Echoes of a Distant Summer (29 page)

Carlos reached across and touched his shoulder. “It is good to see that your heart has not changed, Diablito.”

Jackson grabbed Carlos’s arm and said earnestly, “I owe you, Carlos, and I’ll never forget that.” Carlos smiled in acknowledgment and sat back in his seat. Jackson’s words appeared to have put a seal on the moment, but his emotions were volcanic. He had not been in Mexico for half an hour and already he felt his heart losing its shape, shifting like molten magma within his chest. Under pressure more memories spewed up, racing past his consciousness at almost light speed, blurring the colors and sounds like the sights seen during a roller-coaster ride. Even in the air-conditioned cool of the limo, sweat began to drip down his face.

The driver asked Carlos something in Spanish that brought Jackson back to the present. Carlos turned to Jackson and said, “We are going to the house first. El Negro is being moved to a private clinic. You’ll be able to see him at six o’clock this evening.”

Jackson’s shirt was damp. He wanted to wash his face. He actually wanted to delay seeing his grandfather, but now that the decision had been made for him, he perversely wanted to see the old man right away. “Why is he being moved?” he asked.

“He requested that he be moved off all life support systems when you arrived.”

“What?” Jackson asked incredulously. “Why?”

“He is ready to die. He just wanted to see you first.”

The old bastard knew I was coming all along, before I had even made the decision myself, thought Jackson. It was this byzantine level of planning that seemed to imbue his grandfather with almost supernatural qualities. On the edge of death, he’s still outguessing me, Jackson marveled. He asked, “What kind of condition is he in?”

“Heart and kidney failure,” Carlos answered. “Been getting dialysis to stay alive.”

Jackson merely nodded. It was eerily surprising that the old man was mortal, that his body was giving out, that his desire to live was gone. If anyone had the spirit to live forever, it was his grandfather. He asked, “What’s the projected time after he gets off the life support equipment?”

“Who knows?” Carlos shrugged. “Three days, a week at the outside.”

Jackson sat quietly with his own thoughts as the limo crawled through the busy afternoon traffic. He turned to Carlos. “I was surprised to see you. You’re a college graduate. I thought you would have severed ties with my grandfather by now.”

“Federico Ramirez, El Indio, and your grandfather were family to me. These three men took me in when I was thirteen. They fed me, clothed me, and took responsibility for training and educating me. What I did with you when you were eight was done for me when I was fourteen. Everything that I’ve ever taught you was based upon a foundation laid down by those three men.

“Your grandfather treated me like a son and he did the same for Rico’s boys. After their father was killed, he took them in, provided shelter, trained and educated them, then, when they were ready and capable of protecting themselves, handed over their father’s share of the business. And the only thing he ever asked in payment was that we treat you as he treated us. He is a true man of honor. With his passing, I will lose one of the most important members of my family.”

Jackson snorted. “You make him sound like Robin Hood.”

“He is a sort of Robin Hood. He stood up to forces that other people would have laid down for. He fought back and he made a living taking money from rich and arrogant criminals.”

“True, but he didn’t give to the poor!”

“That’s not exactly true. He didn’t donate money to organizations, but he did things like—Do you remember that first village you stayed in when you were eight years old? Where I first taught you to hunt?” Jackson nodded. Carlos continued, “Your grandfather built a school there on his own land and paid the salary of the teacher for years until they incorporated into a larger school district. He did this predominantly because he wanted to build a good relationship among the villagers, but also he let it be known that if anyone in the village was caught participating in an attack against him, the school would be shut down. He regularly donated to the local church and the village’s festivals. He was very generous. The medical clinic where he is staying is
another example of that. He bought that building for the doctor who for years had been providing us with discreet medical services for bullet and knife wounds. The doctor wanted his own clinic and he was willing to direct a good percentage of his services to the poor. I negotiated the deal. It was just one of your grandfather’s ways of protecting himself from treachery and keeping in the good graces of the local people. Almost every place he lived, he was liked as well as respected, because of what he put into the community. His approach was and still is good business.”

