The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (12 page)

"That
's not helping," retorted Porter.  "That's two dozen more who could send me away for a long time."

Now trap
ped in her lie, Connie came clean.  "Okay, I'm obviously terrible at spinning a story like you can.  So here's the truth.  There is only one I have stayed in contact with, and you brought her to me."

"Beth
Hall?" asked Porter.

"You got it," she answered.

"Beth has someone close to the Zetas?" Porter asked.

"Very much, in an indirect sort of way.  And just like I have never discl
osed your identity to anyone, well except for Beth," she added, "I won't betray her trust, or that of her significant other."

"You know I can do a search for her and find out what I want," responded Porter.

"You could, but you won't find anything.  She has cloaked her identity just as you have," Connie said in a slight mocking tone.

"Touché
," quipped Porter.  "So then what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Just track him more closely.  He went down to Mexico  a week after one of the Zeta prisoners in West Vi
rginia miraculously escaped when his transport wrecked.  Beth seems to think there is more to that than meets the eye."

"
You know my mind is screaming right now trying to figure out what is going on with Beth.  Is she a part of some super secret society that runs the world.  Wait," said Porter, "She's not a Mason is she?"

"Maybe,"
Connie said with a laugh, "For now, you'll just have to wonder."

"You're the worst," Porter said with a smile.  "Okay, I'll keep an extra eye
on him.  Is there anyone else Beth wants me to track?  Bill Gates?  Jay-Z?  President Obama?"

"No," Connie
answered.  "For now, just watch Holland.  I'll let you know when you need to start following the President."

*****

Paloma's return visit to the University of Chicago Law School was a reluctant one.  Her time there was enjoyable and hostile.  Many of her professors welcomed the bright, Hispanic female among their ranks, but several knew the family to whom she belonged.  The open secret that the Pérezs were a member of the cartel community caused great discomfort for many of the tenured staff.

Her guest lecture today was wholly a result of a substantial, anonymous donation to the school on her behalf.  While the staff
presumed the gift was from her family, Paloma knew it came from her Porter in his attempt to show the world her legal brilliance. 

"
The conditions of migrant farm workers are deplorable in many cases," Paloma said as she was ending her lecture.  "As one who has personally witnessed the working and living conditions of those who come up from Texas, Florida, or other parts, and yes, I mean those who have crossed the border illegally, to do the work the local work force won't, I say it is time for a hard conversation on how we correct that problem.  Either we agree as a community to pay more for the tomatoes and corn we buy at the grocery store and provide a higher wage to those who pick the food, or we relax the rules for visas to allow the agricultural laborers entrance into the U.S.  Otherwise, I see no end to this interminable problem and racist attitude toward the poor members of the Mexican community who only cross the border to achieve a better life for their families and to escape the destitute offering they have there."

A rousing applause exploded from the packed assembly hall to whom she addressed.
  As she exited the stage, her most antagonistic professor, Timothy Blunt, approached her.  "Miss Pérez," he began, "Thank you very much for that insightful presentation."

"You're welcome," came
Paloma's hesitant response.  "Do you really mean that?"

"Certainly," Blunt said.  "Why wouldn't I agree with your rationale?" he asked rhetor
ically.  "If anyone knows the conditions of workers who risk life and limb to earn a wage that doesn't cover even the most basic of life's expenses, it's your family."

"Wha
t exactly are you insinuating?"

"I don't speak in code, Miss
Pérez.  The hypocrisy in your words is astonishing.  Your family is one of the largest contributors to the impoverishing conditions of your nation's workforce, not to mention the deaths of multitudes."

"Don't speak of things
for which you can only hypothesize," Paloma barked.  "My family's business pays double the nation's minimum wage and provides more job security than any American-based firm in our country.  Of the six thousand plus employees we have, our annual turnover rate is less than three percent.  Find a comparable American company who can boast of those numbers.  And," she paused for emphasis, "you're a prick.  You sit in your ivory tower bemoaning the injustices across the globe and yet do nothing.  When was the last time you wrote, protested, or even spoke out about the migrant workers' conditions, except to your colleagues here.  You're like a Nazi concerned with the plight of the Jews who only tells Hitler.  So please forgive me if I have no patience for your hollow concern.  Oh," she paused again, "and as for hypocrisy, I'm certain your wife would love to know of the special relationship that her faithful husband has with his teaching assistant Lisa Baldwin.  Or is hypocrisy something only others are guilty of?"

Professor
Blunt's ashen face registered the truth in Paloma's indictment.  He opened his mouth to rebut, but quickly turned and scurried off to his section of the tower.  As he rounded the corner, Paloma received a text from Porter.  "Zeta-Holland connection.  Your dad looked into it.  Could be big.  Headed to WV.  Back in a week or so." 

Her response was short and
snarky.  "I love you too :("

*****

It had been six weeks since Porter's fist had met anyone's nose, and he needed a fix.  Certain that somewhere along the 500 mile route from Chicago to West Virginia he would find his dopamine, Porter ignored the posted speed limits.

As he entered Point Pleasant, West Virginia, just across the Ohio border, the Feral Pig
's year-round Christmas lights welcomed him and offered, he hoped, the types of characters for which his fists were searching.

Immediately upon entering the Pig, it was evident that i
gnoring Porter's ensemble of tailored khaki pants, brown leather Testonis, and blue button-down Oxford with the sleeves half-rolled up, came as easily to the heavily-bearded and tattoo-covered patrons as their disregard of the state's ban on indoor smoking. Not even his order of a strawberry daiquiri, in a bar that had never served a mixed drink nor seen fruit, garnered as much as a mocking cough from the table of bikers next to him.  Abandoning his overt methods, Porter took ten minutes to peer across the bar for just one cross look, but found no takers as they were all deep into their beers and conversations...and then the front doors opened.

