Echoes of a Distant Summer (30 page)

The phone rang several times before Jackson picked it up. It was Reuben calling to inform him that he had received several faxes marked
urgent
and that they would be delivered shortly. Jackson would be able to send his responses any time after six o’clock until midnight. After he finished speaking with Reuben, Jackson immediately called Corazon at home and inquired as to what had transpired in his absence.

Corazon’s tone was concerned when she said, “You really lit a fire under Bedrosian. He has contacted every one of your council subcommittees looking for mistakes or somebody with a grudge, and it seems he found someone. He convened an emergency meeting of the waste management subcommittee Friday night.”

“On what basis? The chairwoman was out of town. Did he get a quorum?”

“Just barely. He had allegations of toxic dumping that weren’t included in your report. But we’ve outsmarted him this time. I’ve sent you his report so that you can cut and paste it into yours.”

“As soon as I get it, I’ll work on it. Mexico City is two hours ahead. I’ll have it faxed off tonight before midnight. It’ll be there waiting for you tomorrow morning.”

Corazon sighed. “I can’t guarantee that I’ll be the first one in there in the morning. You better make sure that you send it tonight and I’ll go into the office around nine-thirty this evening and stay until ten waiting for it.”

“Corazon, you are a sweetheart and a lifesaver! I really appreciate this. Your husband doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

“He knows. I don’t let him forget it. Just remember, my mother is coming from Manila in two weeks and I’ll need time off.”

“If I’m still employed, you got it.” After he hung up the phone, Jackson slid down on the floor and petted the puppy’s wiggling body as it tried to lick his face. Once it saw that he wasn’t going anywhere, the puppy slumped against him and lay down on the floor next to him. Jackson continued to run his hand along the puppy’s side as he let himself ruminate over his future in the city manager’s office.

Ten minutes after Jackson had hung up the phone, the limo driver brought the fax documents that Corazon had sent. There was a brief note from her indicating that she didn’t think he should change his recommendations because lengthy police surveillance had not confirmed any of the allegations. He sat down at the table in the dining room and studied the faxes. In twenty minutes he had made the necessary corrections and had written the new wording for his report. This part of the work came easy for him. In fact, he enjoyed preparing reports and resolutions for council review and approval. But for Bedrosian, Jackson would have loved his job. He would deflect this particular attack, but his long-term problem was that he was down the slope from Bedrosian and shit would continue rolling in his direction until he got tired of dodging or was covered with it. Jackson set his jaw grimly. He would possibly consider a severance package if it was the right amount and it was offered without any attempt at character assassination. Otherwise, he would not go quietly.

Jackson went into his bedroom to get ready to see his grandfather. He washed up and changed shirts while the puppy alternately prowled underfoot or attacked its bone with furious little growls. There was a knock at the bedroom door. The puppy was at the door in an instant, growling threateningly. It was Mario. He informed Jackson that the limo was ready. Jackson picked up his leather jacket and his edited report then headed downstairs. On the way out, he put the puppy back in the kennel. He heard its disappointed yelps until he closed the front door.

Carlos was in the car waiting for him. As the limo pulled out of the gate, Jackson asked him to have the driver take his report and get it faxed back to his office. Carlos nodded and they sat back and watched the traffic of early evening thicken with daily commuters. The clinic was located in a well-to-do suburb on the western outskirts of Mexico City. All the houses along the street which led up to the clinic were mansions set well back on large, manicured lawns behind wrought-iron gates. The clinic, which had originally been a private school, was constructed
on a hill overlooking the surrounding environs. There was a small guardhouse at the entrance gate. The limo was waved through without scrutiny and continued up the driveway, which arced in front of the main building.

The inside was cool and pale under the fluorescent lights. There was a thick carpet and numerous overstuffed chairs and couches placed throughout the lobby, which appeared to be crowded with both patients and visitors. Carlos ushered Jackson upstairs to his grandfather’s room without checking at the desk. They walked up two flights and turned down a corridor which seemed to lead to an unoccupied wing of the clinic. Carlos gestured to a door that had no number or other visible insignia on it. Jackson opened the door and stepped into the room. Immediately, a short, stocky man emerged from behind the door with his hand under his jacket. He saw Carlos behind Jackson and stepped back. Carlos gestured for the man to leave with him, and Jackson was left alone in the room with his grandfather.

