Echoes of a Distant Summer (28 page)

She picked up the phone and dialed a number. The phone rang and then a voice answered, “Good afternoon, Oakland city manager’s office.”

“Hello,” Serena said. “This is Jackson Tremain’s grandmother, Serena Tremain. I wanted to check if he has gone to Mexico yet, to visit his grandfather who is seriously ill. Unfortunately, I appear to have misplaced the number where he can be reached. I was wondering if you could help me.…”

The voice on the other end of the phone line said, “I sorry, ma’am, but we don’t give out such numbers to callers.”

“Is there someone else I may talk to? This is extremely urgent.” Serena was transferred and then transferred again. She finally spoke with the acting assistant city manager, Howard Gomes, who assured her that if Jackson should call, her message would be relayed. She left her number and hung up. She realized that when she gave Jackson’s number to Braxton, she would be placing one of her own blood in jeopardy, but she nonetheless felt it was a wise decision. Strangely, Serena felt that if there was any hope for the family, it lay with Jackson. It was time to see if King did indeed have a master plan and whether his grandson had the will and the grit to carve a place for himself in the new landscape. If he was to be the savior of the family, he had to survive the dangers. Even the dangers created by betrayal.

D
eleon leaned against one of the supporting poles while the M Taravel streetcar clattered across another line’s tracks as it headed toward downtown San Francisco. He casually allowed himself a sweeping glance out the back window. Yes, the beige Ford Galaxy was still following. It was the second time in as many days that he had discovered someone following him. He knew it was San Vicente sending him a not-so-subtle message indicating his distrust. Further, the fact that the
men tailing him had done little to conceal themselves was nothing less than an insult, and Deleon knew that also was intended. Well, he had had about enough. He had decided to send his own not-too-subtle message. To that end, he had left his car at Nineteenth and Sloat and caught the streetcar to downtown. He wanted to get his followers on foot, to take them into the heart of the city.

Two elderly women got on at one of the stops and once the streetcar started moving they needed assistance. Deleon stepped forward and helped each of them to their seats and returned to his pole. His action did not arise out of generosity. It would not serve him to have one of the old ladies injured and the streetcar delayed on its rounds. He had taken the M Taravel to split up his followers. He knew that at least one of them would get on the M before the tunnel which issued out onto upper Market. He could deal with one man or a two-man team, but three men was stretching it. Two men might be stretching it if they were good professionals and they attacked him simultaneously. He smiled to himself. He would make sure to avoid such a turn of events. There would be no loss of focus. No loss of attentiveness. His eyes swept over the other passengers then confirmed that the Galaxy was still following. Yes, his message would be written as he desired to write it.

Streets clattered by with a slow and grinding regularity. Deleon watched the changing neighborhoods and allowed himself to relax, only giving particular attention to people boarding and exiting. He was preparing himself, clearing the decks for action. It was a method he had learned in prison. It allowed him to stay relaxed during the long waiting periods before the violence began. Staring out the window at the passing street scene, he saw a young Asian couple waiting at a sheltered bus stop. They were holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. There was no other description for the expressions on their faces but rapt, their minds captured as if by some secret enchantment that wrapped itself around only them.

Deleon smirked because he thought of the couple as dupes, gullible people who had bought the complete fraudulent bill of goods on love. He had always considered people like that as sheep, the herd animals, the abundant and necessary chaff to fill in the spaces between the predators. The streetcar jerked and rocked as it turned and crossed another line’s tracks. Despite his intention to avert his eyes, he watched the Asian couple until they were lost from view. His cynicism aside, there
was a trace of uneasiness in him, and perhaps a touch of envy. He wondered what it would be like to share feelings of such trust and affection that you would be willing to commit yourself to that one person, and come what may, the future would be shared together. Deleon knew that such commitment existed. He had seen it in prison. He had seen men willing to kill or die to save their partners from threatening situations. He had never experienced such emotions himself. Deleon placed his bets with the smart money. The smart money said every time you allowed yourself to care for something or someone too much, you raised your level of vulnerability by a factor of ten. Invulnerability was based on caring for nothing too greatly.

Deleon did not believe in happiness; the best one could do was to limit the amount of pain experienced. Prison had honed and shaped Deleon’s understanding of this reality, spinning him on its lathe of days and nights until his comprehension was chiseled smooth and seamless. The truth was, the first time he had ever heard the word
love
used in connection with himself was in prison. Of course, that was generally during or just after someone had rammed their penis into his rectum.
Love
took on a very different meaning when someone held a knife to your throat so tightly that the blade cut the skin and blood dripped down your chest, and all the while they’re thrusting it in you. They really didn’t care if you were alive or not; the only difference was if you were conscious, they could fuck you standing up. In the first year alone, he was gang-raped four times. There were a couple of times after which he didn’t know if he would be able to take a normal shit again. How could he ever go to a romance movie and believe it? Nobility, like morality, was a myth.

Fortunately, after his first year of incarceration he was accepted into a gang. One of its leaders, Butch Austen, was a lifer who had already spent twenty-five years behind bars. He took the nineteen-year-old Deleon beneath his wing. For a price, of course: bimonthly rectal access. The lifer taught Deleon many things, but the greatest was a love of books and reading. Deleon could barely read when he was first incarcerated, but by the time he was released five years later, he possessed his GED and had read all the American and British classics, in addition to uncounted volumes of pulp fiction. It was reading that saved his sanity in the jungle world of prison life. Books introduced him to worlds that he sensed existed but had never seen. The written page gave him
an awareness of lives not lived in the moil and toil, or in the stinginess of the life he knew. Further, his reading provided the images that he painted and sketched. During his years in prison he became quite accomplished with pen and ink, and he truly appreciated the rare times he was able to obtain both canvas and paints. Drawing and painting allowed him to rise above the grimness of his surroundings.

