TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME CHAPTER TWO

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game
By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER 2

DODGER BLUE

A day later and a continent away, “The Mob”, so apply exemplified by the crew riding inside the big black stretched Cadillac Escalade, with 22 inch chrome rims, and a bobbling head of St. Jude in the window, sat in the back of the Escalade, celebrating the Dodger’s victory over the Angels baseball team. They passed round a 40 oz. bottle of Old English Malt Liquor and a joint the size of a good Cohiba.

Three of the of the four ladies present, were bobbing their own heads as they performed fellatio on the entire crew, except for The Shot Caller and Hector, his personal bodyguard. The Escalade rolled through the barrio of Echo Park, in Los Angeles, with the music turned up, all the way. The Shot Caller sat nodding his head in approval, while tapping his feet to a funky Latin beat, thumping defiantly behind the Escalade’s heavily tinted dark windows.

The Escalade slowly glided up Alvarado Avenue, crossing busy Wilshire Boulevard, and Macarthur Park on the right; pass the pimps, whores, and street hustlers that own it now. It followed the traffic up to old Hollywood, and then turned right on Sunset Blvd., and slid in with the heavy traffic heading east, down the once proud boulevard. It continued down, until it entered into the parking lot of Taix, the ‘old school’ Mexican Restaurant, located a quarter mile from Chavez Ravine.


Its occupants were greeted profusely by uniformed attendants, and welcomed inside, with great fan fair, by Carlos, the head waiter. He guided them through the cavernous banquet hall, to the best table in the house. He was ever so thankful that there was no one around to witness this spectacle. It was late afternoon, and the lunch crowd had gone.

The entire crew was decked out in Dodger Blue uniforms. But they didn’t look like a baseball team, but rather like the felonious crew from the film, “A Clockwork Orange”. The Shot Caller’s ominous presence was enhanced by the five pound Louisville Slugger, that he carried by his side. It had been signed by every member of the current Dodger team. They had just left the annual Freeway Game, Dodgers vs. The Angels, the latter now billing themselves as the Los Angeles Angels, although they were from Orange County, and The Shot Caller, the Dodgers biggest fan, didn’t like it.

“That’s territorial infringement”, he told Edwardo, his lieutenant. If somebody tried to pull that shit on us there would be blood in the streets. Somebody ought to do something about that. ” Edwardo knew that if the Shot Caller thought that he could get away with it, he would have the entire Angels management whacked.

The Shot Caller ordered Champagne, burritos, and finger shrimp cocktails for all, and Hector gave the Head Waiter a CD of Latin Funk to play while they eat. And the four young Mexican girls, straight from the barrios of East Los Angeles, duly painted with Maybelline black mascara, black eye liner, black lipstick, and penciled in black eye brows, sat laughing and giggling at nothing in particular. Obviously they were not used to such attention, as they were served, by three waiters, around the thick oak table. And Miss Carlotta Sanchez stuck a wad of gum under the table, in preparation for the meal.


The Shot Caller and his lieutenant, Eduardo conferred, while a rousing Latin Funk song permeating the entire dining hall.

“I am very happy for the Dodger’s victory today, Patron. I think that we have a chance to go all of the way this year”. Eduardo gushed, offering his congratulation to the Dodger’s most rabid fan, The Shot Caller, who was the undisputed leader of The Mob.

Eduardo really didn’t give a damn about the Dodgers, and he thought that the Shot Caller was full of shit. But he knew that The Shot Caller’s fixation with the team was linked to Fernando Valensuela, who was no longer with the team. When the south paw picture first came to the Dodgers, his good fortune coincided with The Shot Caller’s own good fortune; they both had come from the same dirt poor village of Etchohuaquila, in the state of Sonora, Mexico.

With a forced grin, Edwardo told the Shot Caller about a call that he had received that morning, from their connection in Rio de Janeiro. Col. Roberto Javiar Silva of the Federal Police had wanted to speak to the Shot Caller directly. The Colonel would not tell him what the call was about, but he sensed that it was not good news, so Edwardo told the colonel that the Shot Caller could not be interrupted, and asked him to call back after the game.

At that moment, Hector, The Shot Caller’s personal body guard, handed him a cell phone, and Colonel Silva was on the line. The Colonel told the Shot Caller that his emissary, The Dishwasher, had been found dead at their business office in Rio de Janeiro, shot once between the eyes. He was quite dead, and there were no leads in the case, so far. Apparently the only thing missing was a gold key that his man wore around his neck for good luck. They also found something odd, a small wooden doll in the dead man’s lap.

