with the United States and the whole NAFTA issue.
I pondered this while on my balcony having a drink and smoking a cigarette. The name came to me after twenty minutes or so, Pencho Slaveykov, a Bulgarian professional art thief, conman, hustler, and jack-of-all-trades…a pantologist, a reliable source who could handle a challenging score. A few years ago he was investigated for illegally obtained antiquities at the J. Paul Getty Museum when he used to work as a security officer but he was exonerated, that’s where I met him. I used to work there as well.
I didn’t want to get anyone from the mafias involved because it could get messy down here, I didn’t know what I was up against yet. This was a cleaner way to examine the players. Pencho was suitable. He took on scores back home, had no ties to any particular criminal organization…and he owed me one. I could easily bring him on board. Because we had similar last names, he would be a perfect match, after all, people in general lumped ethnic groups together so often that I could get away with advertising him as a relative. That’s how life had to be played. You use your strengths in positions of need, and expose the weaknesses of others to your benefit. I had no problem exploiting that.
I walked down the street to a local payphone. I had seen too many films and read too many detective stories about people’s telephones being bugged. Based on the events that had unraveled today with the scene at the coffee shop in Austin, the Lincoln in Barton Hills, and now the break-in, I didn’t want to take any chances. I didn’t know why someone would take my pistol and leave a note behind. Whoever it was, they at least knew I wasn’t armed so I had to be careful about how I proceeded.
I glared over my shoulders and fixated my sight on parked vehicles, the flow of traffic, and conspicuous pedestrians. Disgusted, I cleaned the payphone on my jacket to wipe any germs off, and then I slipped in a few quarters that would buy me limited access time on a phone call to Los Angeles. I dialed Pencho. His voice was giddy and composed while my stomach churned as I half-explained my situation and what I necessitated from him including the utmost discretion. He was favorable to my situation, he had no problem booking a flight after we hung up if need be, he was solid like that…a connection you could rely on when stranded in a colossal vicissitude without a plan.
I called Helena to explain what had happened at my apartment. If my life was in possible danger, then perhaps hers as well. I didn’t want to have that on my burdened conscience. She needed to be protected so I advised her to seek refuge at her parents’ home…at least for a few days. Her voice cracked on the other line, she said something about not wanting to sleep alone. Through my natural interpretation of receiving mixed signals from women I could have sworn it was an invitation, but I didn’t have the courage to ask, those types of thoughts had betrayed me in the past. With respect, I ignored it. But before she hung up, she told me she had been contacted by Emma Marlowe from Canada and was going to be in Massachusetts in two days, which would be the opportune moment for us to meet because she would be traveling throughout India on a water campaign for several months.
Next, I dialed Franklin, a dreaded phone call. I hadn’t checked-in with him in regards to my whereabouts or my leads, and I hadn’t submitted anything for about two days. I knew Franklin didn’t like me. It was not uncommon for me to be a thorn in an editor’s side. That’s how I worked in newsrooms, I tried flying under the radar in work environments but my rebellious behavior caused constant aggravation and hostility from those in charge. Whatever…I just wanted enough room to allow for my skills to flourish without being censored. But Franklin was flexible and I was taken aback by the way he was placated. He lashed out at the beginning, but then he started seeing the interconnectedness of my stories based on my rising intonation patterns and focused determination. I was surprised how he acquiesced. He gave me the green light to go to Massachusetts with an approved budget.
I called Pencho back, “You better book a flight for tomorrow, it went smoother than I had expected with my boss.”
Two days later, Pencho arrived in a taxi cab in front of my apartment sporting an Ivy League hairstyle parted down the left side with gel, which matched his oval face and long nose. He wore a black vintage sweater with a plaid dress shirt underneath with a scarf wrapped around clasping his neck and throat, a pair of black trousers cuffed at the bottom showing his ankles and Oxford loafers. He carried a black leather vintage globe-trotter suitcase with tan straps. He looked quite dapper and regal if I may be so bold to admit, the homosexual element in the neighborhood was going to love him. I reached over to him and gave him a meager embrace, he reciprocated, and then we stepped back and grabbed each other by the shoulders.
“Mikhail, it’s good to see you! You look like shit!” he said.
“Thanks, but it’s been a rough few days, I’ll explain in the apartment. Here, let me take this.”
