CHAPTER 3 TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

By Claude L Arango

CHAPTER 3

THE SHOOTER

The black man peering through the telescopic scoop had no fear of dying. Ordinarily, this would raise a red flag, considering the fact that fear keeps you on your toes and makes you think twice before you do something stupid. But in his line of work fear was a luxury that he couldn’t afford; he needed to be patient, he needed to be steadfast, and above all else, he needed to be fearless.

The security team was closing in on him, the dogs had picked up his scent, and they would be on top of him in a minute. He kept his cool by controling his breathing, and ten seconds later the target walked out onto the veranda. For the Shooter, a thousand yards distance was not a particular hard shot to make, even with the yelping getting louder. He squeezed the trigger then broke down the gun, and didn’t wait to see the body fall. Twenty minutes later he was on board a Blackhawk helicopter crossing the Strait of Hormuz, on his way to rendezvous with the USS Ronald Reagan, on station somewhere near the Arabian Sea.  He would be debriefed on board the aircraft carrier, and then transported to a friendly country nearby, catch a commercial flight back to the states, in time to catch the game on Sunday morning. Mission accomplished. Turnaround time, 48 hours. And that was just his daytime job as an asset with the CIA.

The Shooter was fearless, a lethal weapon with the safety off, a man of few words who believed that actions spoke much louder, especially from the working end of a gun. He believed that if you let someone get too close it could only end badly. And that loyalty was a precious commodity that had to be earned, and not to be squandered on frivolous relationships with God or man.

They called him the Shooter because back in high school he loved to shoot the basketball. When it came to clutch time he refused to pass the ball. He wanted to take the last shot, he didn’t trust anyone else. He was not a good team player, but if you needed results, then you give the ball to the Shooter.

Commitment, honor, and resolve initially formed his core beliefs, but life experience forced him to be, above all else, pragmatic. Regardless of circumstance, ultimately he was a survivor. He was determent to always be the last man standing after the crap hit the fan, especially, if he was the one throwing the crap.

When he was seventeen he went off to war with a kid named Jones, who he had befriended or perhaps it was the other way round. The Shooter stopped a beating that Jones was taking at the hands of the high school bully, a big Irish kid by the name of McDuffie.

It wasn’t much of a fight the Irish boy outweighed Jones by fifty pounds, and he stood a foot taller. He was pounding the kid senseless, behind the bleachers on the football field, when The Shooter stepped in and said “That’s enough. It’s over”. McDuffie towered well above the Shooter, but even he knew that you didn’t mess with this guy, he was just too damn dangerous. He had already sent two young men to the hospital to be fitted for liquid diets. And the dead pan look in the Shooter’s eyes left no doubt in McDuffie’s mind that he was in imminent danger. McDuffie thought that perhaps he should let the boy go, but on the other hand he was much bigger than the Shooter. When he did not immediately comply the Shooter took a step towards him, and asked him if he had a problem with that. McDuffie immediately released the boy, turned around and walked away, convinced that he had done the right thing.

Jones followed The Shooter wherever he went, and it came as no surprise that they became friends, and Jones was second in line behind the Shooter, when they enlisted in the army in 1967. Jones became his spotter on their two man sniper team. On the field of battle there is no bond stronger than one formed under fire, and such a bond was formed between the two men, in the Asha Valley, in Vietnam in 1968.

The dynamics of a kill are quite simple, when devoid of all emotional context. At twenty yards distance simply line them up and pull the trigger, the quicker the better, and before too long you will have bodies stacked up like fresh meat at the slaughter house on Monday morning .

On the night of January 3^rd, 1969, the Viet Cong penetrated Able Sector, and Jones and the Shooter were waiting for them. Jones took cover to the right of the Shooter, in the thick jungle bush. From there, he relayed the movement of the infiltrators as they crawled on their bellies through the mud and trip wire, pass the mine field, and on up to the edge of the crater. There in the tall Elephant grass, waiting patiently, was the Shooter. He took his time and adjusted his sight, and then attached a silencer to the end of his weapon. As each VC began to climb over a strategically placed fallen tree, that he and Jones had put along the path, he squeezed the trigger. Each shot sent one VC tumbling into a bomb crater, well out of the line of sight of the following sapper five yards behind crawling on his belly relentlessly, inching his way forward to his destiny.  
   

