Echoes of a Distant Summer (15 page)

“What do you mean?” Thoughts raced through Franklin’s mind. Was Braxton implying that Jackson would be killed?
If something happens to Jackson am I, as a result of this conversation, an accessory before the fact?
Franklin looked at the phone and saw an instrument of entrapment. The phone call could be in the process of being recorded. Franklin rushed to clear himself of any implication. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I certainly don’t want to be a party to anything illegal.”

Braxton scoffed, “Who’s mentioning anything illegal?” He quelled his anger. Franklin appeared to be just another idiot who was unable to decipher the art of inference and had no understanding of subtlety. Braxton reached down and adjusted his tape recorder. He would review the taped call at his leisure and try to figure out where he had gone wrong.

“Then what did you mean?” Franklin asked as he struggled with the limits of the phone cord, trying to reach his own tape recorder, but for totally different reasons. He thought that having a taped copy of the conversation might provide evidence of his innocence should something happen to his cousin. With a final lunge, he switched it on and attempted to cover the sound of its operation with “Let me change phones. I’m going to switch to the cordless.” He picked up the cordless from its base, which was adjacent to the tape recorder. “So what did you mean?”

Braxton stated expansively, “We live in a world created by negotiation and renegotiation. I’m a negotiator. I think I can negotiate something that will benefit you as well as me.”

“We also live in a world created by negotiations that didn’t work out,” Franklin responded cynically. “Before you tell what you can do for me, tell me what you’re getting out of all this … this negotiating.”

Braxton explained patiently, “I am being asked to facilitate an understanding by old friends. Personally, I have nothing to gain, no matter how it ends.”

His initial fears had subsided, and Franklin now felt more in possession of his faculties. He was beginning to analyze and tabulate information when he asked, “When did my grandfather allegedly steal all this money anyway?”

Braxton paused, assessing how valuable the information was, then decided that the less Franklin knew, the better. “It happened a long time ago. As I understand it, a number of people were killed in the process. The deaths of those innocent people changed it from being merely a business situation to a blood feud.”

“What year was this?” Franklin was impatient. He thought he saw a way out.

“It was nineteen fifty-four. Twenty-eight years ago.”

“How much money was taken?”

“I wish it was that simple,” Braxton answered, presuming that he knew the direction of Franklin’s questions.

“Just tell me how much money was supposedly stolen.” Franklin was getting insistent.

Braxton didn’t like his tone and he didn’t like Franklin. He had been around Franklin off and on from the time Franklin was a youngster, and in all that time Braxton had never seen anything to indicate that Franklin
was particularly intelligent, insightful, or brave. Braxton thought of him as a slick, glib pretty boy who chased anything in skirts when his wife’s back was turned. He wasn’t particularly astute in business and he certainly didn’t have his grandmother’s gift for land speculation. Braxton had hoped to appeal to Franklin’s greed and thereby enlist him to do several tasks. But Franklin was either too smart or too stupid to take the bait. “The amount of the money doesn’t matter; these people want to be paid back with interest. I wanted to offer you a simple proposal that might leave you in sole possession of King, Inc., after the reading of the will.”

“Okay, what’s the proposal?” Franklin asked, attempting to suppress his enthusiasm.

Braxton heard the eagerness in Franklin’s voice. Perhaps Franklin would be a worthy foil after all. Braxton surmised that Franklin’s only concern about an illegal act was whether he would be made the fall guy. The telephone was not the appropriate medium to discuss such important details, so Braxton said, “Why don’t we get together at Julius Castle on the edge of North Beach this Friday. I’m free all afternoon.”

“That sounds fine with me,” Franklin agreed.

After determining the details of their impending meeting and exchanging a few pro forma pleasantries, Braxton hung up and Franklin was left with his thoughts. This could be it, he thought. This could be the answer to all of his problems with Jackson; this could be the way to offset a lifetime of humiliation and defeat. The problem was how much of the estate would be left after Braxton’s friends had taken what they wanted. Franklin fidgeted nervously for several minutes as he attempted to think his way through the labyrinth of alternatives. The difficulty was that he didn’t know if Braxton was really representing the Mob. Perhaps his grandmother could shed some light on Braxton’s friends. Franklin decided that he would stop by her house on his way home.