I grabbed his luggage and proceeded towards the gated door.
“You’re looking sharp, what’s this whole look? It’s very becoming.”
I walked up the stairs with his luggage being dragged until, “Here, let me give you a hand,” said Pencho.
“You know Mikhail, you have to look good for the ladies, isn’t that how you landed that Chloe of yours―now she was a real looker, that one you got there. You’ve just let yourself go.”
It wasn’t offensive. Pencho was always at the vanguard of style draped at the height of fashion and making sure people noticed. His comments were commonplace. Even when he used to work at the Getty Museum in a security officer uniform he paraded stylish confidence.
“Well old friend, that didn’t work out, long story―let’s just say we were headed in different directions. I don’t want to talk about that…I’m sorry, maybe some other time. Here let me put your stuff away.”
I grabbed his luggage and dragged it into the bedroom when I heard him yell out, “Listen, we’re not going to do any kind of business until you let me cut your hair. You look like trailer-park, red-neck white trash―I’m serious. C’mon, we’re soviets, soviets have Bolshevik style, man! Did you turn into a hick ever since you came down to Texas or something? C’mon, let’s head over to the bathroom. Look at you.”
He stood me in front of the mirror. We poked fun at my lengthy feral strands of hair and facial shrubbery.
“You look so much more handsome clean-cut, I’m telling you…you think I have any problem with the ladies? Is that why Chloe left you? C’mon, let me shave it off?”
I thought about it for a minute or so, perhaps he was right, the statement regarding “freedom” I was making with my look was in vain because nobody appreciated it. I was even offered money once at a bus stop because of my military gloves cut at the tips with only the feelers remaining, my beard, and my military flak jacket, like some disillusioned war veteran.
“Alright then, let’s shave it…whatever.”
Pencho grabbed the clippers from a restroom drawer and turned the power switch on. The sound rumbled through my ears giving me the erotic pleasure equal to listening to the sublime sound of a tattoo gun, both of which I missed with zeal. I sat on the toilet and slipped off my t-shirt.
“Let’s do this―like Brutus! Use the shortest clip, and give me a clean squared-line on the back, will you,” I said.
I began talking to Pencho about the blueprint, from its origins to what I had discovered. I was eager to share the story with someone else besides Helena. The artistry of being connected to the underworld was that those people were more trustworthy and wou
ld escort you into the depths of purgatory, unlike other acquaintances or professionals who would shy away at the very thought of violence.
I told him about the NAFTA connection and what happened a few days ago with the death of the commissioner, visiting the widow, about the note left with the autopsy report, and the recent break-in. I treated Pencho like a barber or tattoo artist―deep conversation.
“Look, Pencho, I have to go to Massachusetts tomorrow to meet with a Canadian organizer. She has the Canadian inside scoop on what remains to piece the puzzle. If I get good information I can connect NAFTA to the Kansas City Rail Project, to Hudson Port Ltd, to the Texas Department of Transportation, to Zachary and EuroCarril, to the Texas legislature, to the Governor, to the murder of the commissioner. Then I can submit my conclusion to the Houston Chronicle and expose government and business corruption, monopoly, and murder. This is huge, man. We’re talkin’ front page. The murder of an informant, a government official! But, I know someone’s on my trail now because of what just happened…so I need you to stay here in the apartment and just keep an eye on things for a few days. I’m going to Massachusetts tomorrow then most likely I’m going to head over to Canada. I need you to keep your ears and eyes open around here, alright, I think whoever came here is likely to return. Stay away from the phones, I think they’re bugged. If someone tries to break-in, just do whatever you have to do to apprehend the perpetrator, and then call me. Then we’ll figure out the rest. No guns though, I’m serious, I know you have other techniques, so please use that instead. I’m serious, I don’t want anybody getting killed in my living room.”
“It sounds like you’re way too involved, man. Good luck Mikhail, don’t get yourself killed.”
After he finished cutting my hair I looked into the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself at first, but flashbacks of my former life raced around. We both stroked my head in a moment of acceptance and smiled with a fraternal gesticulation. I felt like a new man with my buzzed scalp and trimmed beard and moustache, thus, I was more confident in my stride.
11.
The NAFTA Blueprint Page 23
