Echoes of a Distant Summer (5 page)

Jackson remained seated. “Well, thanks, you schmucks, for listening to all of my concerns about this matter. Shit, you didn’t even let me discuss the details.”

Dan put a restraining hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “When you get to our level, details obscure the panorama.”

Lincoln put on his coat, straightened his collar, and gestured to Dan
with a nod of his head. “Come on, don’t get caught up.” He turned to Jackson. “If this is really something you want to talk about, let’s schedule some time without alcohol and we’ll brainstorm.”

“Linc’s right,” Dan agreed as he picked up his briefcase and stood. He towered over both Lincoln and Wesley. Dan waved his briefcase in Jackson’s direction. “Let’s schedule another time to discuss your details. Otherwise, we could be here till midnight listening to you. Call me tomorrow in the A.M. See the rest of you turkey-butts later.”

Lincoln waved at Jackson and Pres, both of whom had remained seated. “I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning too, Jax. Call if you want to set up a talk.”

“Wait a minute. I’m going to be out of town a couple of days,” Wesley said. “Are we still going shooting at the range on Saturday?”

Dan pivoted and faced him. “Yeah, I need to get out to the range a few times before deer-hunting season opens. Make sure my sights are on target.”

Jackson carped, “You and Lincoln still killing harmless animals?”

Dan shrugged. “The meat fills the freezer and I don’t notice you turning it down when I barbecue.” He turned to Wesley. “Be at my house by eight-thirty on Saturday morning.”

Lincoln chimed in, “I have to clean my rifles, but I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to hunting season.”

“What about you, Jax? And you, Pres? You guys coming?” Wesley asked.

“I’m really not into it, thanks,” Jackson answered without enthusiasm.

“He spoke for me too,” Pres added.

“Okay, but you guys are missing a lot of fun. We’re not killing anything at the range and shooting is close to ejaculation!” Wesley declaimed with a broad smile.

Jackson acknowledged without sarcasm, “That’s high praise coming from you.”

“I’m a straight shooter in both worlds,” Wesley replied with a laugh. He nodded to Jackson and Pres. “Well, I’m walking out with them. I’ll see you at the karate dojo on Thursday, Jax. Later, Pres.”

The three men made their way out of the bar and into the night. Pres and Jackson sat for a moment in silence and finished their drinks. For the first time since he had entered the bar, Jackson noticed the music playing over the sound system. It was a slow, rocking blues number by
B. B. King. Although he could not honestly say he was sad, the music seemed to match his mood perfectly. He felt something skirting his consciousness. He told himself that it was only a feeling, a malaise, a form of emotional fatigue. Names, faces, and events came swirling to the surface of his mind like debris in some muddy pool that had been disturbed. For several minutes he lost himself in the past, feeling the sun and the winds of his youth and the terrible, brooding presence of his grandfather.

Pres brought him back with “Want another drink?”

Still within the well of his thoughts Jackson gave a shake of his head. He had made a conscious choice to walk away from all that his grandfather stood for prior to his freshman year in college and he had been successful. Except in the nocturnal world of dreams, he did not even acknowledge the old man’s existence. However, the phone call had opened the vault and now the old memories came crowding into the forefront of his awareness.

Pres pushed his long, straight black hair out of his eyes. “You really are preoccupied. We’ve been here nearly ten minutes and you haven’t said a thing to me. What am I? Performance art?”

“If you are, you aren’t subtle,” Jackson answered mildly. After a moment’s pause, he said, “I’ll tell you something.” He leaned forward over the table and dropped his voice. “Since I received my grandmother’s call, I feel like I’m moving out of step with the world around me. Everything seems unstable. I feel life as I know it is about to fall apart. The warp and weave of my life is on the verge of shredding, like there’s a rip in the social fabric somewhere.” A trickle of sweat dripped down Jackson’s face.

Pres stared at him a moment then asked, “Are you sure you’re not feeling all this because of the stress at work? You are serious, right? You’re not putting me on?”

“I’m dead serious. This is no joke.”