It did not occur to him that he might be simply a pawn in someone else’s scheme. Although Franklin was thirty-eight years old, he had not forgotten the terrible beating he had received at Jackson’s hands when he was twenty. It was an embarrassment that he sorely wanted erased from his memory. Even now it caused anger to swell in his breast. If Braxton was truly able to give him the vengeance he so richly deserved, as well as King, Inc., Franklin would be standing on top of the world. He decided that this apparent turn in his fortunes deserved a hearty
breakfast. There was a diner just down the street that opened before eight. When he turned out the lights and walked out of the door of his office, there was a lightness in his step that had not been there for many years.

J
ackson arrived at work slightly rumpled from a sleepless night. During the night, in those brief moments when he’d had the good fortune to doze off, his sleep had been disrupted by old memories of summers with his grandfather. He was happy to awake to the pale light of morning. Strong coffee and a hot shower had given him some semblance of awareness, but he still felt disconnected from the world around him, as if he had been placed in an unfamiliar body and had to reacquaint himself with its sensations and movements.

When he walked into his office, he checked his daily calendar and discovered that one of the secretaries had written in that he was to meet with his boss, the city manager, later that morning at nine-thirty. An unscheduled morning meeting with his boss did not bode well for a pleasant start to the day. He began shuffling through his in basket when the phone rang. The first call of the morning.

He picked up the phone. Both fatigue and resignation were in his voice as he answered, “City manager’s office, Jackson Tremain.”

The voice that answered was husky and heavily accented. “Is that you, Diablito?”

Images came swirling out of the ether. Jackson had not been called Diablito since his teenage days in Mexico.

“Who is this?” he asked brusquely.

“It’s Cisco, an old friend.”

Jackson was on guard immediately. Cisco and Pancho were the nicknames for two brothers, Reuben and Julio Ramirez, who Jackson had known in Mexico. The older brother, Reuben, was wiry and slick in his ways, while the younger brother was slightly overweight, slower of speech, and looked like a country bumpkin, even in a suit. Their nicknames
were based on the
Cisco Kid
radio and television programs. Their father used to work with Jackson’s grandfather. Reuben’s call opened a seam in Jackson’s world, and through it he could see the past. He now hesitated to step through the seam.

“Diablito?” the voice questioned.

“How is it with your brother?” Jackson asked cautiously. He had to be sure with whom he was speaking.

“Pancho is here.”

Julio’s voice, farther away from the phone, called, “Hey, Diablito, remember Señora Ruelas’s enchiladas? How about fried grunion on the beach in Baja?”

Reuben’s voice dropped an octave. “I know you remember our night at the Blue Fox!”

Experiences which had lain collapsed in some subterranean vault within his mind miraculously sprang inflated to life with attendant colors and smells. He could almost taste the señora’s enchiladas. “It’s been a long time,” Jackson observed.

“Time passes too quickly,” Reuben acknowledged. “I am sorry to say that I am calling with difficult news.” Reuben paused for a moment to let his words sink in, then continued speaking: “Your grandfather is gravely ill. He may not live much longer. He has asked to see you.”

“I know. I heard,” Jackson replied, hesitating briefly before revealing his true thoughts. He realized that he felt ashamed to expose his lack of love for his dying grandfather to Reuben. Realizing that he had no other option, Jackson continued, “But since he and I have chosen to lead different lives, I didn’t think my presence would be good for either one of us. I thought it best that I stay here.”

“Diablito, you are his only heir and his dying wish is that you come.” There was no emotion in Reuben’s statement. It was a straightforward declaration.

Despite his best efforts, Jackson’s explanation sounded defensive. “I can’t come now even if I wanted to. I have a number of important assignments to complete. If I fail in any one of them, I risk losing my job. Tell him to select someone else as his heir. I don’t want his money.”

“You know he will not do that. You are his heir, whether you come or not, and he is leaving you sufficient money that you need not work unless you choose to do so.”

“I don’t want his money!”

“His enemies are still numerous, Diablito, and it is very sure they will come for you after he dies. Because you are the key.”

“I don’t see why. Especially if I pass up the inheritance. They’re only interested in the money. They’ll understand that I’m living a different life, that I have had nothing to do with him. No involvement whatsoever.”