At dawn it took the Shooter only a glimpse at his own handy work for him to grasp the finality of life entangled in death’s relentless grip. There at the bottom of the pit laid a ghoulish testament to the gods of war.  Eighteen enemy bodies lay atop one another in a haphazard pyramid of death. Victory was total and complete, but his rising euphoria came to a screeching halt, when he spotted two women and what could only be described as a child, among the dead. All of them dressed in the familiar but ominous black clothing of the Viet Cong, and all of them shot with a single bullet through the head. While he continued to stare at the ghastly scene an eerily sound could be heard apparently rising from the pit. A faint but audible whimpering that screamed for his attention; could it be the dead seeking retribution from beyond the grave. But after a brief moment of confusion, and then total disbelief, there came the realization and acceptance as to the source of this aberration. A baby wrapped in a blanket lay next to one of the dead women, whimpering in the morning cold.   

At that moment destiny played its hand, for a fine line would be crossed from which there was no return. The Shooter raised his weapon, took aim, and fired. After what seemed like an eternity the deafening sound of silence was all that could be heard. Jones just stood there and shook his head. He knew that the Shooter had gone too far. The Shooter looked at Jones and opened his mouth but the words just weren’t there. Jones pushed the Shooter’s hand off his shoulder, turned around and walked off into the bush, dazed and confused. 

Now the Shooter was faced with a situation that would have shattered a weaker man’s sense of propriety, for perpetrating such a heinous crime under the pretext of combat. Still it served as a rare moment of clarity, an opportunity for self-examination, a chance to peel back a layer of one’s own humanity, and witness the true nature of the beast that lie within. Reluctantly but willingly he came to accepted the price that the beast demanded to sustain its salacious apatite.

He felt no remorse for killing the child; it was more akin to relishing the taste of forbidden fruit, knowing that it was he who did the dirty deed that took an innocent life in such a senseless manner. While what was left of his rational mind performed mental gymnastics attempting to lay the blame at the feet of necessity.

But the act itself was carried out with such callous indifference, that it could only be construed as having been promulgated by a demented mind; a mind out of touch with reality and totally immune to human decency that would prevent such a tragedy.

So totally absurd was the crime that not even he could convince himself, that the killing was an absolute necessity. But once the incident was rehashed in his new take on reality it appeared as if the result should have been a foregone conclusion, if not an outright courageous decision. Was not the child also the enemy; just a matter of time before it too would be targeted, without question? A question presented with the aid of shifting morality and an acquired taste for omnipotence, in a feeble attempt to justify a perverse act that only a demented mind would attempt to embrace. But an act such as this would be manipulated and banished to a place hidden in the labyrinths of a killer’s mind, hidden between things forgotten and things best not remembered. 

Fate rarely unfolds on an even keel, but works steadfast beyond the pale. So it would take the brutal execution of an innocent child to strip away the Shooter’s last vestige of denial. Thus, truth was disrobed before the harsh light of reality, and made to release its bounty, and it ultimately revealed the Shooter to be, just who he was, which was of course, a cold blooded killer. 

The Shooter sensed danger before it struck, and quickly rolled to his right, blocking the thrust of the VC’s dagger with the butt of his rifle, while grabbing his own knife from the leather sheathe, strapped to his leg.

They struggled in silence, like predatory animals in the tall elephant grass for what seemed like an eternity. With an occasional grunt or a muffled cry emitted by one or the other. During their mortal embrace the Shooter caught a whiff of garlic on the man’s breath, diverting his attention fleetingly, but then he quickly refocused on the killing to be had, as they snarled at each other face to face through clenched teeth, till God’s will be done.

He began to overpower his weakening foe, forcing the tip of his blade into the young man’s neck, looking him straight in the eyes, perhaps looking for some sign of forgiveness, while waiting patiently for his life to surrender. The Shooter sensed that the end was near, and he began soothing him like one would a child, as the young man began to lose his grip on life. He slowly sank to the jungle floor, still confused about his ending. All the while life was slipping out of him, until he lay quiet and still in the Shooter’s arms, in the tall green grass next to the hole filled with death. Now, the Shooter was a killer of men, up close and personal, and from that moment on he became a gate keeper to the portals of Hell.