Pres nodded his head. “Well, in a way that makes sense. You’ve got a lot of unfinished business with your grandfather. He had a hell of a grip on your adolescence. But I don’t get this ‘Life as I know it is about to fall apart’! Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

“This is just a sense that I have and I feel it strongly. The past and the present seem to be overlapping. Believe me, I’ve done my best to suppress all thought of my grandparents. But last night my dreams were filled with memories of my grandfather and Mexico. And I don’t mean
vague remembrances. I mean those dreams that I used to have in which I relive whole summers. Last night I relived the night my father was killed. This was real! Like I was transported back in time. When I woke this morning, I was actually sore and exhausted.”

“Why do you think this is happening?”

“It’s my grandfather. Ever since I talked to my grandmother yesterday I’ve felt him, felt the menace of him. This morning I awoke to the smell of blood and cigars. It was the smell of his hunting lodge.”

“If it’s really distressing you that much, have you considered getting some counseling? You may need to talk with a therapist.”

“Why? These feelings are more real than a therapist could ever be. It’s like I feel like my grandfather is calling me. That he’s trying to reach out to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t really know. It’s just a feeling.” Jackson chuckled. “He used to say that I should always trust my feelings. Well, this is strong. I can’t rid myself of it.” Jackson ran his hand over his short, kinky hair and discovered that it was wet with perspiration. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “I’m cooking in this heat.”

A few minutes later they were standing under a streetlight by Jackson’s car. The wind was gusting through the Embarcadero corridor, causing occasional swirls of paper trash along the street. The moon had not yet risen, and the stars had faded against the backdrop of city lights.

Jackson looked up at the night sky and mused, “Sometimes we forget how good it is to be alive.” Then he shrugged and looked at Pres. “What’s going on with you? Still having trouble at the job?”

“Unfortunately.” Pres pulled his coat collar around his neck. “There’s a lot of crap happening at the radio station. This new director is trying to take money out of my training program to pay for the redecoration of her office and boardroom. She’s a disgrace to National Public Radio.”

“Isn’t the station’s new director a black woman? She should see the necessity for the training program. After all, you are training minorities and women for positions in radio production.”

“She doesn’t care about that. The only thing black about her is the color of her skin; everything else is ambition. She has no loyalties that can’t be purchased.”

“Sounds like you have a battle there,” Jackson acknowledged. “Better walk carefully. You don’t want to jeopardize your program.”

“You don’t have to intend harm for it to happen,” Pres stated philosophically. “Look at you and your grandfather.”

Jackson gave Pres a look of disbelief. “It would take an astral projection to get from your problems at the radio station to the totally unrelated subject of my grandfather.”

Pres inhaled the salt air off the bay and put his hand on Jackson’s arm. “He never meant to harm you. He was just trying to teach you to be like him. You didn’t talk to him for nearly twenty years because of that. Yet, you didn’t mean him any harm either. You were just taking care of yourself. And now, you’re planning not to go see him before he dies.” Pres paused a moment and looked up into Jackson’s eyes. “There’s a whole lot of harm been caused and now you are going to perpetuate it.”

“How the hell can you say that?” Jackson sputtered angrily. “You must have forgotten what I had to do for that man. I don’t owe him a goddamn thing. My debts are paid!”

“Remember, it was me who picked you up at the airport eighteen, nineteen years ago from the last trip you made to Mexico.” Pres thumped his chest for emphasis. “I haven’t forgotten! But I’ve watched this thing eat at you for all that time. It’s rotting your insides. Now you have a chance to wipe the slate clean. Wipe it clean! Do the right thing! Get on with your life!”

“You think that by simply going down there, I’ll wipe the slate clean?” The sarcasm was heavy in Jackson’s voice. “I wish it was so easy!”

“It’s a start, that’s for damn sure! You sure won’t make matters any better if you don’t see him before he dies. The man’s on the brink of meeting God or the devil. What the hell else can you do for him or to him, except forgive him?”

“I don’t see what’s so earthshaking about forgiving him!”

“How do you expect to build emotional bridges if you can’t forgive those that love you? Plus, you’re not forgiving him for himself, but for
yourself
. You are letting go of the anger and the resentment.”

