Echoes of a Distant Summer (66 page)

“Whatchoo got to trade?” Pug asked skeptically.

“Serena Tremain.”

Pug sat up straight. “You got Serena Tremain?”

“Not yet, but she’s in town and I’m close to finding out the hotel she’s staying at. I’ve got a couple of men ready to pick her up. I’ll have to hold her as a hostage until I’m sure Deleon is safe. This is the kind of thing that complicates negotiations. This is why I don’t want you freelancing from home. I wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t sent Deleon off on this stupid assignment.”

“Ain’t stupid,” Pug answered sourly. “Blood for blood ain’t stupid!”

“There, there, lovebird,” soothed Zenia, rubbing Pug’s shoulders. “Some people can only say nasty things. You can’t let them upset you.”

Later that evening while Zenia was watching
Jeopardy!
in the bedroom, Pug sat on the second-story balcony sipping a cold beer and listened to the quiet noises of his residential neighborhood. He could hear children laughing as they splashed in the pool next door. A pizza delivery truck chugged by in front of his wrought-iron security fence. Off in the distance, there was a sound of an emergency siren. The sky was clear and the stars twinkled brightly overhead. It was a warm and balmy night. Raymond ‘Pug’ DuMont was feeling quite good. He stretched his arms expansively then breathed deeply with only a little rattle in his lungs. It was a new experience for him to sit out on his balcony at night, and he found that he liked it. He was going to do many more things now. King was dead and he was alive. He called Zenia to bring him another beer.

She came out on the balcony and chided him again, “Remember to tell Deleon when you talk to him that we need the grandson who went to Mexico alive! We need him alive! Remember to tell him!” She set the beer on the table and returned to her television program.

Pug sighed. The damned woman wasn’t happy unless she was nagging him. This was at least the fifth time she had reminded him to tell Deleon which grandson was needed. He could remember without all the nagging. He remembered to have Braxton set up an additional safe house for Deleon and remembered to open a new bank account for him as well. He damn sure wasn’t senile. Only problem was that he had no way to contact Deleon and he wasn’t due to talk to him again for several days.

If Deleon killed the wrong grandson, too bad. It was another Tremain in the grave and that was all to the good. Pug sipped his cold
beer and exhaled slowly and thought about what he would do to Serena if he had her in his possession. He chuckled to himself. Yes, Lord, he was going to have full vengeance before he died.

J
ackson Tremain boxed up the last of his personal belongings in his office and looked at the clock on his desk. It was nearly six-thirty in the evening. He had spent the whole day preparing his city department assignments for transition to another deputy city manager. His request for an extended leave had been denied by Bedrosian, who was practically beaming when he delivered his denial. Bedrosian had informed Jackson that if he could not return to work by the week’s end, he would have no choice but to terminate Jackson’s employment with the city. His smile was only dampened by the fact that Jackson had refused his offer to resign. He had even offered to place a positive reference in Jackson’s file if he would voluntarily terminate, but Jackson had rejected it and informed Bedrosian that he wanted his attorney to receive an official denial of Jackson’s extended leave request along with any papers concerning termination. By the time Jackson left Bedrosian’s office, his request for official documents had Bedrosian frowning.

Jackson took little pleasure in causing Bedrosian discomfort. His mind was too preoccupied with concerns related to securing the safety of his friends and family. He was plagued with the worry that he would receive a call informing him of another casualty. Every time the phone rang his imagination flashed through horrifying scenes like cheap firecrackers firing on a single fuse. He attempted to preoccupy himself by studying the reports that were received daily regarding the illicit activities of his enemies. He now knew the whereabouts of Tree’s crack-processing warehouse, where he conducted most of his business. DiMarco was more difficult to uncover, but an accountant who had audited DiMarco’s restaurant for a bank loan was providing some very interesting information. Progress was being made on many levels. Nonetheless, in his unguarded moments, Jackson had found himself anxiously pacing the floor of the Fulton Street house.

He looked around his office and saw that there was still much to do. He forced himself to continue packing his possessions. He didn’t examine whether he wanted them or not. It was too difficult to concentrate. As if he did not have enough on his mind, Rhasan was now a source of anxiety. Just yesterday evening Jackson had called Samantha to find out whether she and Rhasan were taking a vacation as he had suggested, and she had informed him that her son had expressed an intention to help Jackson and that he was unwilling to go anywhere without first talking with him. Samantha was both upset and frightened. She begged him to talk some sense into her son. There were sharp, fragmented tones of desperation in her voice and they penetrated into Jackson’s very soul. He had scheduled to meet Rhasan the next day for lunch, but he was at a loss as to how he would explain to the young man the events that had taken place.

