Dark Matter (14 page)

07:23   06 November  [13:23  06 November GMT]

Penthouse Suite, W. Jefferson Av., Detroit, Michigan.
 

Chuck Holford reclined on his huge leather sofa with his cat Trouble purring contentedly on his lap.  He looked out at the panoramic view of the Detroit River.  The view stretched as far as the eye could see.  Drinking a Corona straight from the bottle he reflected on the events that had led him to be here.

His mind cast back more than ten years into the past to the night the first domino fell.  He was just finishing his shift on production line number three.  A car worker all his life he had met many people and disliked most of them, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians and Management, he pretty much hated them all.  Chuck would use much stronger language, often to their faces.

Chuck had a simple outlook on life, he was right and you’re wrong or “Fuck you” as Chuck so eloquently put it.  A part of Chuck always nagged at him though, his life feeling somewhat empty, his friendships unsatisfying and his words, whilst offensive to others, often lacked conviction in his own mind.  Chuck took these doubts with him as he left the plant, clocking out as he did every weeknight and heading to a bar before continuing on his way home to be received by cold food and even colder company.  The several beers he would have, and the chat with the other assorted barflies passed for what Chuck claimed as his life.  An intelligent man, a thoughtful man, he had never received the education he could have, would have loved.  If life had treated Chuck badly, and it had, he had at some point stubbornly decided to treat it, and everyone he meet, worse. 

That evening however was different.  His supervisor stopped by the bar to celebrate his latest promotion with some of the guys from the shift.  Chuck avoided the group, took his beer, and headed for the back of the bar, where it was darkest.  One of his co-workers spotted him and called out to him.

'Hey Chuck, come on over Winston is buying the drinks!  He is going to be our new Night-shift Manager.'

'I buy my own drinks thanks.’  Chuck replied with a low growl delivered out of the corner of his mouth.  Chuck continued walking towards the back of the room.

'Hey come on, don't be a chicken shit, come and have a drink.'

'I ain't drinking with him.’  Chuck nodded in the direction of Winston.  Winston, as far as Chuck was concerned, now had two strikes against him, Black and a Manager. 

The co-worker didn't let it go. 

'Hey what the fuck?  What you got against Winston?  He's always been on the level with us.'

He just doesn't get it,
Chuck thought,
he just doesn't understand.  People like Winston get all the help and advantages and guys like me get screwed.
 

'Fuck you and fuck him.’  Chuck said, having had enough and ending the conversation.

'Why you little ...' the co-worker made a move for Chuck, but Winston who had been listening but ignoring the exchange moved to intercept. 

'Look Joe,’ Winston said into the face of the co-worker, 'just leave it, if Chuck wants to be on his own that's his choice.'

Chuck drew himself to his full height behind Winston.  'I don't need you looking out for me; I can take care of myself.' 

Winston turned his head in Chuck's direction.

'Look Chuck everything is cool OK, let's just leave it there.'

Chuck had had enough.  Enough of people telling him what to do.  Enough of getting constantly screwed over at work.  Enough of life.  He threw a punch to Winston's right kidney, sending him collapsing to the floor.  Before anyone could intervene, he managed to kick him twice in the back and once in the head.  Joe leapt on him, swiftly followed by two of his co-workers. 

Trouble dug her claws into Chuck's lap, sensing his tension.  Chuck was brought back to the present and took a long pull on his beer.  His mind wandered back to the events that followed.

Chuck was summoned to the Plant Manager's office the next day.  A senior member of HR was there, plus a guy from security.  They didn't take their time.  He was dismissed on the spot for gross-misconduct and as such was not entitled to any severance.  Chuck was escorted from the premises by the security guard and told never to come back.

Chuck spent the rest of the day in the bar.  When he got home he was fully loaded and in a mean mood.  He shouted at his kids, threw his dinner against the wall, and finally lost it with his frigid wife.  She never told the police.  At least, Chuck was never questioned about it, which amounted to the same thing.  She was gone when he woke in the morning, the children gone with her.  The next two years were a bit of a blur.  Chuck knew he was using during this period and he knew he started dealing to support his habit.  It was almost two years to the day after the fight in the bar with Winston when he saw him again.  Chuck was in the park.  Dressed no better than a vagrant.  He knew he smelt funky, and hadn't been eating at all well.  His stomach hurt.  He was wasted almost all of the time now.  This time was no exception, there in the park taking the mainline to freedom, was when he saw Winston with his family.  He was fit, healthy and very happy looking, he had a great looking family too.  Chuck looked down at himself.  He felt ashamed.  He felt guilty.  He felt alone.

That was the start of his coming off junk.  It took a year.  A year and he was clean.  He never stopped the dealing though.  The better he became, the more he dealt.  He was starting to save as well.  He made a buy, cut it himself at home, and then dealt it.  He made a bigger buy.  Soon he was buying from the importers and had his own network of distributors and dealers.  That was when he discovered how much cheaper it would be to buy direct and import it himself. 
Dangerous, but worth it.

In the seven years following him getting clean, Chuck had established his own, large network of importers, distributors, and dealers.  He had also found a novel way of laundering all his money, but he wouldn't tell anyone what it was. 

Now, ten years after he lost his autoworkers job, his wife, and his children, here he was a successful businessman with an exclusive penthouse suite in the best part of town.  The penthouse also came with a mooring, and in his was moored his pride and joy, his sports yacht “Penthouse”, he named it both after his home and the magazine. 

