The District Manager (29 page)

My cell phone vibrates from the nightstand next to my bed. I tear a piece of tape to secure the wrap, then pick up and read the text from Unknown #:

Jules’ file? I wonder as I text back:
OK

I know that’s bullshit.
They’re just fucking with me. Jesus, they have Crane.
My worst nightmares are realized. I know they actually have him because they used D.O.
What am I going to tell Brandy?

I check the clock. I have twelve hours to prepare. Prepare for what?
Everyone’s death or just mine? What have I done?
I wish I’d never called Jules back the first time he called.

I can’t eat, can’t shit, the thought of sex is morbid. I finish wrapping my torso the best I can, find a semi-clean shirt and struggle into it.

I move into the living room…I unlock the door…check the outside hallway…and go back into my apartment. I plop down in the Lazy Boy…to think…

...It’s late in the afternoon when I finally come to. I hear kids, freshly let out of school, hollering and laughing.

I need to eat something.
Everything in the fridge and pantry is old. Whataburger.

I know the Whataburger is within walking distance, but I’m in no condition to go walking. Besides, I need to start the Expedition.

I checkout the hallway again before I head to the parking lot and to the Expedition.

“Come on, girl,” I beg into the steering wheel as the engine tries turning like an old rotten millstone. “No, don’t you die on me yet,” I plead as the pistons fade.

Suddenly, she turns over as if she’s taking in a deep breath of gasoline. I pat the dash then pad the gas. I pull out, turn up the street, and get something to eat.

Although I don’t taste the food, I eat. When I’m done I realize that I still have hours to kill. It’s a peculiar feeling. The anxiety has subsided and I have a strange calm.
Like a political prisoner before execution.
I feel cloaked by a certain righteousness. If not for a lingering guilt I’d almost be at peace.

I decide to drive by the D.O., just to check it out.

The whole of the historical district is decked out in Halloween decorations: pumpkins in windows and littered about entrances, witches and skeletons hanging here and there, faux foliage lining doorways.

Shoppers come and go.

I park, put my wallet and gun in my briefcase, and then go and loiter in nearby shops. I’m in a fog…

…as the mist thins, I find myself sitting in a slanted parking lot in the historical district. I’m around the block from the D.O. It’s almost ten and the streets are empty.

Should I chance bringing the pistol? They said no guns.
I grab my wallet and phone from my briefcase. I notice that the green light is blinking on the cell. Oh shit.
What if I missed an important text from the goons?

No text. A phone message. I hit voicemail. It’s a returned call from the PUC director. As I listen, stupefied, the final piece of this puzzle falls into place.

I text Curlee from the number I found in Rusty’s cell. I let him know it is me.

I make sure the volume/vibrate is officially off on my phone and grab the gun. A stray fuzzy kitten darts into the alley as I approach our building.

The place is dead silent, and pitch dark. I enter from the back as I always do. I’m not sure what to say to let them know I’m in the building.

“Mason Dixon!” I announce into the long black hallway after carefully opening the French doors that guard its entrance. “District Manager for House District 100!”

No response.

There is no hall light, only the residual glow of the back foyer. From out of the last doorway at the end of the hallway, a hideously scarred freak emerges with a blindfolded Crane.

“Mason, just do what he says and I swear everything will be okay,” Crane implores as the freak ushers him down the hall, back towards me. “If you’ve got a gun, drop it now or he’ll kill all of us.”

“Where’s Brenna, her mom, and Will?”

“Everyone’s safe. Just give this man the information his people are looking for and we can all go.”

“It’s in here,” I say, pointing to the locked door of our office. I know Crane can’t see but Contact can. “I’m surprised they didn’t find it.”

“They tried.”

I cautiously unlock our office, reach in, and turn on the light. The freak shakes Crane and presses his pistol into his temple.

“The gun, Mason,” Crane states, impatiently.

“Where’s Brenna?” I demand.

“They’re all safe. I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but we’re all safe. Just give this man what he wants and we can go.” I enter the D.O. and head towards the back, near the sliding door closet where the filing cabinets sit. Contact and Crane follow behind. Contact still has a gun to Crane’s head, but the blindfold is removed. They block the only entrance into this skinny space. My desk is the only thing between me and them.

“He’s looking for a file. Something to do with AUE. Do you know what he’s looking for?”

“What is it with you latter Roman legislators?”

“Huh?”

“You know, Jack Clark…he’s a cunning fellow. He has lots of connections, the right connections apparently.”

“Jack Clark? What are you talking about?”

“But Jack’s a political science guy; he wouldn’t know how to go about setting up what’s been going on here, and certainly not how to run it. That would take a numbers guy…that would take a banker…that would take an accountant. How’s Horatio Sanchez doing by the way?”

“What…who?

“Horatio Sanchez. You know: the guy you gave a glowing recommendation for so he’d be hired by the PUC—to cover your ass!”

“Just give this man what he wants and we can all go home!” Crane demands, desperately.

“Is that what you told Hank Garcia?”

“Who?” Crane asks, stunned.

“Hank Garcia. You know him. You had him killed because he was going to blow your little crime fiefdom all to hell. Oops…no Congress, no Senate.”