He found Jones not far from the crater, gasping for air in a clearing covered with his blood. The VC had found him and slit his throat. The gurgling sound emitting from the mortal wound told the Shooter that his friend was quickly running out of time. Jones looked up at the Shooter, but was unable to speak, his larynx had been severed, but the panic in his eyes let it be known that he knew that he was dying. And for the second time that day the Shooter tried to calm the fears of a dying man, but this time it was Jones. But there was nothing that he could do. There were no bullies to stare down or bad guys to punch in the face, death was waiting and it would have its bounty. For the first and last time in his life, the Shooter bent his head and prayed.

God simply ignored his plea, “No, this time you will suffer, this time you will feel the pain, and this time you shall remember.” This seemed to be the penance that God gave the Shooter, as his friend closed his eyes and died. In God’s infinite wisdom he chose to leave behind the Shooter, a gross violator of the laws of God and man, an unrepentant sinner, a killer bent on mayhem, and now the Shooter was as unforgiving as the Lord.    

Two years later he was mustard out of the Army with a confirmed kill count of 112, not including the work he had done for the CIA. During his last tour of duty in Viet Nam, as an asset of Army Special Operations, on loan to the CIA, the Shooter learned his craft. He spent more time behind enemy lines than his record indicated. He did most of his work above the Ben Hai River, above the 17^th parallel that separated North Vietnam from South Vietnam. Once he went north he was no longer part of a sniper team, he became a lone assassin. After his discharge he used his contacts within the CIA to get back into the game, and after six months at the CIA’s Langley School of Linguistics, he was deemed ready to serve.

His first assignment took him to Japan, and his cover as an Arabic interpreter with the Yemen Consulate, served him well, he being a man of color. His target was a man by the name of Nakamora, a Yakuza gang leader, with a penchant for warm sake and hot women. Nakamora somehow had managed to get his name on the CIA hit list, and more importantly, the hit had been sanction by the Yakuza High Council. Apparently Mr. Nakamora had been caught dealing drugs to his own people, which was a serious offense in Japan, and an insult to the Yakuza leadership causing them to lose great face.

He followed his target for a week, but the man was never alone, but every night his entourage would retire to a public bath house for warm Sake and entertainment.

On the eighth night the Shooter sat in the tea room, next to the bathing pool, wearing nothing but a white robe, and eating steamed rice and fish heads with chop sticks. The Gang Lord’s four body guards posted themselves at the four corners of the room, while their Boss bathes alone in the center of the common pool.

The bodyguard closest to the tea room was the first to die, with a chop stick jammed through his left eardrum, straight into his brain. The second bodyguard reacted a second too late, and he went down with a chop stick through the left eye. The third bodyguard was caught off balance running round the pool. A punch to the solar plexus with a rolled up menu and a blow to his throat with the ridge of the Shooter’s hand, dropped the bodyguard to his knees, and then a twist of the head broke his spinal cord at the second Cervical vertebrae. The fourth bodyguard fared no better, when the Shooter slid under his karate kick, and grabbed him by the waist, slamming him to the floor, and then three rapid blows with the palm of his hand, drove the bodyguard’s nose cartilage and bone into his brain.

The Shooter slowly entered the water, while the gang boss calmly sat still in the center of the pool, awaiting his destiny. He realized that none of this could have taken place without the High Council’s consent, and the only honorable way out now, was the Samurai way. Hari Kari was out of the question, so he didn’t resist when the gaijin reached out and pulled him under, and then held him there until his lungs filled with water and his body went limp. This all took place in less time than it took the Shooter to dry himself off, put on his cloths, and slip out the door, unseen.

The Shooter became a master of disguise and linguistic fluency which expanded his repertoire and his assignments. He was no longer considered a one trick pony. He was able to infiltrate the most secretive organizations, be they fiefdoms of War Lords in Somalia or Ivory Coast pirates. The Ivory towers of Western Democracies were also within his grasp. He was able to penetrate a Luxemburg based Multi-National Hedge Fund, whose manager double as one of the most prolific illegal Arms Dealers in the world. Unfortunately he fell out of favor with the CIA. But the man was protected better than the President of the United States. Wilfred Wolf Hoffman was not a man to be toyed with, and he hired only the best. His new head of his security was ex-Mossad trained operative, Yusef Ben Israeli, reportedly a black Jew from Ethiopia, fluent in Yiddish, Hebrew, Arabic and several other languages, but better known to the CIA as the Shooter. One brisk morning in Geneva, Mr. Hoffman took a ride with his Head of Security and was never seen again, nor was Mr. Israeli.

