37
One Month Later El Paso, TX
Things in New Orleans didn’t quite have that fairy tale ending. Sure Rodney Roy was alive, but he was removed from the Bricks Lewis case by the governor. In a letter circulated to the press by the Republican governor up in Baton Rouge, and in a possible political move to discredit the traditional New Orleans Democrat Roy, he cited Rodney’s removal from the high profile case due to
the potential unseemly appearance of him trying a case while having a personal vendetta against the defendant for an attack on him for which no credible connection has been established.
The assistant DAs did what I thought they would and botched the case on a technicality, resulting in Bricks Lewis being released back on to the street until they decided whether to retry the case. I was sure, by that time, the sparse witnesses would be even less willing to cooperate. Bricks celebrated his freedom by throwing a major party, complete with appearances by some of the city’s major rappers, in the New Orleans Arena just down the street from City Hall.
The whole thing damaged Rodney’s political career, but worse than that was the implied threat by Bricks on his family ... and my daughter.
I’d protect her ... and Summer even if they didn’t want me to.
Even from afar.
I sat casually at a square table bordered by four cushioned chairs. Wore army camouflage BDUs adorned with the insignia of a lieutenant with the First Armored Division from over at Fort Bliss. An older gentleman in golf shoes had just come over and shaken my hand, thanking me for my service. Said he’d served also and wanted to talk too long about where I’d been stationed, but I endured.
I was at the Lone Star Golf Club on Hawkins Boulevard, reading the lunch menu at the Sandtrap restaurant. Waiter recommended the beef tacos, considered the best in town. So I decided to go with that and a Diet Coke, but told him I awaited a lunch guest. Had a delicate business meeting arranged here. Wasn’t sure if they were going to show, but for now I would be content to just be heard.
A middle-aged Hispanic gentleman with a coif of full black hair entered fresh off the course. Mostly everyone in here knew him, which he acknowledged, cracking jokes and trading waves with all who were interested. The gregarious man was accompanied by two young boys who looked to be around twelve or thirteen. About the same age as my Sasha. When he approached my table, I stood up to greet him and his young wards.
“Please, please, sit, my friend,” Jorge “George” Pinero, businessman and city council member, urged with a congenial smile and a hearty pat on the back.
“Thank you, sir,” I said as he motioned for three teas for him and the young men. George sat across the square table from me, with a friend on each side. “Links been good to you today?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Teaching my two friends here some of the finer skills that will do them well in business one day,” he replied. I looked into the eyes of the two young men who remained unidentified. They showed neither the intimidation nor fascination for the adult world to which George referred.
I’ll be damned.
They were his security force. Battle-hardened young soldiers in the drug war raging down in Juarez just across the border. Shouldn’t have been too surprised as that’s why I was here.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I know you’re a very busy person in the community and appreciate your fitting me into your schedule.”
“When my constituents received word, I had to come. You are either very serious or very foolish, my friend. Are you even in the military?” he probed, eliciting a grin from one of the boys. Probably had more experience with firearms than I ever would.
I ignored his question, simply smiling back. “Your associate in New Orleans ... Braxton Lewis,” I began.
“I don’t have associates in New Orleans,” George stopped me. “Most of my stuff is local with a little bit around the rest of west Texas and some imports from Juarez. I do hear they have a nice Mardi Gras out there though.”
“I understand. Just wanted to inform you about this Braxton Lewis. In case your constituents’ business interests ever intersect with his.”
“Proceed,” he said.
“Bricks, as he’s known on the streets of New Orleans and in the flashy rap lyrics that mention him, works for the gringos.”
“Which gringos?” he asked, his interest piqued.
“This country’s government. He tells them secrets; gives them intel on your constituents.”
“Are you calling this Bricks person a—
how do they say it in the flashy rap lyrics?—
a ‘snitch’?”
“
Sí
.”
“And why should we believe you? Someone who neither I ... nor my constituents have ever met?” he asked.
I slowly retrieved my iPad, then proceeded to pull up a popular gossip Web site. 4Shizzle, if you must know. Slid it across the table for him to view. “See. Common knowledge,” I remarked. 4Shizzle’s article was titled:
RAPPERS:
FROM WE LOVE BRICKS TO DON’T BE A SNITCH
?
SAY IT AIN’T SO
! The story went on about how Braxton Lewis has a close relationship with people deep within the U.S. government, hinting that they might be DEA. The 4Shizzle article had made its rounds by now. Other urban gossip sites piled on, creating a feeding frenzy on the Net. Had a lot in the hip hop community wondering if Bricks was indeed a snitch with connections inside the U.S. government. After Bricks’s big release party, certain rappers had begun distancing themselves for fear of losing street cred. Some even denied being there despite the photos to the contrary.
Was interesting watching George Pinero: councilman eyeing the article as George Pinero: cartel representative. Him contemplating a compromised business partner while trying to hide his concern. Even our waiter knew better than to approach our table with our drinks during this conversation.
“You’re slow with your intel if the gossip sites have already been reporting this,” I chided. Maybe a little too aggressive for the young’uns as they both scowled at me.