How could he rationalize to someone else what he hadn’t been able to rationalize to himself? How could he explain that he was spending two hours a day practicing with an eight-inch blade? That he was spending hours during the week pulling pistols from different holster positions? The words he thought to say seemed like smoke above a small fire; they seemed formless, semi-transparent, and their substance dissipated under inspection. Yet Rhasan had been attacked. He deserved to hear the truth. Jackson hoped by the time that he met with him he would have developed some concept as to what shape that truth should take.

At a quarter of seven there was a light tap on the door to Jackson’s office and Corazon stepped into the room, looked around at the clutter, and said, “It’s not going to be the same without you. There won’t be anyone concerned about the clerical and minor administrative staff now. Howard will be placed in charge of us again.”

Jackson paused in his packing as he was drawn out of his reverie. He nodded and said, “Yeah, I hate the thought of that. He’ll prize ass-kissing above all.” He put several large binders in the last box to be filled and noticed that the cardboard was extremely dusty. He rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt, exposing dark welts on his wrists and arms.

Corazon asked, “Why are your forearms so discolored? Are those bruises? This is not from your new girlfriend, I hope.”

“Martial arts workouts,” Jackson explained. “I’m going to stop at a drugstore on the way home and pick up some liniment or salve for muscle soreness.”

“That must be a hard workout. Say, did your grandmother ever contact you while you were in Mexico?”

Jackson shook his head and felt nausea and revulsion rise in the back of his throat. He said grimly, “No, she didn’t, but someone else contacted me because of her.”

Corazon saw that it wasn’t a subject to be continued and patted his shoulder. “I just came in to tell you how grateful I am that you gave me a chance three years ago and hired me in an administrative capacity. The clerical staff and some of the interns asked me to speak for them. We have all appreciated your support over the years. We are deeply grateful, and as a token of our gratitude we got you a going-away present.” Corazon stepped forward and put a large, flat package on his desk. She urged, “Don’t open it here! Open it when you get home. One of the things inside is an old municipal calendar with an office picture of us all that we all signed. Don’t forget us!” She stepped quickly around his desk and gave him a hug, kissed him on the forehead, then left the room.

Jackson sat in his office for several minutes in silence thinking about all that he was leaving. He looked at the walls, at the lighter square and rectangular silhouettes where his pictures, certificates, awards, and calendars had hung. His sweat and the air he had exhaled had helped create the darkened patina on these walls. It had taken him fourteen years to get to a deputy position in the city manager’s office. He had made many sacrifices in the process: taken on additional assignments and worked longer hours than most, attended seminars and training at his own expense, but most of all he had held his tongue when he had stared into the face of racism, incompetence, and envy, and kept a smile on his face. Now, to walk away when he had not attained the pinnacle of city manager left a hollowness.

The telephone on his desk jangled. Jackson picked it up and talked with the security guard, who informed him that he was escorting three men up to Jackson’s office to help him remove his possessions. Jackson hung up the phone. Back to the real world. It did not matter what his desires were; the world had pivoted and he had somehow lost his place.

In the midst of all the madness was Elizabeth. Everywhere he turned in his mind, she was there: the expressiveness of her eyes, the fullness of her lips, the warmth of her smile. Jackson could still feel the black, velvet softness of her skin against his chest. The image of her lithe, naked
body moving through the shadows of her darkened bedroom had the power to arouse him even in afterthought. But there was still no contact. The door had been slammed shut. With unremitting sadness he suppressed the thought of her once more.

There was a knock on the door. Carlos and two of his associates walked into the office. Jackson directed the men as to the boxes and objects he wanted to take. With the security guard’s assistance he was able to get all his things in one trip. Everything except Jackson’s briefcase was loaded into a van that pulled to the curb as they waited. Carlos offered to give him a ride to his vehicle, but Jackson declined, saying that his car was only across the street in the municipal parking lot.

He headed down into the second-level parking lot toward his car, looking neither left nor right. He was lost in thought as his briefcase banged against his leg. He did not see the man following him, nor did he pay attention to the footsteps.

