Hometown Favorite: A Novel (38 page)

Hathaway made an appointment with the police chief that
morning. He played on their partnership of years before, on
his reputation for being a pit bull with difficult cases, on his
outsmarting too many bad guys, on his gut belief that the man
now in custody would possibly die without ever exercising his
legal right to the due process of justice.

"Besides, I'm due," Hathaway said. He stood. He was tired
of sitting. Standing made his argument feel stronger.

"Due?" The chief swiveled back and forth in his desk
chair.

Hathaway took a chance. "When you and Mary were breaking up, who bought you the shots of bourbon?" They were
friends, former partners. Buying shots of bourbon for a friend
whose marriage was breaking up was what Hathaway did, the
only kind marriage counseling he understood. Playing the
friendship card was almost like he was pulling rank.

The squeaking in the chair stopped and the chief dug his
fingers into the soft leather of his armchair. Maybe playing the
friendship card was not a good idea.

"Now you're getting personal"

"What we're doing-when is it not personal?"

The chief eased up on his grip of the leather arms. He made
all the arguments the DA would make against playing this
hunch, but with a lesser degree of passion about what the embarrassment might do to his political career.

Hathaway detected his friend was weakening. "The DA stuck
his head on the chopping block at the press conference, giving
Jobe last rites in public. You just stood behind him and smiled
for the cameras. You can still run for mayor of Houston and
this not be held against you."

"Is it wrong to have ambition?"

"If not for ambition, the world would still be flat:'

Sure, it would be risky to authorize Hathaway's intuition, as
good as it was; he would be sanctioning the mission behind the
DA's back, and though Hathaway would fall on his own sword
if he failed to nab the suspect, there would still be hell to pay
that might imperil the police chief's political ambitions.

Hathaway understood what he was asking of his friend and
sweetened the proposition with a reduced risk factor.

"I'm due some vacation;" he said. "I'll cash it in on Costa
Rica, but you pay the expenses, and if I bust the guy, you have
to double my vacation time."

The chief did not think long about that offer. If need be,
Hathaway could cover the true nature of his visit in the guise
of a Panama hat and Jimmy Buffett shirt. The chief had access
to discretionary funds to finance the trip-Hathaway swore to
keep every receipt-and if the detective was successful, everybody would win except for the DA. All's fair in love and war,
and as slick as the DA was, he might get some political mileage
out of a surprise turn in this open-and-shut case.

By the time the sun was setting in the west, Hathaway was
sitting in the middle seat between a woman who snored like
an asthmatic and a teenage boy who beat on his tray table with his fingers to whatever percussive tempo he was hearing on
his iPod. He studied for the umpteenth time all the evidence
that went into the making of the Jobe case.

What he did not know and would never know was that in a
few hours he would be going through customs in the San Jose
airport the same time as the LA leadership.

The leadership stared at an array of treats displayed for them
on the large glass table in the dining room of Tyler's furnished house. There was a punch bowl of cocaine, a tray of
prerolled joints-both examples of the quality of merchandise
the local producers would be able to generate-individual jars
of condoms with each member's name inscribed on a card
tied around the neck, and stacks of cash that Tyler proudly
pointed out were the leadership's original investment plus
25 percent interest for the short time the gang had been
separated from their principal. Tyler stocked the bar like a
five-star restaurant, and he provided enough food to have
eased the starvation of a small village, and the full Alverez
harem had turned out in force.

It was difficult to concentrate with all of the distractions,
but the host got everyone's attention, and before he lost them
to a night of revelry, he wanted a preemptive strike to begin
the process of establishing his alpha male status. Before the
leadership knew what hit them, they would become Tyler's
lieutenants or be expelled into the outer darkness. But tonight
after business, it would be all smiles and pure indulgence.

While leaving the leadership to wonder about the funding
source for his palace and all the toys that had come with it, Tyler
told them that with his connections and their LA distribution
center, the gang had the unique opportunity to be elevated to the title of cartel. That designation would give them great
power, but with great power would come great responsibility.
He would invest his own capital to get production started; tours
would be set up to each of the three production facilities.

The leadership should begin using the Houston model to
establish outlets in major cities all over the United States. He
had already been laying the groundwork for the routes they
could use to get the product into the country, but not every
shipment could go through LA. He mentioned other cities
chosen to accommodate the different shipping lanes.

Maintaining security was vital, and recruiting new blood
should begin once they were back on their native soil. He would
require gang members to become a part of a rotation system
that would send them to Costa Rica and other parts of the world
to serve as soldiers to protect product and personnel as the business expanded. All of this would require initial outlays of cash
he was prepared to invest, but within a short time of operation,
he believed all balance sheets would be in the black.

"Gentlemen, the risks are great, personnel and product will
be lost from time to time, but the rapid growth potential is
global and the profit margins are astronomical. The question
is, do you have the courage and the commitment to live the
dream?"

The leadership looked at Tyler Rogan, a.k.a. Salvador Al-
verez-CEO and president of Sea Breeze Corporation and
perhaps a future underworld kingpin-and bowed to him in
reverence. They would align their future with him, and Tyler
opened his arms to his brothers.

"Welcome to my home."

