Salty Sky (30 page)

MORNING CONTINUED THE
dream. Joe looked through the bars on the elevated windows. The rain was over, the clouds knitted tight. The fluorescent lights came on at six thirty. “Just another Monday morning. Strap on your nail pouch,” Joe said aloud. He heard mumbled assent.

His roommates led the breakfast shuffle. They went to a larger holding tank. They each got a tray of grits, boiled eggs, and a school kid’s carton of milk. Joe sat on a bench with his breakfast tray on his knees. Someone slipped onto the bench next to him.

“Hey, man. You want those grits?”

Joe looked at his peer. Black ashy skin; nappy, matted hair; jaundiced eyes. But he had surprisingly long, clean fingernails. One thumbnail was long and hooked like a spoon. He looked hollowed out and smelled like his clothes were put away wet. Joe considered trading the grits for the hard-boiled egg. Then he remembered he missed his morning Prevacid and thought two eggs would feel less than great.

“No, friend. I don’t want them. You can have them, but you need to take my tray up.”

The neighbor’s eyes showed he wasn’t used to being called
friend
. The unfamiliar greeting made him hesitate in accepting the terms. In the end, hunger won out, and he scraped the grits onto his own tray
before putting Joe’s tray underneath. He ate the grits and moved on. Joe realized he still had the little milk carton. He needed to get up anyway.

Joe noticed the prisoners had different-colored wristbands. He asked the next guy who sat down near him what they meant and learned that they identified the severity of the inmate’s charges. Joe noticed that, largely, folks with like wristbands were grouped together. Actually, by race first, wristband second. Did people bond into groups that arbitrarily? Joe was in on a weapon-related felony. His wristband was red, a good jailhouse status color.

Everyone sat; a few, like Joe, on bolted-down metal benches. He noticed red wristbands dominating the benches. Most inmates sat on the floor. They leaned against walls or bars. A few talked. Friends from the outside or friends from the inside? Many held their heads in their hands. What was the Twain quote comparing boats and prison again? Boats smell better. Boats serve drinks. Women like boats too. Joe always thought Twain was sharp before. He’d take his chances on drowning and choose a boat.

His fellow inmates appeared to be engaged in introspection—mostly the red wristband crowd. Some were probably facing extended time away from home.

Green wristbands signified alcohol-related misdemeanors. The liver did its job overnight and processed the malt liquor while they slept. Now the green-wristband crowd sat quietly on the floor.

Joe decided jail was boring and uncomfortable. His bed was hard, and there was no pillow. He had to sit on a metal bench, or a concrete floor, lean against a concrete block wall. He had no belt, and his pants sagged despite the secret elastic waistband. No books, TV, playing cards, or music. He used the boredom to think more about how he wanted to live the final years of his life. He reaffirmed to himself that the pursuit of another mate wouldn’t lessen the relationship he’d had with his wife. He grew a little philosophical, thinking about how his mind could stretch if he started dating people who
had never lived in Brooklyn. Maybe he’d make a rule not to date anyone younger than his youngest daughter-in-law. That sounded about right. He smiled, thinking his jailors would be proud of how he’d used his time in the clink.

At nine thirty, the jailors collected the inmates; Joe was called last on the first docket. He was the only red wristband called; everyone else had green wristbands. He took that as a good sign that Tony was on the job. Joe wondered when he’d get to phone out. He’d gotten Tony out of the pokey before; Joe was sure he enjoyed returning the favor.

The inmates took a service elevator to the basement and into a hallway. The hallway must have tunneled under the street, because Joe could hear traffic overhead. Another service elevator took them up into the courthouse, where the guard led them into the courtroom. They were seated in rows to the right of the judge’s elevated throne. Height, robes, gavels—a lot of ceremony to provide power to the justice institution. The process made the judge himself a bit more than mortal.

The bailiff called out, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Hassell.” More transfer of power, making everyone stand until the judge deemed them worthy of sitting.

Joe was called first. He walked to the defense table, met his attorney. He smiled and winked at Tony in the sparse crowd. Tony grinned ear to ear. The attorney whispered the arrangement in Joe’s ear. Ten large, bonded and done. Was he OK with it? Sure, he was OK with it.

The charge was read into the record, then the plea agreement, and the attorney’s conference with the judge. Complete in five minutes. Joe and his attorney shook hands and walked out of the courtroom.

Tony greeted them, bobbing and weaving, shadow boxing the air. “And in this corner, from Brooklyn, New York, The Great White Dope, Joseph ‘The Carpenter’ Pas-ca-rel-laaaaaaa.”

“Well, at least I have a good cornerman. How’d you know I got pinched?”

“Bartender.”

“You found what bar I went to? You call my credit card company for the last charge?”

“Didn’t think of that one. No, we found your loaner car. Nice of you to leave the cell phone in it for confirmation.”

“Who’s we?”

“Ashley, Cale, and me. Speaking of which, why didn’t you take me with you to go see Cale? Gino could have been telling the truth.”

“I don’t know, Tony. Age isn’t all wisdom. And Tony, you know how big my balls are.”

“Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, I don’t know about the size, but I know gravity has pulled them between your knees. I imagine you scared those youngsters to death in the shower.”

They exited the courthouse, crossed the street to the jail. Joe held up his pants as he walked. The magistrate’s clerk checked out Joe’s items, including the handgun. Because Joe didn’t have a concealed permit in the state, he had to hold the handgun. Out on the sidewalk, he got a few wide eyes and a lot of wide berths. Joe wondered what they were thinking.
Mama, is that man robbing the jail?

Tony and Joe got into the lawyer’s car. He drove to the parking lot where he left the loaner the night before. It was near eleven now. Why not an early lunch? Why not a cold one to wash the roast beef down with? It’s five o’clock somewhere. How about one more to hear about the big evening? Joe left the handgun on the floor of the loaner. Not concealed, not really visible. He felt OK with it. He put it there under the advisement of legal counsel—at least, that was his story.