The old man had the back of his bed raised slightly and was looking directly at him. No words passed between them as they stared at each other for several minutes. Two men connected by blood, but separated by nearly fifty years. Jackson was shocked at how the changes wrought by age had affected his grandfather. Where once there had been a big, broad-shouldered man, there was now a shrunken husk. Wrinkles hid the face that had once struck fear in so many hearts. Only the eyes gave a hint of the man within the atrophying flesh. Jackson broke the silence with “Hello, Grandfather.”

The old man gave him a final once-over then smiled. When he spoke, his voice had a slight hiss from his weakened condition. “You look good, boy. Told ’em you’d come.”

“You were right, Grandfather.”

“You done growed into a man,” the old man acknowledged. “Look a lot like yo’ daddy.”

“Maybe I look like he would have looked had he grown this old.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jackson regretted them. He was not here to air his issues with his grandfather. He was here to get information and to pay his last respects. He had to stay focused. He sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed.

“Something grinding you, boy?” His grandfather pronounced the word
boy
as “bwaah.”

“No, Grandfather.”

“Blame me for yo’ daddy’s death, boy?”

The direct question was too much of an intro for Jackson to ignore, but he contained himself. “You don’t want to discuss that subject.”

“Why not?” the old man wheezed challengingly. “Ain’t got much time left, might as well spend it on somethin’ important. Floor’s open. Whatever you got to say.” A fit of shallow coughing racked his body. Jackson stood up, prepared to take whatever action necessary. The old man waved him back to his seat. “Sit down. Sit down. I ain’t ready to go jes’ yet.” The old man could barely raise his head, but his spirit was strong.

“Can I get you something?” Jackson asked as the coughing subsided.

“Jes’ speak your piece. Let me hear yo’ straight-from-the-gut thoughts. Do you blame me for yo’ daddy’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Yo’ daddy was killed by treachery, treachery that was intended to kill us all. Yo’ daddy was the only son I got to raise.” The old man paused, regaining his breath. “That’s why I dedicated my life to getting those who gunned him down.”

Tell me anything, Jackson thought. He knew that his grandfather had spent a lifetime getting even. The death of his youngest son may have added to his zeal, but it did not preempt his own blood lust. There seemed to be nothing for Jackson to say. Why argue with the old man? History could not be changed. His father could not be resurrected.

“That’s part of the reason that I wanted to see you.” The old man chuckled humorlessly.

“To discuss my father’s death?” Jackson was having trouble keeping the barbs out of his delivery.

“Yes and no.” His grandfather paused and gave him a penetrating look. “You can’t hurt me with resentment, boy. Life has done more to me than you could ever do. So, if you finished whinin’, I’ll get on to the important things that I want to cover with you.”

His grandfather’s tone of dismissal was more than Jackson was prepared to handle without retort. “You’re dying and you’re still the same self-centered old bastard that you were twenty years ago! You think you can dismiss my feelings with a wave of your hand! Only the issues that you are concerned with are important! To hell with everybody else!”

If he physically could have, his grandfather would have sat up in his bed. He struggled for a moment then resigned himself to turning his
baleful glance on Jackson. In his mind’s eye, Jackson saw the manner in which his grandfather would have turned twenty or even ten years ago on an antagonist: eyes glinting evilly, gliding as close as possible before beginning his attack. There were no rules. There was no mercy, only death and maiming for the vanquished.

“You finished?” There was a petulance in the old man’s tone, as if there had been enough time wasted on foolish talk.