The streetcar lurched to a stop with a mechanical squeal of its brakes in a small neighborhood commercial district, the last stop before the tunnel. A number of passengers stood up and made their way toward the exits. Deleon drifted to the rear of the vehicle and sat down in a seat next to the rear door. There was a crowd of people boarding at this last stop. Sure enough, two of San Vicente’s men boarded the streetcar and sat down behind the driver. Although Deleon never looked directly at them, he recognized them. It was German Diaz and the card playing, pockmarked Martinez.

Deleon shook his head. Fate was a strange thing. He had just come to the decision that he would simply kill the grandsons and let others fight over the whereabouts of the certificates. If he didn’t take matters into his own hands Jesse and Fletcher were going to make a serious mistake. With the death of the grandsons, he would’ve fulfilled his obligation to his grandfather and he would be free to return to New Orleans. But now San Vicente had forced him to take action against him. He smiled to himself as the streetcar started rumbling into the darkness of the tunnel. San Vicente’s men would die before they realized how good he was. Technique, stamina, and speed were weapons that could never be found wanting, and Deleon had all in good measure; their possession was the basis of his confidence. He decided he would kill Martinez first.

O
n Saturday afternoon Carlos Zarate watched through the tinted windows of the terminal as the small private jet swerved in the cloudless blue sky and took bearings on its landing course. It was a ten-passenger Lear, the third private plane that had landed in the last thirty minutes. As directed, the plane pulled all the way into a hangar that jutted out from the main building, before disembarking its passengers. Carlos peeled himself off the wall against which he was leaning and walked down the gangway, through the baggage claim, and across a breezeway into a small customs office. Lieutenant Juan Flores, a chubby, round-faced man in a sweat-stained, khaki uniform, looked up from the pile of documents he was studying and asked,
“Qué pasa?”

Carlos merely pointed through the wall, in the direction of the hangar into which the plane had entered.

Lieutenant Flores pulled himself erect, sucked his stomach in, adjusted his uniform, dusted off his cap, placed it firmly on his head, and straightened his back in his best imitation of military bearing, before leading the way out of the office. They crossed another breezeway and followed a long corridor which led directly to the back entrance of the hangar. Jackson was standing next to his luggage by the wing of the jet when they entered. Lieutenant Flores walked ahead of Carlos and introduced himself in English to Jackson and, for the next several minutes, asked the necessary customs-related questions to clear Jackson for entrance into Mexico. Jackson’s passport was stamped with a flourish by Lieutenant Flores and he marked up Jackson’s luggage with a gaudy signature in yellow chalk.

All the time he was interacting with Lieutenant Flores, Jackson kept looking over the lieutenant’s shoulder at Carlos. Jackson thought it was Carlos, but the man in his memory was so different from the man in
front of him. The customs process was completed so quickly that Jackson was pleasantly surprised. He walked over to Carlos, who stood watching him with a smile. “Carlos?” he asked.

“Diablito?” Carlos asked in response.

Jackson studied Carlos’s face and saw that the years had left crow’s-feet around his eyes. There were many streaks of gray in his hair. Carlos now looked like his uncle, El Indio, had when Jackson first met him.

Carlos smiled slowly and asked, “How was your trip down here?”

Jackson nodded his head and answered, “Cloak-and-dagger, but fine. It was sort of interesting getting off Amtrak at an unscheduled stop and being whisked away by a waiting car. And I’ve never flown out of a private airport before.”

“It was the best way to lose the men who were following you. But you’ll get a full debriefing at the house.”

Jackson gave Carlos a quizzical look. “A debriefing?”

“All in good time.” Carlos paused and commented, “You look good.” He patted Jackson’s arms and chest, assessing their musculature. He grunted in approval and held out his hand.

Jackson not only shook Carlos’s hand but gave him a hug, which was returned. Carlos insisted on carrying Jackson’s bags. As they walked out of the hangar, Jackson asked, “You’re still working for my grandfather?”

“I’m a security consultant. I have my own business.” Carlos directed Jackson toward an exit. When they walked out of the dark, air-conditioned environment into the bright, sweltering sunlight, it seemed to Jackson that someone had turned a halogen lamp on his face. He was temporarily blinded. Carlos pointed out a nearby limousine with tinted glass windows.

Once they were settled in the dark coolness of the limo, Carlos said, “You look like your grandfather.”

“You look like El Indio,” Jackson said in response and instantly regretted it. The eighteen years that had passed since El Indio’s death could not sufficiently cushion the mention of his name.

Carlos seemed to feel none of Jackson’s angst, for he smiled broadly and said, “Yes, I do look like my uncle.”

Jackson said nothing. El Indio had been killed because of him, because he had hesitated in pulling a trigger.

Several minutes passed in silence before Carlos spoke again and he seemed to be speaking from a place deep within himself. “The old people say there are only a few souls in the world and that these souls are
reincarnated again and again. I would be happy to be the one chosen to carry my uncle’s soul forward.”

There was a quiet, forceful sincerity in his words that caused Jackson to remember how Carlos had held his dying uncle in his arms as his blood trickled into the dust of the arid earth.

More minutes passed, then Jackson said, “I’m sorry, Carlos.…” His words dissolved into his confusion. It was another of the haunting memories from the last summer spent with his grandfather.