Echoes of a Distant Summer (14 page)

“If they’ve got that much hostility, do you think they’re getting any?” Wesley asked with pretended interest.

“I’m sure you can ask them while they’re trying to remove the top of your skull with steel-tipped Reeboks.”

A waitress came over and took their orders. Wesley watched her depart. “That’s a fine heifer. Look at those powerful hocks. Damn! That’s butt made in Africa!”

“Yeah, you marry that and in five years it turns into a continental shelf,” Jackson commented dryly.

“Now who’s being a sexist dog?” Wesley prodded. “I do believe my politically correct brother has fucked up!”

“Your labeling me is characteristic of the type of thinking that hinders philosophical inquiry.”

“That’s one opinion,” Wesley conceded with a nod of his head. “Say, speaking of philosophical inquiry, what did your grandmother say to you the other day to get you so disturbed?”

“That’s a hell of a segue.” Jackson chuckled.

“You brought it up when we were leaving the dojo. I was just following up.”

“She told me that my grandfather’s enemies would come for me after he was dead.”

“Come for you? Come for you how?”

“I guess they would come to kill me.”

“For what? What’s your connection with all this?”

“I’m not quite sure, but I think it has something to do with my grandfather’s estate.”

“She said that they would come to kill you? She said that?”

“Not exactly, but that was the clear implication.”

“That would disturb the shit out of me too! What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know how real the threat is; there are just too many unknowns to make a decision.”

“How does your grandmother know about this?”

“Damned if I know. She and I aren’t close. We don’t chat, if you get
what I mean.” The waitress returned with their drinks and the conversation halted briefly while Jackson paid her.

“Why did she tell you this, then?” Wesley continued after taking a long sip of his drink.

“She wants me to represent her interests in Mexico. She expects me to go down before my grandfather dies.”

“Would she lie or manipulate the truth in order—”

“No, she wouldn’t lie. She might not tell me the whole truth, but she wouldn’t lie.”

“How old is your grandfather?”

“Eighty-three or -four. He was born before the turn of the century.”

“How old are his enemies? If we’re talking about some doddering old guys, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

“I don’t know, but I imagine some of them could be my age.”

Wesley sat up with surprise. “How do you know that? This could be some serious shit!”

“I don’t know anything. I’m just guessing. I’d have to go to Mexico if I really wanted to find out what’s going on—” Jackson paused suddenly, realizing that he was reluctantly considering the decision to go to Mexico. As he continued speaking, a trace of a smile played across his face. “It looks like, whether I like it or not, the old man is going to drag me into his world. He spent all those years training me, now I’m being called to duty. Another soldier in the undeclared war, following in my father’s footsteps to an early grave.”

“What happened to your father? He was dead a couple of years by the time I met you.”

“My father was gunned down in one of my grandfather’s business deals when I was eight.” Jackson’s words were matter-of-fact, as if he had been over the subject many times.

“This is the same grandfather you used to spend your summers with?”

Jackson exhaled slowly. “To be exact, seven memorable summers.”

“We were talking about being driven before. Was your grandfather a driven man?”

“No more than your routine serial killer.”

Wesley exhaled quickly. “Whew. It looks as if you have as much unfinished business with your grandfather as I had with my father.”

“It would take several lifetimes to finish all the business I have with my grandfather.”

“I might have needed more than one lifetime to resolve things with
my dad too.” Wesley paused and reflected with a smile, “I loved him but I didn’t understand him. He was so tight with money, my older brothers and I hated him when we were kids. But in hindsight, I see it was his frugality that allowed us to buy that house on Fulton Street. I might never have met you if he hadn’t bought that house three blocks from your grandmother. And he did it on the salary of a custodian. You remember, after college, when I went to the hospital to see him and we finally really talked as men? By then he was dying of cancer. It was only after that I discovered he was a guy I would have liked.”

“No fear of that with me and my grandfather,” Jackson answered, leaving two dollars on the table for a tip. “You ready to go?”