“What are you saying? Have you gone mad? Are you trying to get everyone killed?”

“No. I’ve never been so sane in my life. Let me get this straight: so you use a Mexican-owned power plant to buy up the market and serve as a provider as well. Then you start cooking the books so you can wash your crime money, turning it into political donations through scholarship funds, and numerous political action committees run by Jack Clark. Clark, who cut his teeth campaigning in Mexico, which means he’s intimate with the drug cartels.

“Not to mention the fact that a former state representative, who vanished in a hurricane nearly two years ago, is now running the brain center for this operation from Mexico. You got everyone who matters on the payroll. Most of them probably don’t really know what’s going on because it’s all in donations. But the cops know, and they’re your buffer. What a fucking genius! No wonder we’re getting our ass kicked on the border. You people are just too goddamned smart.”

Contact looks visibly upset. Crane is frozen.

“You just didn’t count on Jules—or for that matter…me.”

Contact pushes Crane away and points his gun straight at me.

“No, wait…wait you animal!” Crane commands. “Mason… Mason, please listen to me…I’m your friend, above and beyond anything else…I’m your friend. Why do you think you’re still alive? How do you think your girlfriend is still alive; that reprobate friend of yours? Because of me! I’ve known you were snooping around from the beginning…”

“So you’re admitting it?” I am indignant.

Crane continues, “If that idiot called ‘Spider Monkey’ had not been stoned every second of his life then none of this would be happening. I tried to get you to go on vacation. Remember?”

“And Jules, he’s dead isn’t he?”

“He got in the way.”

You fuckin’ people. His wife…she’s dying!”

“That’s why he was so easy to eliminate.”

“Ya know…since Brenna and her clan were taken, I’ve beat myself up wondering how these goons knew I was even seeing her. Sure, it could’ve been Spider Monkey at the Texans game… but he didn’t see me. His ignorance wasn’t a con, I could sense that. Oh the cops could have had me followed, I guess. But it was you. You’re the only one who knew. You had her and her kid and her mom kidnapped. YOU!” I affirm with an accusatory finger.

“Listen to me real good, Mason…these people are ruthless. They will kill you, her, her kid and mom, and everyone they’ve ever known—as well as everyone you’ve ever known. I can protect you. It doesn’t have to end this gruesomely. I have a future and you can be a part of it.”

“Are you fucking out of your mind? Future? You have no future! You got prison at best. That is if your compadres don’t wax you for ultimately just being, despite your genius, such a goddamned amateur!”

Contact steps forward.

“Just set the gun on the desktop. Give us the file and I promise your girlfriend and her family will be let loose. They know nothing… I made sure of that.”

I realize that this file they think I have—which I do, just not here—is the only thing keeping me alive. But something doesn’t add up.

“How did you find out about the file?” I ask.

“Your friend, the private investigator, confessed to it before he was killed. We checked Jules’ home and it’s missing.”

What a stroke of brilliance on Rusty’s part. He gave me one last parting gift. Even if I had the file, it wouldn’t be incriminating…but they don’t know that. And as long as they think I have something, it’s buying me time. And…they don’t know I have an ace in the hole.

“Okay.” I remove the piece from my pants and place it on the desk in front of me.

“Now you’re listening to reason, Mason,” Crane says, placing his hands together. All ten fingers join in a temple like a televangelist.

“Before I give you what you want, show them to me.”

There’s a hesitation on Crane’s part, but then he gives. With his thumb he signals Contact towards the office entry. Contact vanishes down the hallway. Now it’s just the boss and me.

“Why did you do this, Mason…why?” Crane asks, contemptuously.

“ME?! You ARE crazy aren’t you? Why did YOU do this is the question. It wasn’t just drugs, which I think should be legal, by the way, but young girls and boys…animals. What is wrong with you? Why?”

“Power.” His nose and chin are pointed upward in a smug pose.

“You really are a sociopath. How did you think you’d ever get away with all this?”

“We are getting away with it. Occasionally, you have to make adjustments. This model works. It works in Latin America and it will work in the Southwest. It’s the expansion of the narco-state.”

“Is that all Jules and I are, an adjustment?”

“Just a few marks on a balance sheet.”

“I used to look up to you, but you’re really just a sick motherfucker!”

“How dare you speak to me like that! You were just a failed school teacher when I found you. Just a mutt.”

“Actually, I worked for the Land Office before
I
found
you.”

There is a commotion down the hallway. It sounds like warm bodies making their way.

“Brenna, Will, Ms. Spears?” I call out.

“It’s okay, Contact, they can speak, but under no circumstances remove the blindfold,” Crane directs. His voice sounds sinister.

“Mason?” My name chimes out from three recognizable tongues, but I cannot see them.

“Those blindfolds are the only thing keeping them alive,” Crane inserts with a glare so evil, it chills me. “Now you know they are alive,” Crane hisses.

“Why in the hell are you talking like that? You sound like Satan.”

“Along with the blindfolds, it’s the only thing keeping them alive,” he reiterates. Now get me the file and any other information you may have.”