Trouble took her cue, stretching out she climbed off Chuck’s lap and curled up on the sofa instead.  Chuck stood and placed his empty bottle in the recycling.  He picked up his overnight bag and checked he had all the right documents with him.  Leaving his apartment suite, he placed a key under the mat for his neighbour Mrs Grainger to let herself in to feed Trouble while he was away.  He was only planning on one night, and he knew he shouldn’t really need to be going at all but his Mexican connection was complaining about something to do with payment and his lieutenant hadn’t been able to resolve it.  So he was headed to San Antonio, there to hire a car and drive across the border to Monterrey.

20:11   06 November  [02:11  07 November GMT]

Restaurant La Caliente, Paseo del Campestre, Monterrey, Mexico
.

Chuck took the I35 out of San Antonio, crossing the border at Laredo and continuing on the Mexican 85 down into Monterrey.  Chuck switched on the navigation system, which took him around the west side of town on the orbital road, down the long stretch of the Avenue General Lázaro Cárdenas, before finally turning off at Camino al Mirador.  The meeting venue was a restaurant to the south of Monterrey,
Restaurants
, thought Chuck to himself,
are particularly useful for meetings, they are generally busy and noisy, they have car parks for exchanging goods and you get fed as well.

The thought of food, particularly spicy Mexican food, was making Chuck hungry.  He increased speed slightly, and took turns sharper than he otherwise would, unaware that hunger was now interfering with his judgement.
The restaurant was a big, upmarket affair, obviously very popular with the Monterrey scene.  His lieutenant was at the far end of the restaurant, with his back to the wall, sitting opposite him was the Mexican connection and his lieutenant.  He noticed two other heavy set Mexican's at the next table. 
So,
Chuck thought,
they decided to bring some muscle.  No problem, I don't want any trouble, just fix the problem, eat and be on my way...maybe eat first, the food smells great.

After the greetings, Chuck ordered the Grande Burrito with a side of rice and refried beans.  Chuck was satisfied to wait for his meal, quietly listening to the Mexican and sipping on his Corona.

'So you see,' the Mexican continued his dialogue about how the current payment arrangement was causing him problems.  'To get every payment in cash, in American dollars and quite low denominations means that we have to go to great lengths to
limpio,
sorry, clean the money.  I need to pass this cost on, unless there is something you can do differently that would help?'

Geez, is this all this is about?
  Chuck thought. 
We could have settled this in a phone-call, or better yet the lieutenants could have re-negotiated instead.  Still, it’s good to get out occasionally and maybe this guy doesn’t trust his lieutenant.

'What you ask is not impossible.'  Chuck said.  'I can meet a reasonable increase in price; I could make a monthly electronic payment for non-existent premises, pay in precious metals and stones or a combination of any three.  What would be your preference?'

The Mexican was stunned, this was going too well, and far too quick, he needed him outside for the exchange. 

'I will think about it, and of course talk to my accountant.  A toast I think.'  As he ordered a round of Tequilas, he was pleased to see Chuck heartily tucking into his lunch. 
Good,
he thought,
at this rate we should be out of here at the right time.

When Chuck finished his lunch, it was with the addition of two Coronas and three Tequilas.  The food and alcohol had reached his stomach giving him a sugar rush, followed by the invariable crash and the feeling of sleepiness that comes with it.  Chuck felt happy and satisfied; the invitation to the car park for the formal exchange and cigar seemed OK to him. 
Need to watch my driving on the way back,
he said to himself, bumping into another table as he was leaving the restaurant,
don't want to be done for drunk driving!
A snorting laugh escaped Chuck's mouth at that, but no one said anything.

The lieutenants had parked their cars next to each other.  They retrieved the briefcases and handed them to their respective bosses.  The bosses would make the formal exchange, shake hands, and have a cigar.  The Mexican offered a light to Chuck who leaned his head over the flame and shielded it with his right hand; his left was holding the Mexican's briefcase.  A voice boomed across the car park in English but with a distinct Mexican accent

'This is the police.  Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head.  Do it!  Now!’

Chuck looked up into the Mexican's eyes, exhaling smoke as he did so and there he saw it, the look of relief on the Mexican's face. 
So,
Chuck thought,
you ratted me out.  That's what this whole game was about.

Chuck had no illusions about being a hero, he could see at least thirty police officers now, all armed and knew there must be others on the rooftops.  He knew it was over for now, next would be the legal game play and he knew he had the money for that fight. 
Mind you,
he thought, remembering some of the criminal law he had studied along the way,
if the drugs and cash were to disappear…I’ll have to pick my moment with care though.

20:52   06 November  [02:52  07 November GMT]

Monterrey Town police station, Monterrey, Mexico.

The processing at the police station was predictable but depressing.  Chuck was thinking hard and fast now, but somewhat impeded by the alcohol. 
They only have three things
; he realised,
the drugs, the money, and the Mexican, the Mexican I can deal with later, I need to get rid of the drugs and the money. 
He made a big fuss of needing the toilet, complaining of stomach pains, one of the officers and a sergeant escorted him to the toilet in an empty cell.  The officer remained outside, the sergeant inside to ensure that only waste came out of Chuck.

'You speak English' Chuck asked in a confident but quiet tone.

'Si, I speak English' he replied.

'You know in the confusion the briefcases could be lost or mislabelled.  That could easily happen.'

'Si, it could.'

'If that did happen it would help me a great deal and I would be very appreciative'

'How appreciative?'  The Mexican sergeant slightly stumbling over the word.

'Enough so you could retire now, very wealthy.  Think of it, lying on a beach, or on your yacht.'

The sergeant smiled, and unbuttoned his shirt.