“And what do you get out of this, Lieutenant Tucker?” he asked, mocking the name on my uniform.
“It’s personal. I have some issues with Bricks’s government friend. Brick’s sister, the stripper, has a kid with this gringo. Talk about sleeping with the enemy. Word in Washington ... and Langley,” I added before continuing, “is that he ran off somewhere and is waiting to send for her when it’s clear. Something happens to Bricks then maybe he surfaces.”
“I see. Why do I think you’re a company man,” he said, referring to the CIA. “And looking for one of your own. Giving me this personal revenge bullshit while using us to flush him out.”
“Can’t confirm or deny. Just stating the facts. What you ... or your constituents do about your business partner is just that ... your business,” I said, placing a twenty on the table to pay for drinks ’n’ stuff. “Enjoy your afternoon of golf, Councilman.
Muchachos,
” I offered as I stowed my iPad then got up to leave. One of the kids made an aggressive move to stop me, but was restrained by the cooler headed adult in charge. George Pinero thinking I was really CIA would ensure I’d get out of El Paso alive. People thinking Piatkowski was still alive and on the run, instead of shark food for the prince’s pets, was a good thing, too.
And knowing how serious the cartels took this sort of thing, Braxton Lewis would never pose a threat to the Roy family or my daughter again.
Can’t say the city of New Orleans would miss him either.
38
Epilogue Ninety days later
I stood beside Sophia at Inglewood Park Cemetery, holding her hand. Yesterday, she was released from rehab up in the Bay Area. My people had gotten to her in time when she attempted suicide and managed to get her checked in discreetly and an alias for me to set her on her journey back.
I was waiting for her when she got out, prepared for whatever she needed to dish out. Instead, she hugged me and thanked me for caring. She wanted to come here, so I drove her down I-5, the drive being therapeutic for both of us.
“Here,” I said, handing her a duffle bag I’d been holding on to. One free of any tracking devices.
She unzipped it, briefly running her hand through the stacks. Then she zipped it back, tactically shaking it to determine its weight. “That info on the prince was worth a whole lot more,” she groused after her impromptu analysis.
“Not if you’re not around to enjoy it,” I commented inappropriately at the moment considering where we were.
“True I guess,” Sophia commented, not busting my chops. Maybe her convalescence had changed her. “But I’m just glad I kept a copy,” she revealed with a cackle. Typical Sophia rearing its head. “Thank you,” she said as she gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“You’re welcome.”
“Know what really happened to him?” she asked, looking at Ivan’s gravesite. Someone had anonymously paid for it. A decent burial for a less-than-decent man.
“Yeah,” I replied, reciting what I’d had three months for which to prepare. “Did some checking with my contacts down in New Orleans. Heard a few things. That Ivan owed protection money to some Russians while he was on lock. That shit down there was to pay off his debt.”
“Damn,” she spat with a shudder in her voice she tried to control. But failed to do so. “If he would’ve just told me, I ... I could’ve ...”
“Shhhh. Shhh,” I hushed, holding her tight. “I guess he wanted to man-up for a change. Stop using women and take care of the debt himself. I guess he was trying to protect you from them. In a way, I guess he was a hero.”
We stayed there for a while. I just held her, saying nothing else. Neither lie nor truth being acceptable, so silence protected us both.
When she was ready, she walked over to his headstone, placing her hand on it as she shared a private moment with Ivan. I left the two of them alone and walked back to the car.
I removed my jacket and sat on the hood of the Chevy Camaro, staring up at the afternoon sky from behind my black sunglasses. Thought back to my time in SoCal as that small child with the mother who dared to dream she could be something more.
Now I had a child.
Last month, Bricks Lewis was brutally murdered. Gunned down in parking lot of the strip club Fancy’s; presumably by a rival who was the cartel’s new business partner for the Gulf Coast. A rival who bore no animosity or ill will toward the Roy family.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Sophia asked, back from whatever closure she sought.
“Nothing,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know where,” she said, jokingly shaking the duffle bag once more. “I’m not going back to the apartment in Stockton. Place is toxic. Maybe I’ll check into a nice five-star hotel. One with a spa.”
“Tell you what,” I said, hopping off the car’s hood. “I got a place up in Seattle. Private. On the beach with lovely views. Clean air. You can stay there with me. Help you settle back in. Then whatever you do after that is on you. But I gotta warn you ... my neighbor thinks I’m gay.”
Sophia laughed; a good hearty one that brought color to her face. “Truth, are you letting me into your private world?” she asked.
“Hey. I don’t have any family. Besides, we all we got,” I chuckled, taking her by the hand as I opened the car door for her.
Thoughts of a dazzling little ballerina down in New Orleans that would one day grace the world stage filled me with pride. Pride that I had a hand in creating something flawless.
And so unlike me.
“Uh ... Ain’t it kinda cold up there?” Sophia bristled as I began to close her door.
“Not as cold as me,” I joked, slamming it shut.
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Frostbite Copyright © 2012 Eric Pete
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