Dewayne's eyelids felt glued together. He was sure his fingers
were rubbing away the crust, but he could not get his eyes to
open. There were voices in the room. He heard medical jargon,
all too familiar language. This was soon interrupted by the
arrival of the next meal, perhaps the last meal; whatever the
number, any meal would be another wasted effort. All meals,
for how long he could not remember, returned untouched.
Then everything was silent, which was his preference. If he was
going blind, the sound he cherished most was silence.

His eyelids trembled at the cool drops of liquid, which began
to loosen the hardened seal. A damp cloth was dabbed over each
lid. He was surprised by the gentle strokes, but more surprised
his own hand had not initiated them. He thought the doctors
had left. They always flitted in and out like darting birds, barely
civil in their daily diagnosis, and always left their patient with a
prognosis of physical and spiritual condemnation. He thought
an attendant had taken pity ... must be new.

After a few more strokes, his eyes were able to take in the first
rays of sunlight coming through the window, but they were too
potent, and he turned his head away. The damp cloth plopped
onto his chest. He heard footsteps, then the pulling of cords,
and the rays of sun replaced the shadow. He straightened his head on the pillow and prayed the hand would reanimate the
damp cloth and remove the rest of the coating dissolving on
his eyelids. How wonderful; answered prayers-he had come to
expect no prayers to ever be answered-and the cloth brought
its healing coolness to his eyes.

He could not remember when he had last opened his eyes
or what he had last seen. Dreams and reality had concocted a
strange potion of corporal images and the specters of nightmares. When the fog partially cleared, he perceived a subliminal
form of angel and man holding the wet cloth and studying the
effects of his work.

"You don't look so good," the angel/man said. "You don't smell
so good either" The angel/man spoke no words of comfort. Just
like all the others. How many others had there been?

"How about a bath?" the angel/man asked.

Dewayne could not resist the impulse to chuckle, and a smile
creased his flaking lips. The offer was too ludicrous. He had
become so accustomed to the smells of his corroding flesh,
the dank room, the medicines pumping the poisons into his
system, all mixing in with the rancid smells of human and
industrial deterioration coming from the great penal complex,
that he assumed these smells could be in preparation for his
future eternity. Could there ever be any other smell besides
his putrescence?

"I'll take that as a yes;' the angel/man said.

Dewayne watched the creature, carrying a sack in one hand,
go to the nurses' station just outside his door. He heard him
smack his fist on the counter to get the nurses' attention off
their manicures and social lives, and demand the ingredients
and equipment for a bath. When questioned as to who was
making such an adamant request, the answer was sharp.

"An uncle, a friend, a former coach, and don't waste my time with any more of your stupid questions," the angel/man said.
"Put these smoothies in the refrigerator. I'll feed him after I've
given him a bath. And bring me some clean sheets and a new
hospital gown too."

The voice had provided a clue to the identity of the angel/
man, but when its tone had changed to a bark with the nurses,
Dewayne instantly knew who had arrived. For the first time in a
long time, Dewayne's flooding tears had laughter in its flow.

The nurses must have believed the authority of the angel/
man and all three connections he claimed to have with Dewayne because the bathing paraphernalia arrived soon after
the second smack of the fist on the counter, ending the brief
Q&A between the nurses and the angel/man. Dewayne soon
felt the warmth of the water and listened to the hiss and bubble
sounds of liquid cleanser rubbed into his withered body.

"I bet you've lost fifty pounds," the angel/man said, rinsing
the soap off Dewayne's thigh.

"Jake Hopper, what are you doing here?"

"I think they really believed me when I told them I was
your uncle."

Jake Hopper was angel/man. Jake Hopper had cleaned his
eyes and made it possible for him to see. Jake Hopper was washing the decaying flesh off his body. Jake Hopper was smearing
the cleanser on the silver-dollar-sized bedsores on his bottom
and back. Jake Hopper was cursing under his breath, while he
scrubbed around the metal handcuff on Dewayne's wrist, about
the medieval conditions of the hospital and the Neanderthal
treatment he was receiving.

"It's like we're in the Stone Age;" he said as he scrubbed
Dewayne's bald head. "What is this place? Auschwitz?"

He went from mumble to shout, which prompted the closing of the room door by the head nurse right after she dropped
the clean sheets and hospital gown on the floor.

"Finally they've done something useful;" Jake said as he
rinsed the suds out of Dewayne's ears.

"You know you're bathing a corpse," Dewayne said.

"I'd heard that, and now my eyes have beheld you," Jake said.
"Looks like you're going to deny the state of Texas the pleasure
of executing you:"

"The medical consensus is, it's too dangerous to operate,
so the tumor is being shrunk to an acceptable size to keep me
alive long enough to stand trial and coherent enough to hear
my death sentence"

"Sounds like you've got a plan"

Jake marveled at Dewayne's weakened and degenerating
shape. When he saw him last, Dewayne had come into his store
with the strength and height of a Corinthian column. Now Jake
was looking at a candidate for an eating disorder program. Jake
worried he might be scrubbing too hard, but Dewayne assured
him it felt good, almost like the massages he got from the trainers. It had been so long since he received this kind treatment,
so long since someone had touched him in kindness, so long
since anyone recognized he was still human.