The Shooter relied on meticulous planning and faultless execution, which accounted for his success over the years. His mission would be completed before anyone knew that it had begun, which was particularly distressing for the target. His real talent lay in making people believe that he was who he said he was, not destroying people, anyone could pull a trigger. His talent for undercover work arguably outstripped his killing ability, but his forte came in his ability to adapt to the situation. Often it was a matter of doing nothing and letting the play come into focus. Success or failure often is measured in minute measurements of time and distance, and an immeasurable amount of patients, and sometimes the deciding factor was determent by fate, delivered by a hunch.

The Shooter never asked questions about an operation, but even without doing so, often a pattern emerges, and his mind inevitably connected the dots.

Part 2

The Shooter believed that a great deal of the CIA’s clandestine efforts were centered around drugs: the cultivation of heroin in Afghanistan and The Golden Triangle in South East Asia, the growing and processing of cocaine in South America, and the transportation of drugs through Central America and ultimately through Mexico. Whoever controlled the smuggling routes through Mexico controlled the drug market in North America. If you could send drugs along the pipeline then you could send anything. The more he thought about it the more important The Shot Caller became in the Big Picture.

There was no way that the Shot Caller’s organization could have gained the position that it had in the drug world without the explicit consent and help of the CIA. Although the evidence supporting such a theory would never reach the light of day, the Shooter always suspected that the CIA had more say in who did what to whom and for how long, than anyone would believe, and that included calling shots in the Taliban. It was no fluke that Bin Laden and the leadership of the Taliban escaped from the White Mountains of Tora Bora in Afghanistan in 2002. If you didn’t have a boogieman then you wouldn’t need a ghost buster. Today the Taliban produce more opium in Afghanistan, than ever before, and the Shooter connected the dots.

The Shooter had infiltrated the Mob back in 2005, and he wasn’t exactly a Sleeper agent. He had four hits to his credit for the Mob, when the agency told him not to be too pro-active. After all, establishing your cover was one thing, but unleashing a damn crime wave was another thing altogether. As long as his victims were gangsters and known criminals he was given the green light to do his thing, but when he got a contract from Eduardo to kill The Fat Man, he was told to tread water. Finally after three days of waiting he was told to fulfill his contract.

He had a premonition after he was given the go ahead to terminate the Fat Man, by the CIA. It was a matter of record that the Fat Man was laundering money for the Mob, but those in the know at the CIA also knew that he was also an undercover agent for the DEA.

The Shooter had learned to trust no one, especially the people for whom he worked, and definitely not the CIA. Before boarding his flight to Brazil, he hacked into the airline’s web site for Bookings and Reservations, and generated a list of all those who had paid cash for their tickets. Five names were listed, including his alias, Bruno da Silva. The other four names, he assumed were aliases for what reason he didn’t know, but he knew that that was how hit squads traveled, and during the flight he memorize the faces of those seated in the numbered seats according to his printout.

He would never take a direct flight to his final destination, when it could be avoided, and when his plane landed at Sao Paulo for refueling, he ditched his flight, and took a bus to Niteroi. From there he boarded a schooner, dressed as a Macumba medicine man. He arranged to be picked up at sea, and came ashore in a small fishing boat, directly onto the beach in Copacabana. This way he could be certain that he was not being followed, and to make sure that his cover was complete he went through a full regalia and ritual, performing a black mass on the beach as soon as he reached shore.

Eduardo had told him that he could find the Fatman in Copacabana, and because he always did his own due diligence he contacted his connection in Rio, and he soon found out this to be true. It wasn’t hard to locate the girl that the Fatman was banging, her name was Paula. She was a hooker who worked out of a Disco Club in Copacabana called HELP, and for a few hundred reais she told his connection everything that she knew about the Fatman. 