Wesley stood up and stretched. “Yeah, I’m ready. Why don’t you tell me when you plan to go down to Mexico; maybe I’ll go down with you. Give you some company.”

“If I ever decide to go, it’s a possibility,” Jackson replied.

“Let me just leave a big tip for this foxy waitress, so she’ll remember me.”

Jackson turned and said, “The woman with tremendous hocks, as you call them, has swallowed bigger tips than you’ll ever give her without a smile.”

Wesley leaned his head to one side in a questioning manner. “Do you know something I don’t know? Was that a play on words? Speaking of hocks, what’s happening on the woman front for you?”

“Nothing particular, but I did meet a new woman! She has skin so black she reminds me of a summer plum, one of those purplish-black ones. She looked so good and succulent I just wanted to bite her right there and then. She made me think of Langston Hughes’s poem ‘Harlem Sweeties.’ ”

“A really black sister, huh? They say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. You going to see her again?”

“I’d like to; there was something about her, and it wasn’t just the way she looks. I felt something, something inside. It was eerie. If our paths cross again, I’ll certainly follow up on speaking with her.”

“What do you mean
if
, huh? You better help fate out. Good pussy waits for no man!”

“Wes, I’m not a womanizer like you. I can’t chase after women. I don’t have the time or the inclination for it, and I don’t want to play any of the games associated with pursuit.”

“Damn! It’s the pursuit that makes my dick hard!”

The wind greeted them as they came out into the night air. Wesley stopped, transfixed for a minute, staring across the street. Jackson turned and asked, “What is it?”

“There’s an old brown Cadillac that looks just like the one my father owned,” Wesley said as he pointed across the street. Jackson’s gaze followed the direction of his hand as they headed toward the corner. Wesley continued, “Same shit-brown color.”

Neither Wesley nor Jackson really looked at the interior of the car or they might have seen the shadows of Jesse and Gilmore slumped down in the front seat.

F
ranklin LaValle Tremain sat at his huge polished teak desk and stared absentmindedly at his distorted sepia reflection on the desk’s surface. His financial security was in danger. He pulled a pen out of a drawer and began to doodle aimlessly on a sheet of paper. He was not used to feelings of insecurity and doubt. He looked at the various marketing charts around his office. The charts were an indication of his image as a successful businessman and real estate speculator. He didn’t want anything to taint or discredit that image. Normally, he liked coming to work early in the morning before the rest of the staff; it gave him a chance to think and develop a strategy for his day. But this morning was different; he could not enjoy the solitude.

At thirty-eight he had done quite well for himself. He was the chief executive officer for King, Inc., a real estate management firm that in the previous year had exceeded a million and a half dollars in revenue. Through some borderline deals, done outside his firm, he had finagled himself a small mansion in Pacific Heights. He and his wife were fixtures in black society. If there was an event at which it was worth being seen, Franklin and Victoreen were there. Yet, there were changes in the wind. His grandfather was dying. This, in itself, did not greatly disturb Franklin; he never had much of a relationship with the man, but the potential ramifications of his death were very upsetting.

His private line rang five times before Franklin answered the phone. It was nearly seven-thirty in the morning. He had considered letting the phone ring, but thought better of it. Many a good business deal had occurred at the beginning of the day.

Franklin had wavy black hair and a café au lait skin color that had considerably more milk than coffee. In certain lights he was occasionally mistaken for Caucasian. His nostrils were perhaps a shade too wide and his lips a touch too full for that particular mistake to happen in full daylight. He wore a thin black mustache, which he felt required an ascot to be fully appreciated.

The voice on the other end of the phone asked, “Franklin, is that you? This is Bill Braxton.”

“Bill, how are you doing? Long time no see.” Franklin was immediately cautious. Braxton had been a longtime friend and occasional business partner of his grandmother’s, a sort of financier or venture capitalist. Franklin had seen him at numerous family gatherings over the years, but there had never been any meaningful exchanges between them and there had been little contact in the last ten or fifteen years. Although nothing was said directly, Franklin had deduced that his grandmother and Braxton had had a falling-out. He wondered what Braxton had on his mind.