Fletcher Gilmore watched as Jackson, followed by Jesse Tuggle, came down the stairs of the parking garage. Gilmore had parked the brown Cadillac in such a way that Jackson would be facing away from him as he approached his vehicle. He and Jesse were in luck; it looked like Jackson was preoccupied. When Jackson began unlocking his car, Gilmore silently urged Jesse forward. Jesse moved quickly for a big man. He had crossed the space that separated them by the time Jackson got his car door open.

Jackson saw Jesse’s reflection materialize in the car door’s window and spun to face him. As soon as he saw Jesse, Jackson recognized him as the man from Angel Island. He put down his briefcase and prepared himself to fight.

Jesse stood in front of Jackson and said, “Someone wants to see you.”

Jackson demanded, “Who wants to see me?”

“I ain’t got time to fuck with you,” Jesse warned. “Are you coming easy or is it going to be hard?”

“Generally, when it’s hard, coming is easy,” Jackson said with a smirk. The man in front of him was about his height and a little beefier, but Jackson was undaunted.

“All right, motherfucker, you asked for it!” Jesse grabbed Jackson’s arm and attempted to muscle him.

Jackson resisted him momentarily, then snapped his head forward, smashing it into Jesse’s nose and mouth. Jesse staggered backward from
the pain and the power of the blow. Jackson followed him and kicked Jesse hard between his legs. Jesse groaned and dropped to his knees. Jackson clasped his hands together above his head and brought them down like a club on the side of Jesse’s face. The force knocked Jesse flat. Jackson drew back his foot to deliver another kick, but a voice stopped him.

“Hold it right there, unless you’re ready to die,” Gilmore warned. He pointed a revolver in Jackson’s direction.

Jackson turned to face him and saw a small, brown-skinned man with rimless glasses wearing a derby hat walking toward him. “I remember you,” Jackson scoffed. “You’re the second part of the team. Are you the guy who wants to talk to me?” It was strange. He didn’t feel fear. He felt anger. His grandfather and Carlos were right: These people wouldn’t leave him alone until he killed them.

“Just shut your mouth and stand back over there.” Fletcher waved his gun in the direction that he wanted Jackson to move. Jackson obeyed and stepped back. “You all right?” Fletcher asked Jesse as he got to his feet slowly.

Jesse groaned and mumbled, “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.” He staggered in Jackson’s direction.

“Come on, you sack of shit,” Jackson taunted. “I’m ready to die kicking your ass!”

Jesse started to say something, but Fletcher cut him off: “Don’t let this guy provoke you!” He turned to Jackson. “Listen, asshole, I’m going to shoot you in your legs and arms if you don’t get in the car. It’s your choice.” Fletcher pointed the gun at Jackson’s knee.

“All right,” Jackson acquiesced. He walked toward Jesse.

“Stay away from him!” Fletcher warned Jackson. “Just walk on down there to the Cadillac. Go lean against the car.”

Jackson walked toward the car as directed and stood quietly while Jesse frisked him thoroughly from behind. When he finished the search, Jesse punched Jackson between his legs. Jackson had been expecting some sort of retaliation, but the pain which exploded in his groin made him see dancing lights. He doubled over involuntarily and felt Jesse’s fist smash into his cheekbone. He bounced off the Cadillac’s open door and fell backward. Jesse swung again and his left caught Jackson flush on the mouth as he fell backward into the car. The blow knocked Jackson flat on his back on the seat.

Jesse looked at Fletcher confidently and said, “This gon’ be easier than it was with that chump with the red sports car!” He came forward to pull Jackson out of the car. Through the numbing haze of pain Jackson concentrated on fighting back. When Jesse got close, Jackson put all his strength into kicking the man between his legs again. Jesse was not expecting any more resistance and the kick surprised him as it slammed against his testicles. It doubled him over, and when he looked up, Jackson kicked him forcefully in the face with the heel of his shoe. Jesse tumbled backward and fell hard onto the cement floor. Jackson slowly pulled himself out of the car and stood up. He was not thinking about his pain; there was only one thought on his mind: These men worked for the organization that killed both Wesley and his grandfather. A blinding rage flared within him. It blocked out any thought of danger. He wanted to feel the big man’s bones break. He wanted to spill his blood.