The Fatman was tight lip around his peers, but as is so often the case, pillow talk reveals the best kept secret between mice and men. She told him about the key he always wore around his neck and how the Fatman always told her that it would unlock all of the money that they would ever need. His connection asked her if she knew what the key was for, but not even to her would the Fatman reveal the secret behind the key.

The Fatman’s name was Calvin Hanks, white male, 63 years old, ex-government employee, retired, and recently divorced from his fourth wife, Ida. According to his personnel file, he had been a pencil pusher with the Department of Justice, tracking the paper trail in drug operations. When he left the government he tried other kinds of work, but this he was good at, and life kept getting in the way. Unfaithful wives, ungrateful children, and bosses who, by the grace of God, never found out just how far they had pushed him. He never did get rich plying his trade, but he did put in some work every now and then for the other side, and this did allowed him to pursue his vices if not his passions, and quite often not even he knew the difference, and that was enough for him, but no one knew that it was all a part of his cover story.

His mission involve national security, which included tracing laundered money from a street gang out of L.A., that had morphed itself into an international drug cartel, that called themselves “The MOB”. He was close to learning the identity of those who really controlled the MOB, and what their primary purpose was.

On the surface The MOB was a group of Mexican nationals, with ties to the infamous 18th Street gang, operating out of Los Angeles. Normally the two groups would maintain their distance, the 18^th Street gang members, comprised of Chicanos, born in America, looked down on their Mexican brothers from south of the border, calling them Pisas. In prison there existed  a well-defined delineation or separation of the two groups, although they were allies when confronted by blacks, whites, Asians and any other ethnic group that threaten “their” supremacy.

The Mexican Nationals gained status and importance when 18^th   Street took over the drug business in Los Angeles. They needed connections to secure routes, in order to bring in their drug shipments from Mexico. Tijuana was the last stop in the pipeline, from the cocaine labs in the jungles of Columbia, that turned the coca plant drippings into cocaine bricks, and who better to use than the Pisans, who used the routes to smuggle their own people into the U.S. all of the time; they knew the what, when, where, and how of the smuggling operations along the entire southern U.S. border with Mexico. 

The Mob benefited from the protection of 18^th Street as Felix’s business grew from one broken down El Camino, to a fleet of 32 cars and drivers that brought in a million and a half dollars a day in drug money, and that was just the beginning.

The Shooter went undercover, and started working for the Mob after he was introduced to them down in Cali, Columbia. The Black Eagles, Aguilas Negras, a former Columbian paramilitary group, now disbanded, with ties to the CIA, hired him to do a job for the Medellin Cartel. He dispatched a local Cali Cartel Shot Caller, who had violated the truce between the two Cartels. He had to be handled by an outside source, namely the Shooter, in order to keep the peace between them. Part of his payment was in the form of one kilogram of cocaine. He got twenty grand in cash and the dope, which he could turn over back in the states for $60,000, but instead of keeping it he sold it to The MOB for five thousand dollars, which was the going rate. He was in good with them after that transaction, because nothing makes friends quicker than making money together.

Before long, the Shooter became the Mob’s Hit Man of choice, but before he could complete a job he had to get the OK from the agency to proceed. Which wasn’t a problem, as long as the target wasn’t on their payroll? The CIA had a lot of people on their books and they didn’t want any of their operatives to be retired prematurely. The Fatman hit was another matter altogether, although he wasn’t one of their boys, he was a federal undercover agent, but that was a matter for the DEA to handle, as far as the Company was concern he was expendable.

DODGER BLUE CHAPTER 2

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game

CHAPTER 2

DODGER BLUE

Los Angeles, California

A day later and a continent away, “The Mob”, so apply exemplified by the crew partying inside the big black SUV Cadillac Escalade, with 24 inch chrome rims on oversize Bridgestone tires, and a bobbling head of St. Jude in the window, rocked the Caddy like it was 1999. The Latin Rap pushed the custom Bose speakers beyond their factory specs, blaring loud enough to wake the dead, but nobody seemed to noticed as they passed round two 40 oz. bottles of Old English Malt Liquor and a marijuana joint the size of a good Cuban Cohiba. The heavily tinted windows hide four young Latinas on their knees performing fellatio on the entire crew, except for the Shot Caller, who sat approvingly next to Ms Carlotta Sanchez, who didn’t believe in public display of affection. 