26

WOOF-WOOF-WOOF
.
THE SURPRISE
alarm echoed in his mind; it was unarmed before. Questions cascaded through his brain. Where was the real dog? Why did Coleman come home late and then leave before daybreak with his dog? Where had he gone? How long would it take to find him?

At his direction, Alberto confirmed that the charter’s manifest was filed, Coleman listed as pilot.

Anxiety tugged on Francisco. There was much to do—much to rebuild, much to destroy. He thought about the fragile and violent Mexican cartels. He needed to pick an ally he could invest firepower in and yet still control. He had inserted this to-be-determined group onto his notepad in the shape of a grenade. Once it was armed, he needed to send his as-yet-unchosen ally into a civil war with the other cartels. He would have the same issue as always: How do you keep an ally once they are powerful and wealthy? Hostages. Perhaps like he did with key employees, he’d require the ally’s family to live in Colombia. They would live like royalty—beautiful houses, majestic scenery, the wonderful temperature. They’d have mile-long private beaches to ride horses on, trained help, and protection. Royalty, yes. They would never want to leave. They would never be allowed to leave.

He needed to move his attention to these opportunities. Success did not realize itself; it needed to be driven. Of course, success with
the Mexican cartels would mean they had destroyed each other, leaving the
norteamericanos’
powdered nostrils ever more desperate to receive his supply.

Choosing to enlarge his myth by personally carrying out this vendetta was proving more of a nuisance than he imagined it could be. Practical concerns filtered through his thoughts. He tried to stoke his anger with memories of his brother and Pablo. He zeroed in on the gunshots to Pablo’s back, the bullets entering his flesh, the gut-wrenching fear with El Capo suddenly lying dead within his sight, then the ensuing power vacuum he barely survived to fill. But those memories were old. He had mined that emotional well for too long, and the bottom was now dry. He focused instead on his living family and the need to fuel the force field that protected them.

Francisco sat for lunch at the bar of a busy restaurant a block off the beach, a margarita on the rocks lined with salt and a wedge of lime untouched on the counter. Alberto and the Cuban sat at a table across the room. Alberto sipped a beer and ate chips while the Cuban drank water and watched the room. They knew this mood of Francisco’s and kept their distance. Alberto had seen it in Francisco as he had seen it in Pablo. It meant violence, with no concern for collateral damage. This was when buildings were firebombed, when twenty were killed to make certain one was dead.

The restaurant’s TVs showed surf video loops. The unnecessary insanity of the activity grabbed Francisco’s attention. Waves the size of buildings that went on for half a mile. Guys with long hair or shaved heads almost encircled by a tunnel of water and then riding out. How did the cameraman stay in that spot with the wave breaking and a surfboard coming at him at thirty miles an hour? The requisite shots of beauties in string bikinis preening and laughing made sense to him. Some girls in rash-guard shirts and bikini bottoms rode waves too. A blonde girl with one arm whipped turns at the crest of garage-size waves.

It surprised Francisco how quickly people reappeared after the storm. Young men leaned boards against the side of the restaurant. They
entered with wet hair under ski hats. Attractive waitresses hustled and smiled, some young, some career servers. So many tattoos. The place served Baja-style tacos—fresh fish, fresh toppings, hot sauces. Even children were in the restaurant. Surely, the
norteamericanos
would have taken the children away from the storm. This place was too egalitarian for Francisco but was a place of fun for the
norteamericanos
.

Two young women approached in sheer cover-ups over bikini tops. They wore short shorts, presumably over bikini bottoms. They didn’t wear the same outfit, but they were a matched pair. They smiled.

“Are these stools taken?”

“No. Please join me.”

“Thank you. Are you in town to surf the storm surge?”

Francisco found the question odd, given the difference between his clothing and age and those of the waterlogged people entering the bar. He responded, “No. Just here on business.”

“Do I hear a slight accent? Where are you from?”

Francisco hesitated. He wanted everyone to know who he was, where he was from, and what he was doing. Yet he appreciated the value of prudence. This time, prudence won.

“Panama.”

He was pretty sure the
norteamericanos
couldn’t speak Spanish, but there might have been Mexicans working the kitchen. If he spoke Spanish, they would know he was not Mexican, so he went with something a little less mainstream. He’d been to Panama enough times and worked closely enough with Panamanians to pass a quick inquiry.

“Well, your English is excellent. I could hardly tell. Is it hard to learn another language?”

“Not really. It is, how would you say, situational. Panama is a small country with many outside influences. Because of the canal, of course.”

He looked at the girls, not sure they knew what he meant about the canal. He continued anyway.

“America is a big country, and everyone speaks English, every sign is in English. Let me say this another way. What do you call someone who speaks three languages?”

“Umm, trilingual.”

“What do you call someone who speaks two languages?”

“Bilingual.”

“What do you call someone who speaks one language?”

“I don’t know.”

“An American.”

The girls smiled, somewhat amused, but uncertain whether the handsome Panamanian had insulted them or given them words of wisdom. Then an image of a tall, middle-aged man with sun-bleached hair being towed into a wave caught their attention. Francisco used the lull to return to his thoughts.

He compared the two trips to Coleman’s house. He envisioned the driveway. Neither time was a car parked there. He wouldn’t have left the dog in the house overnight without letting him out. He assumed the man had left his car at a bar, too much to drink. Perhaps a neighbor let the dog out. The lights had changed—some that were not on the first time were on the second and vice versa—either they were on a timer or someone had been home. Both times, the doors were unlocked, but the second time, the alarm was armed. Someone had been there or the alarm was armed remotely.