The frame was filled by two mid-forties men dressed very similarly to Porter.  The
leader of the pair and Porter immediately locked eyes.  As they passed him, Porter felt the familiar surge he had missed.  His fingers tingled while his chest involuntarily took short, quick breaths. 

To Porter's surprise,
the two were greeted by every member of the tables to whom they approached.  Porter lost track of them as they mingled and he accepted the fact that his excitement tonight would come from the current events found on his smart phone.  Then the adrenaline surge returned as the dapper pair sat next to him.

The conversation
he overheard was benign and exceptionally ordinary.  After five minutes the leader swiveled in his chair towards Porter and spoke.  "I don't see too many who look like you in here."

"Oh, y
eah?" responded Porter.  "What's that look?"

"Educated," came
the response.

Porter smiled as he said, "Well, I didn't expect
you to say that.  I was waiting for some homo slam to come next."

"Oh no.
  Not at all.  You won't have any trouble for who you are in here.  The Pig is absolutely a biker bar, but the locals are too wrapped up in their worlds to care about your look or who you sleep with.  It's just that there aren't too many like us," he said as he gestured to his friend, "who come in here.  We are the only ones without tats, facial hair, or a criminal record."

Porter chuckled as he asked, "And just what are you doing in here?"

"It's a fun place to hang.  Nobody gives us any trouble and I can do all the blow I want."

"Okay," said Porter
, the shock of this admission registering on his face.  "Now, I really didn't expect that."

"Why?  That not your game?"

"Not at all," answered Porter.  "I'm strictly a beer man."

"Oh, you can do more than beer for just one night."

"Nope," Porter said firmly.  "I'm good."

"What are you a prude?"

"No.  Just don't like what that stuff does to me."

"Come on," said
Porter's bar mate.  "Just a touch won't mess you up."

"Thanks, but I'll decline."

"So you must be some sort of cop then, huh?"

"Far from it," came Porter's quick response, hoping the rest of the bar heard.

"Then you gotta do a line with us," stated the man in a way Porter sensed was not a request.

"Again," Porter started, this
time more sternly, "That's not my game."

"I don't think you understood
me," the man said in a tone that was now all business.  "You will do a line tonight, or all these good ole boys in here are going to think you're a narc."  He paused waiting for Porter to consider his command.  "You see, this is a bar that caters to a lot of workers in that trade."

"What trade?" Porter asked.

"The one that a narc like you knows I can't talk about."

"And who are you exactly?"
asked Porter.

"
Oh, that," he said with a smirk.  "I'm the owner of this fine establishment. And every one of these bruisers in here works for me...unofficially, that is."

"I see," said Porter.

"No, what you see is that you can either put some powder up your nose, or you're not walking out of here."

Long gone were the disinterested parties only concerned with their conversations. 
The eyes of the bar were all now on Porter.  Two on one, even four on one were odds Porter had successfully beaten, but not 40 to one.  And he knew the Pig's patrons likely had multiple weapons, and lots of experience using them.

"So how about this," Porter began.  "How about you and I walk out together and I won't take down this whole bar."

"How about this," retorted the owner.  "You don't have a choice.  You aren't leaving at all. All your buddies in whatever agency you work for will ever know is that you just never made it back to Illinois. If that's where you're really from."

"Listen," Porter
said with a hint of concern, "I'm not a narc.  And don't be stupid. Let me walk out.  If not, well, then you can't hold me responsible for any of the injuries in here, especially yours.  And just so I know who I'm beating, what's your name?"

"That would be Benjamin...
Blow Me."

"Thank you Ben
," Porter said mockingly.  "So, I'm going to stand up, walk to the door, and leave.  And you're going to lead me there.  We clear?"

"
Oh, I hear your words, but I won't be leading you any..."

His sentence was abruptly halted by the knife Porter pulled from inside his shirt and drove into B
en's shoulder.  Ben shrieked, but to Porter's surprise ignored the pain and pivoted towards him.  As Porter's hand slipped from the hilt of the knife, he drove his palm into Ben's nose.

Dizzied but still conscious, Ben let himself fall to the floor.  As Porter lunged to continue the beating, Ben pushed right and swept Porter's legs, causing him to stumble into the bar where he was immediately subdued by a .45 magnum against his temple.

Porter's hands reached for the ceiling before his arms were detained by two of Ben's men.  With the entire bar now on its feet, waiting to see what the wounded owner would do when got to his feet, Porter searched for an escape plan but discovered nothing as his thoughts were quickly interrupted by Ben's fist in his sternum. 

When Porter caught his breath and stood erect, he found himself
nose to nose with Ben who clenched his teeth as his left hand slowly pulled the knife from his right shoulder.

"Now," said Ben
, still grimacing from the pain, "What was it you were going to have me do?  You were going to make me your bitch?  Walk out of here?  Live?"  He laughed at all of the scenarios.  "I think not.”

"
Let's first start with your knife," he commanded, as he returned the favor and drove it into Porter's right shoulder.  Porter's face registered the pain, but he uttered no sound.  Ben stepped back as the two restraining Porter looked on.  "And next, you will be doing copious amounts of the product you refused.  I will turn that blonde hair of yours white.  And with a little luck, maybe those brown eyes will turn a nice shade of red."