The Escalade glided up Alvarado Avenue in the West Lake district of Los Angeles, cruising past 7th street, and the sprawling MacArthur Park complex, that straddles Wilshire Blvd. with its twenty acre manmade lake and hundred foot tall water fountain. They continued on pass the pimps, whores, and street hustlers, who sold the Mob’s dope in the park, now that they claimed it as their own.

The Escalade followed the traffic up Alvarado Ave. to Hollywood, then turned right onto Sunset Blvd. and slid in with the heavy traffic heading downtown, towards Echo Park. The Escalade continued down Sunset Blvd, until it came parallel to Taix, an old school French Restaurant, located on the other side of the boulevard. The SUV came to a complete halt in the fast lane, backing up traffic and pissing off motorist, and then it made a hair raising U-turn, crossing four lanes of traffic, into the restaurant’s parking lot on the other side of the boulevard.

The occupants were greeted profusely by uniformed attendants, and welcomed inside with great fanfare by Xavier the Maitre d’. He guided the entourage past the old Family Coat of Arms, fixed upon a 14th century knight’s shield, prominently displayed on the east wall at the entrance. Then they past a Knight’s brass breast plate and helmet, conspicuously displayed on a marble stand just inside the foyer. The entourage continued through the cavernous banquet hall, where the girls gawked at the turn of the century reproduction photos of old Los Angeles, taken at a time when the city’s greatest claim to fame was being the biggest cow town west of the Mississippi. Finally they entered a smaller private dining area that contained the best table in the house, surrounded by a plush booth of high polished oak and deep purple fabric. Xavier 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, but even in uniforms they bared little resemblance to major league baseball players, but more like the felonious crew from Stanley Kubrick’s film “A Clockwork Orange”. The Shot Caller’s ominous presence was fittingly enhanced by a five pound baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, which he carried by his side. It had been signed by every member of the Dodger’s 1983 World Series team, and he was proud of that fact. The Mob had just left Chavez Ravine, where Dodger Stadium resided. The game had taken place there just a quarter mile away, but the Shot caller insisted they take the long way round in order to properly tour their domain, as it were, to celebrate the Dodgers victory over the California Angeles. The latter now billing themselves as the Los Angeles Angels, although they were still based in Orange County, and The Shot Caller didn’t like that.

“That’s territorial infringement”, he told Eduardo, 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 had the entire Angels front office whacked.

Charles, their waiter, had long ago given up any hope that the shot caller would order any traditional French entrées from the menu. He gathered himself together and approached their table.

The Shot Caller ordered Champagne, burritos, hotdogs, and finger shrimp cocktails for all, and Hector gave the Head Waiter a Latin Funk CD to play while they enjoyed their meal. 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, while Ms Carlotta Sanchez, the Shot Caller’s mistress, stuck a wad of gum under the table, in preparation for the meal. Obviously they were not used to such attention and continued to giggle while being served by three attendants, from around the thick oak table. 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 also 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 it. But he knew that The Shot Caller’s fixation with the team was a welcomed distraction. It allowed the Shot Caller to blow off steam, and usually nobody got hurt. The Shot Caller admired Fernando Valensuela, who was no longer with the team. But that didn’t matter; above all else he admired loyalty. So no matter where the south paw played he was still a valued member of the Dodgers, in the Shot Callers mind. When the south paw picture first came to the Dodgers, his good fortune coincided with that of the Shot Caller. They both had come from the same dirt poor village of Etchohuaquila, in the state of Sonora, Mexico, and they had been friends since childhood.

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

At that very 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 Fat Man, had been found dead at their business office in Rio de Janeiro, shot once in the head.

The police canvas the neighborhood and two tourists said that they had seen a tall black man, dressed in white, near the office around the time of the shooting. Other than that they had no leads in the case.

Apparently the only thing missing was a gold key and chain that the victim wore around his neck for good luck. They also found something odd; a small wooden doll that was placed in the dead man’s lap. The Colonel told the Shot Caller that the word on the street was that the Fat Man had a great deal of money with him, but no money has been found. One other thing, the Colonel said, a young girl came to the office when we were there, by the name of Thalita, she said that she was a friend of your man, Eduardo, and that the dead man had given her a suite case to keep for him, the night before the killing. I will call you back when we have checked this out.