The limo turned into a walled, white stucco compound and heavy iron gates swung shut behind it. Inside the courtyard there was a circular drive which arced underneath the overhanging second story of the house. Two men dressed in suits walked out of the front door as the limo rolled to a stop. Jackson got out and greeted the Ramirez brothers. The older brother, Reuben “Cisco” Ramirez, had grown into a handsome, brown-skinned man of average height. He had the Rudolph Valentino good looks that women so often admired: his straight, black hair combed back; flashing dark eyes under arched, black eyebrows. He had inherited his father’s swarthy coloring, while his younger brother, Julio “Pancho” Ramirez, was much lighter skinned and had light brown hair, but he shared a strong family resemblance with his older sibling. They had many of the same features—the same hairline, eyebrows, and eyes—yet the results were significantly different. Julio was a bigger man with a broader face, so that the features which made Reuben look dashing were strangely coarse and unfinished on his brother.

“How was your flight?” Reuben asked, extending his hand. The greetings were exchanged between the three men. Jackson was escorted inside as Carlos took care of his bags and gave directions to the limo driver.

Jackson was guided to the chair behind the desk in his grandfather’s den. It was a room he associated with smells of Scotch whisky, gun-cleaning oils, cigars, and aftershave. The room seemed the same: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall; on the opposing wall a bar with a mirror behind it; in the center of the room a large, circular green felt–covered card table surrounded by solid wooden chairs; and at the far end, the big wooden desk in front of high, arching windows, which allowed natural light to cascade over half the length of the room. He looked across the wooden expanse of the desk and remembered the
countless times he had stood in front of it pleading his case to an uncaring judge. Jackson was deep in his recollections when Reuben began laying out various legal papers, and it was only then that Jackson realized that Julio was talking to him.

Julio was providing a quick sketch of the last two decades. The Ramirez brothers had been serving as his grandfather’s attorneys for all the South American and West Coast business from the time each had passed the bar in California. Julio began listing a number of businesses which were among King’s assets and went on to discuss Jackson’s grandfather’s considerable real estate holdings in both Mexico and in California. The brothers explained how, in an effort to avoid inheritance taxes, part of the estate had been transferred to another corporation in Jackson’s name. However, the bulk of his grandfather’s estate remained in stock certificates.

The discussion of money made Jackson feel uncomfortable. He looked at his watch. Almost two hours had passed and there were still two hours yet to pass before he could see his grandfather at six. He needed to wash up and relax, and wander around the old house. He asked to be excused. The Ramirez brothers arranged to meet Jackson the next day to discuss the legal aspects of the will. Jackson did not reveal his reluctance to get involved with his grandfather’s affairs. He was surrounded by loyal men who expected him to pick up his grandfather’s mantle. He decided that he would first see his grandfather before he aired any of his intentions.

Julio picked up a weathered valise and placed it on the table. Jackson gave him a questioning look. Julio said simply, “It’s a list of names along with some reading material. El Negro will explain it.”

Jackson did not inquire further. He figured that the valise contained information concerning his grandfather’s enemies. He hoped in reading its contents that he would discover the key to disengaging himself from the conflict. He smiled at the Ramirez brothers. “Has my grandfather taken care of you for your years of service?”

“He’s treated us like family,” Reuben replied. “He has taken care of us extremely well. He has given us control over all our father’s old businesses and paid us well too. If anything, we are in your grandfather’s debt.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Jackson smiled again and said, “I want my blood brothers taken care of.”

“You still remember that oath we all took together?” Julio asked with surprise.

“I remember it and still honor it.”

“Good,” Reuben asserted. “We may still have need to rely upon one another.”

Julio offered to introduce him to the people who maintained his grandfather’s house. On the way out to the kitchen, Jackson asked about the facsimile machine for which he had been given the number and when he might be able to check for the receipt of documents. Reuben informed him that he would check with his friend who was a manager in the multinational corporation that had the fax machine. If documents had already been sent, Reuben would call him.