As if reading his thoughts, Braxton said, “I called because I was wondering how you’re doing.”

“Another day, another dollar,” Franklin answered. What does he want? What’s he fishing for? Questions zipped through Franklin’s mind like tracer bullets.

“I hear your grandfather is very ill.…” Braxton let his voice die, trying to prompt Franklin into speaking.

“The only two things we really have to do is stay black and die,” Franklin said. “And my grandfather is doing both of those.”

“I guess you’re not concerned that the execution of your grandfather’s will may cause changes in the management of your firm?”

“What do you mean?” Franklin asked, maintaining a casual tone. But Braxton had hit a nerve. The majority share of the company, seventy percent, could be bequeathed to Jackson Tremain and that prospect was extremely irritating.

“It’s likely that your grandfather will leave everything to your cousin. Since you don’t get along with him, where does that leave you?”

Franklin knew exactly where that left him: out in the cold. But he said, “It’s hard to predict what will happen at the reading of the will. There may even be some legal challenges to various aspects of the will. So, it’s hard to say where that will leave me.”

Braxton continued in a congenial tone, as if he were speaking to his best friend, “Do you really believe that you’ll be able to successfully appeal any section of your grandfather’s will? After all, you’re an estranged family member. You haven’t seen him since you were ten or twelve years old.”

“What’s the purpose of this call?” Franklin didn’t have the patience to wait until Braxton’s agenda revealed itself. Further, he was concerned about how Braxton had gathered his information. It was unlike his grandmother to share this level of information with anyone.

“Well, I thought that perhaps we might have similar goals,” Braxton began conversationally.

“How are you involved?” Franklin didn’t think he had anything in common with Braxton.

“Well, you may or may not know this, but many years ago your grandfather took a lot of money from some people here in San Francisco.…” Braxton let his words die once again, hoping that Franklin would volunteer something, but he said nothing. With an internal sigh, Braxton continued, “These people haven’t forgotten. They still want their money.”

Franklin felt a cold sensation moving down his spine. Did these people want to try to take over the real estate management firm? That possibility was actually worse than Jackson inheriting his grandfather’s seventy percent. Even in his worst-case scenarios, Franklin had always calculated that at the very minimum, he would get the lion’s share of his grandmother’s thirty percent. “How long ago was this? How much money was taken?” His questions were delivered in a calm voice, but his heart was pounding. His grandfather had stolen from the Mob. If they were to collect, there was a possibility that he could be totally ruined. Wiped out. Without his job and the little kickbacks that he had arranged along the way, he might even lose the house in Pacific Heights. His hand shook as he held the receiver.

“It was a lot of money at the time. They think he either buried it or invested it.” Braxton cursed himself for not arranging to have this meeting in person. He needed to see Franklin’s face as he received this information.

“What’s this got to do with me?” Franklin asked, barely able to stop himself from stammering.

“Well, it seems they feel some of the money was invested in your company.”

“They feel? What the hell does that mean? Do they have proof?”

Braxton answered firmly, “When people like the ones I’m referring to feel something, they don’t need proof.” There it was, the implied threat. The fire was heating up; now, the art lay in shaping the metal. Braxton gave an experimental tap with a question: “You do understand what I’m saying?”

“What are you, their front man?” There was a trace of indignation in Franklin’s voice. “I seem to remember you as being a friend of the family; now you’re speaking for people who want to take our business away?”

Braxton laughed smoothly. “I come in peace. I come as a friend. These people came to me. I—”

“Who are ‘these people’?” Franklin interjected.

Braxton cautioned, “It wouldn’t be healthy to know that.”

“So, you expect me to give up my company because ‘these people,’ sight unseen, think my grandfather invested some of their stolen money in it? You must be insane!”

“I never indicated or even suggested that you give up your company,” Braxton corrected evenly. He decided to take a different tack. “As a matter of fact, I was in the process of making you a proposal that would allow you to keep the firm. A proposal which might prevent the inheritance of your grandfather’s share by someone else other than you.”