“If it were that simple, Diablito, I would tell you to go ahead, but it isn’t. You, even after all these years, don’t believe the words you’ve just said. They will come because they want more than the money. Plus, they will have to come through you to get to any of the estate; your grandfather set it up that way. Whether you like it or not, they will come. Money aside, after he dies, they’ll want your blood.”

“I don’t have any choice in this?”

“I wish you did, because I know that you have made a different life for yourself. I know that you’ve walked away from him. That will not matter to his enemies. Perhaps if you come down, he will listen to you and make different arrangements. I don’t know.”

Anger bubbled up inside of Jackson. It seemed his grandfather still had the capacity to drag him into things in which he had no desire to participate. He took a deep breath and asked, “Let’s make this clear: You’re saying that my life will be in danger after my grandfather dies?”

“Yes, but if you come down we can help you prepare to deal with them. It’s the only choice you have.…” There was a long pause, then, “… if you want to live until next year.”

Jackson felt like an animal in a trap and his frustration level rose like a temperature gauge in a boiling pot. He felt like killing his grandfather himself. But anger aside, he had been warned, and only a fool would ignore such a warning. With reluctance Jackson said, “I will make arrangements—”

Reuben interrupted. “Let us make the travel arrangements for you. I shall call you and tell you where you can pick up the tickets. Is this a secure line?”

“Basically, but there are extensions.”

“Oh.” There was a pause while Reuben considered the problem. He asked simply, “When can you come?”

“This weekend.”

“How long can you stay?”

“Let’s leave it open.”

“Claro!
I look forward to seeing you.” A tone of adjournment was in his voice.

Jackson took his cue and said, “It will be good to see you again.” He heard Julio’s voice, with a remote echo, say,
“Suerte, Diablito. Suerte!”

Jackson put the phone back on its receiver and turned his attention to reviewing his work notes on his various projects, but his mind was still entangled with thoughts of his family. Without ever having reached a voluntary decision, he had agreed to go to Mexico. He stared around at the familiar furnishings of his office and felt even more dislocated. When the secretary came in and announced that the city manager was waiting for him, Jackson’s mood had degenerated into anger and resentment.

Each summer but one, from the time he was eight until he was eighteen, he had spent in Mexico with his grandfather. At first, he didn’t think anything could be worse than sharing a dark, drafty Victorian with his cold, aloof grandmother, but he was mistaken. He came to dread the coming of summer and the annual forays to the backwater villages and towns along the coast of the Sea of Cortez.

T
here is a dry, desert heat in parts of Mexico that wraps around the flesh like a tight-fitting suit, a heat that emanates from an unblinking sun that pounds the desiccated earth. It seeks to enter every pore and burn the lungs with every breath. It even reaches into the shade and presses water from the body. Eight-year-old Jackson was not used to such heat. Sweat streamed down his body, stinging his sunburned skin. He had not yet learned the secret of wearing heavy clothing as protection against the sun. He wore only a short-sleeved shirt, shorts, and sneakers.

He stood in the shade outside his grandfather’s four-room cottage on the outskirts of a small village. He was hungry again. It was a new sensation for him and one he could not escape. There was no food in the house and his grandfather had taken away his money. He lived from
one mealtime to the next. Every morning at seven, his grandfather prepared a small breakfast of cornmeal mush for the two of them. Then his grandfather left for the day without explanation and sometimes did not return until well after dark. Generally, when his grandfather came home in the evenings, he brought small-game animals like jackrabbits, squirrels, quail, and wild duck, which had to be skinned, plucked, and cleaned before they could be cooked. Sometimes, after twelve hours without food, Jackson thought he would die before the evening meal was put on the table. At first, Jackson’s impatience caused him to get underfoot as his grandfather prepared the food, but a backhand that sent him to the floor taught him to stay clear. Dinner was the only meal at which he got seconds. He was not allowed thirds because his grandfather told him he was too fat and soft. The meat was strange tasting and gamey, but Jackson ate every bit that was put on his plate. When he tried to speak to his grandfather about his desire for lunch and snacks, his grandfather laughed humorlessly and said, “A man should only have to eat once a day. If’en he has to eat more than that, he can’t control himself.”