After a brief introduction to the three house-staff members, Jackson was left to his own devices. The limo was scheduled to take him to the clinic at a quarter to six. He walked through the house, reacquainting himself with its shadows and doorways. As the cool darkness enveloped him, Jackson could hear echoes of long-dead conversations, the scuff of leather boots on the cold tile floors, and the gruff sound of his grandfather’s voice.

He walked into the kitchen and interrupted the hushed conversation of the house staff. There was a gray-haired man named Mario who stood up immediately, ready to be of service. His comrades, two women, stood up more slowly. Jackson assured them in broken Spanish and hand gestures that he was just looking around. He went upstairs and discovered that his bags had been placed in the master bedroom, his grandfather’s bedroom. He went down the hall and pushed open the door leading into his old bedroom. Nothing seemed changed from the last time he had slept in it. It touched him that his grandfather had maintained the room as he had left it.

On the far wall of the room, between his bed and the window, there was a painting of a beautiful young Mexican woman. Her name was Maria. Jackson’s heart ached at the sight of her picture. She had been his first real foray into the minefield of love. Their relationship had been quick, intense, and heartrending. He had never opened himself to anyone like he had with her, and she had given him sexual pleasures that had never been rivaled. It had seemed a match made in heaven, but shortly after their meeting she was carried away in a tide of bloodshed and death.

On his return to the master bedroom, he saw his grandfather’s majestic gun case. It was a huge chifforobe made of dark red wood. He reached up and took the key from its hiding place atop the chifforobe and unlocked the main cabinet. The guns gleamed in the light from the hallway. There were ten to fifteen rifles and shotguns stacked upright in neat rows. The pistols lay flat, crowded into ten narrow drawers. The smell of the cleaning fluid on the guns stirred even more memories.

In the back, hanging above the rifles, he saw the wire coat hanger that his grandfather had used on him that first summer. He had never forgotten that whipping. Anger flushed his face. Roaming through the old house that he had known since he was a child was like digging through scar tissue; wounds that he thought had long since healed were reopened. He could feel the pain of the welts again on the backs of his legs. Suddenly, it seemed too warm in the house. He decided to go outside. Descending the stairs he heard the yapping of a small dog. It came from the kennel that his grandfather had maintained for his hunting and fighting dogs. Jackson went to investigate.

The kennel was at the back of the house and consisted of four caged runs, each with a covered shelter built against the outer wall of the compound. One of the women Jackson had seen in the kitchen was attempting to feed the kennel’s sole occupant, a bullterrier puppy, which was more interested in escape than the food she was providing. It was also obvious that she was not used to dealing with the puppy, for she kept waving a broom at it every time it came near. The puppy, nearly six weeks old, was fearless; it bit the broom several times trying to defend itself. The woman and the puppy were battling for position by the door of the run.

The scene brought laughter to Jackson’s lips. He entered the run behind the woman and indicated that she could go. The puppy stopped to consider its new antagonist. Jackson sat down in the run with his back to the door and waited. The puppy, with its big head and feet, came over cautiously to examine Jackson. As it was snuffling him, Jackson began to pet it. It was a black-coated young male with the broad white chest mark of the fighting Staffordshire bullterriers. The puppy was happy to receive attention. It tried to lick Jackson’s face and his hands. It began to wag its tail so furiously that its whole body bent back and forth. It was a healthy young dog. Its nose was cold and damp, and its coat was thick and shiny. Jackson spent half an hour in the kennel
with the puppy. Jackson knew that in his prime, his grandfather would have had this puppy trained for the pit, to fight and perhaps die amid the shouting and laughter of uncaring voices.

When Jackson went upstairs to wash up, he let the puppy come with him. Because he knew that terrier puppies liked to chew on various objects, he stopped by the kitchen and got a bone. The staff were surprised to see that the puppy was following him. It appeared that the puppy had been in desperate need of affection, and now that it had received a little, it was not going to let the bestower of that affection out of its sight. Its curiosity would cause it to venture off, but it soon came scampering back.