Jackson got himself back on track. “Yes, I’m finished, Grandfather. But I think we need to clear something up first. I came down here to see you. I will be happy to assist you in settling your affairs and to generally help in any way that I can.” Before he said these words, Jackson had had no intention of having any involvement with his grandfather’s activities. Yet, once he said them, they seemed right so he thought he would go with it. He continued speaking without a break. “But I’m not down here to be insulted. I don’t want you to dismiss my feelings or my resentment—”

“You talkin’ like a white boy. Everybody got pain. Everybody got feelings. What makes you special? Whole damn world’s hurtin’!” The old man had a spasm of pain, which he stifled with a grimace. He looked out the window and sucked in a long breath. “I ain’t got time to spend arguin’. I got something to tell you, a little family history; something you gotta know ‘cause you inheritin’ everythin’.”

“I don’t want your money. Give it to Franklin. He wants it.”

The old man laughed; this time it was a real laugh. The coughing began again. It racked his whole body. Jackson again stood, ready to come to his aid or call a nurse, but his grandfather waved him back to his seat.

“Franklin wouldn’t live to see his bank statement. Anyway, he ain’t my blood and I never did take a liking to that boy. Reminded me of his father.”

“I’ve heard you say this before. What do you mean, Franklin’s not your blood?”

“His father wasn’t from me. Was a white man’s child. Ain’t my blood. Ask yo’ grandmother if LaValle was my son.”

It was too much to assimilate. It was the type of information that Jackson felt should have been disclosed years ago. “Did you kill him?” Jackson blurted out. Why not put at least one mystery to rest, he thought. The old man was at the gates; he’d tell the truth.

“Who? LaValle?” The old man’s eyes opened wide with inquiry.

“Yeah.” Jackson nodded his head.

“No. His mouth and his greed killed him. Would have done ’em, but I promised yo’ grandmother that I’d let him alone.”

“You’re a piece of work, Grandfather. You would’ve killed your own son?”

“Wasn’t my son! He was a white man’s son! And he was a traitor to the family that raised him!” the old man answered righteously. “A man who ain’t got no loyalty is just a mercenary, don’t deserve a Christian burial.”

Jackson shook his head and wondered what kind of man it took to be facing death, having committed all the crimes that his grandfather had committed, and still be unrepentant.

His grandfather was peering at him. “You think I’m heartless? Well, ever since yo’ so-called uncle got yo’ mama killed—”

Jackson sat up quickly as if he’d received an electrical shock.

“Got your attention, huh?” His grandfather nodded knowingly. “Well. I tell you about it. LaValle was drinking that night and he had lost a lot of money. Had a problem that way. He was always overdoing it, whether it was alcohol, gambling, or women. Never seemed to know when to stop.…” His grandfather’s words fell into a rhythm, his soft voice rising and falling with his changes in inflection. Jackson sat back in his chair and let the old man’s words pour over him like warm syrup as he re-created with his descriptions the sights and sounds of that fateful night.

I
n the semidarkness of the Blue Mirror, Jacques (known as Jack in the Bay Area) Tremain discreetly adjusted his forty-five automatic in its holster then pulled his jacket closed. He stood at the back of a crowd that was listening to Sugar Ray Robinson slug it out with Bobo Olson on the radio. The polished wooden radio sat in a prominent place behind the bar and its volume was turned all the way up. The patrons lining
the bar as well as those seated at the various tables were intent on the fight. As the announcer’s voice excitedly described each flurry of punches in staccato bursts, he drew cheers or moans from the bar’s occupants. It was a fast-paced fight with each boxer taking his turn in pummeling the other. No one among the listeners thought that the bout would go the distance. In between rounds, people would order more drinks or shout to friends across the room as the fast-talking announcer provided his unrequested analysis. Jack, without making any noticeable effort, was watching the egress and ingress of traffic. He was trying to identify potential problems.

His let his eyes follow the shapely, long-legged form of Verna French, who was waiting tables. She was an attractive, light-skinned, red-haired woman who had become an institution at the Blue Mirror during her five-year tenure. Jack watched her weave in and out between tables, professionally serving drinks and bantering easily with customers. She brooked no advances and was generally a no-nonsense type. The only problem, as far as Jack was concerned, was that she was one of his brother’s early conquests.

Occasionally, he would catch the eye of the heavyset bartender, Doke Browner, and with a glance point out a particular individual for his assessment. So far, no one had entered who caused Doke any concern. But Jack was worried; it was going to be a lively evening. He could feel it in the air.