The mentioning of the small wooden doll sent a shock wave through the Shot Caller’s body. He immediately knew that something was terribly wrong, and that he was being sent a message. He thanked the Colonel for keeping him abreast of the situation, and told him that he had done the right thing by speaking directly with him, and if something else came up to call him immediately, and then he handed the phone back to Hector.

He sat back in his chair, and calmly asked Edwardo why was the Dishwasher in Brazil, and how come he had not been told that the Dishwasher was there. Edwardo had a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he sat there and fumbled for an answer. Knowing that there was nothing he could say but the truth, he told the Shot Caller. “Yes this is true. He is in Brazil, taking care of our business. ”

“When did it become our business?”

“Oh, Patron, I did not mean any disrespect. I only meant the Mob’s business. ” “And when did you last hear from The Dishwasher?”

Edwardo did not like the way the conversation was going, and everyone at the table stopped whatever they were doing, to listen to his reply. He didn’t know what else to say, so he told him the truth.

“Three days ago. I haven’t heard from him since he left for Rio.”

“Perhaps he has been detained by one of those Brazilian senoritas. Eduardo”, the Shot Caller offered, pushing a taco into his mouth.

“He is a professional”, Edwardo shot back, a little bit too loud”, “and never before has he failed us, he takes care of our business”.

The Shot Caller let that one pass and said, “Well, Edwardo, The Dishwasher was found shot to death this morning, at our office in Rio, and the killer left a calling card behind, in the form of a small wooden doll, that was found in the Dishwasher’s lap.”

Edwardo’s head went spinning; he too knew that this was the signature of The Shooter, a legend in his own right, who had never failed to deliver on a contract. He was known as The Shooter, but his tools for dispatching people were not limited to the use of firearms. He was equally skilled with knives, ropes, poison, explosives, and hand to hand combat.

He gained legendary status when he took out four body guards and a Yakuza gang leader, in a Tokyo bath house, with a pair of chop sticks and a rolled up dinner menu. The man was a force to be recon with and once he took on the contract there was no calling him back. Any attempt to abort his mission would be considered an unforgivable sign of disrespect and would automatically put the offender at the top of his hit list, and he would still take out the target.

“So, you see Edwardo, we have a bit of problem on our hands.”

 Edwardo’s mind was racing now, he didn’t know what this had to do with the real reason why The Dishwasher was in Brazil, nor did he know what the Shot Caller knew or didn’t know.

“So Eduardo, you say that no one knows who this guy, The Shooter, really is”. “That’s right, Patron. But we do know that he is into Macomba, the Brazilian version of voodoo, and he goes through some kind of ritual before every hit. It is said that before a believer in Macomba can take a life, he has to prepare the way for the soul of the intended victim, by doing three things: he must recognize the attribute of resolve, in a stranger and reward it, he must give hope where none exist, and he must take the life without warning. We used him twice before, and he always leaves one of those voodoo dolls behind.

I told you all this before, Patron. When he worked for us before, we did everything by throw-away cell phones and Fed X. It’s like he was a fucking spy or something, he didn’t want to meet anyone. All he wanted from us was info about his target and his money, but that was OK, because he never missed, and he always got the job done. We had him by the balls because he only got half of the money up front, and the rest upon confirmation of the hit.”

At that moment Hector again approached his boss, and handed him the phone. The Shot Caller listened intently but didn’t say a word, and then he gave the phone back to Hector. Then he got up from the table and started to dance. Everybody at the table watched him, except for Edwardo, who had his back to him. As he got into the groove, holding the bat high above his head, he said to Edwardo “And did you have the Dishwasher by the balls when you decided to help him to steal our money, Eduardo”. The words were barely out of the Shot Callers’ mouth when he swung the bat in an arch of descent, impacting with Edwardo’s head, splitting it like a ripe melon.

Edwardo tumbled from the chair, and was dead before he hit the floor. “Come clean up this piece of shit“, the Shot Caller barked at Carlos, and get him the hell out of that uniform, before he spoils our celebration”.

“You better have them all by the balls, Eduardo, because where you are going they don’t play nice like me.” The Shot Caller said to the dead man on the floor, as three waiters rushed to the body to carry it away. One stayed behind to clean up the blood and brains, and of course, to wipe off the bat.

The taking of life aroused sexual desire in The Shot Caller, and he motioned Carlotta to go under the table, once he seated himself. He then motioned Hector to come to the table, and told him to bring Ramirez to him. The young man approach the table showing no fear, and The Shot Caller motioned for him to sit where Edwardo once sat. “You are my right hand, now. Arrange for our flight tomorrow. We are going to Rio.” he managed to say, through clenched teeth, as Carlotta dropped to her knees and did her thing.