Another gust swept up from the estuary and Pres pulled his collar tighter around his neck. “Why do we always have to be outside before we talk?” As the two men shook hands Pres said, “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t even stick my nose into this. It’s easier not to argue with you, but I can’t help myself. I love you, man. You’re my friend and brother.”

Jesse Tuggle and Fletcher Gilmore watched Jackson and his friend get into their respective cars. “Want me to follow him, boss?” Jesse asked, pointing to Jackson’s car.

“Of course, follow him!” the older man snapped with exasperation. “Just let me write down his friend’s license number. And if you have to call me something, call me Mr. Gilmore.” He was tired of Jesse. Jesse was a fidgeter and an incessant talker, the worst two crimes for surveillance professionals as far as Gilmore was concerned. The essence of watching was unobtrusiveness, and inherent in that concept was stillness and silence.

“If he goes home, do we have to wait around all night?” Jesse was not enthusiastic about the prospect of spending the evening in the car.

“Just follow the car,” Fletcher answered tiredly.

D
r. William DuMont Braxton turned away from the balcony that jutted out from his hotel suite and waved to the three men at the table in his sitting room. He sipped his Bloody Mary and said, “We all have our drinks. Let’s begin.” He paused a moment to be sure he had their attention, then continued. “Let me bring you up to date on what has transpired since we last met.”

One of the men, John Tree, elbowed the small, dark-skinned man to his left and asked, “You sure you don’t want nothing stronger than that soda pop?” It was not an act of politeness, it was more a taunt designed to increase the smaller man’s uneasiness. Tree was a big, barrel-shaped, brown-skinned man with thick, muscular arms, and when he grinned, gold-capped teeth glinted in his mouth. He had a mean-looking scar that angled from his right ear through the corner of his mouth down across his chin, which, in the process of healing, had tightened and pulled his lips and his eyebrows slightly to the right; it gave his face a sad smirk. But few were ever fooled by his expression, for he had the bearing of a large, dangerous animal.

Delbert Witherspoon shook his head nervously and edged away from his tormentor.

Tree elbowed Delbert more roughly and growled, “I thought a little drinky might calm you, huh?”

Braxton suppressed a look of disdain and said, “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Shall we go on and review the information that we have?” He
passed thin manila folders to both Tree and Witherspoon as well as the third man, Paul DiMarco. Braxton took out his glasses from a soft leather case and placed them gingerly on his face. “The one piece of information that is not contained in your folders is that King Tremain is seriously ill and may be close to death.”

“One of our people finally got to him?” DiMarco asked, suddenly alert. He was a short, powerfully built, compact white man in his early forties.

“No, it appears to be natural causes,” Braxton answered as he sat down at the table.

“Damn!” DiMarco sputtered angrily. “That bastard doesn’t deserve to die of natural causes! All the pain he’s caused my family.”

Tree leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. He was looking at Braxton but he was talking to DiMarco when he said snidely, “You shoulda sent somebody to Mexico who knew how to do the job right.”

DiMarco challenged, “Who? You?” He laughed derisively. His intense, pale blue eyes stared directly at Tree and there was no fear in them. The contempt was strong in his voice when he continued, “You’re small-time. You don’t have the organization or know-how to mount an international operation.”

Tree scowled. He pointed a finger at DiMarco and threatened, “You better watch what you saying.”

Braxton felt like he was watching two dogs sniffing each other before a fight. He interceded, “Do you gentlemen realize that our business today may possibly involve as much as fifty million dollars?” He paused to let DiMarco comprehend that information. He had already talked to Tree about not revealing the contents of the envelope that Sampson had left. Braxton had no intention of sharing all the money with DiMarco. He continued, “This is business. If we focus on what we must do, we’ll see that success depends upon how well we all work together. Can I get an amen?”

DiMarco nodded his head in agreement and said, “It’s business.”

Tree gave DiMarco a gleaming and twisted smile. “It’s cool! It’s business.”

Witherspoon stood up and put on his fedora. “I don’t believe I should be here. I don’t care about whatever business you’re doing! Just leave T and W Construction out of it. All I want is the construction company.”

“Your father was a partner in our business. You don’t have a construction company without us,” DiMarco said through gritted teeth.