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 perhaps 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 Eduardo why The Fat Man was in Brazil, and how come he had not been told that he was there. Eduardo had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he sat there fumbling for an answer. Knowing that there was nothing he could say but the truth, so 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 meant to say the Mob’s business. ” “And when did you last hear from The Dishwasher?”

Eduardo 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 to stay in contact, he takes care of our business”.

The Shot Caller let that one pass and said, “Well, Eduardo, The Fat Man was found shot to death this morning, at our office in Rio, and the killer left a calling card behind. A small wooden doll was found in his lap.

Eduardo’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, swords, ropes, garrotes, poison, explosives, nunchakus, and hand to hand combat, and if necessary, the word was, he could talk you to death.

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 Eduardo, we have a bit of problem on our hands.”

The shot caller did not mention the rumor about a great deal of money that the Dishwasher was suppose to have had with him, nor did he mention the girl, Eduardo’s girl, Thalita Lopes.

Eduardo’s mind was racing now, he didn’t know what this had to do with the real reason why the Fat Man 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 really is”. “That’s right, Patron. Since we started doing a lot of business in South America we had to get a cleanup man to handle special projects for us.”

What we do know is that he is a master of disguises, and when he works in Brazil he becomes a Macumba High Priest. He never enters a country legally, no passport, no paper trail, and no pictures. He is very convincing and he goes through some kind of ritual before every hit. Some people say that he really is a witch doctor, and can summon spirits to do his bidding. It is said that before a believer in Macumba can take a life, he has to prepare the way for the soul of the intended victim, by doing four things: he must hold a Black Mass for the victim near a large body of water, he must recognize the attributes of resolve and persistence 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 as his signature. And if anyone see’s him they will think that he was a voodoo high priest or something, and that is who the cops will be looking for. The funny thing is that, when we did our follow up on his first hit, we got in touch with the locals, and some of them were Macumba followers, and they told us that they were summoned by their high priest, and told to go to the site where he did his first hit. He didn’t even know that they were there. But they said that by tradition the death ritual must be witnesses by true believers of the faith, whenever a spirit is summoned to take a life.

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 his money. 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 told the caller to call back in ten minutes, and then he gave the phone back to Hector. When 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, while holding the bat high above his head, he said to Edwardo “And did you have the Fat Man 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 Eduardo blurted out, “It was the Fat Man’s idea to give the money to the church.” He started to get up, but Hector held him down, and the Shot Caller swung the bat in a high arch of descent, impacting with Eduardo’s head, splitting it like a ripe melon. “What was that about the church?” He said to Hector.

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.

Two minutes later Hector handed the phone to the Shot Caller again it was the Colonel. “Hello, yes patron, we checked out the girl and you won’t believe this but she had a suite case full of money, 1.5 million dollars to be exact. She told us some ridiculous story about a donation being made to the church, in your name.” “Splendid Colonel, well, hold the money until I get there Colonel. I will be there the day after tomorrow.”

He handed Hector the phone.

“We still have a big problem Hector. Who put the contract out on the Fat Man?”

The taking of life aroused a strong sexual desire in The Shot Caller, and he motioned for Carlotta to go under the table, once he had seated himself. He then motioned Hector to come to the table, and told him to bring him Ramirez. The young man approach the table showing no fear, and The Shot Caller motioned for him to sit where Eduardo 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 did her thing.

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game

Chapter One
BLAME IT ON RIO
by Claude L Arango


Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Present Day

Five clicks south of Rio’s bustling seaport, rain blustered clouds descended on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling mist that spilled down the mountain’s perilous slopes, and then out among the screaming gulls that follow the fishing boats to port loaded with the day’s catch of sharks, skates, and rays.

At the north end of Copacabana beach, in the shadows of Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen with failing stamina but practiced resolve, delivered their catch of the day, right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious stranger from a three-masted schooner anchored a mile off shore. He was a tall medium build black man, and oddly enough dressed all in white, from his white Fedora hat to his white Giovonni Rosmini shoes. He had sat forward in the bow of the boat in complete silence, during the entire trip from the schooner to Copacabana. He appeared to be in his early fifties, and obviously a man of means judging by his clandestine passage aboard the schooner. The fishermen also believed that he was some kind of high priest in one of the secret religions, because of his demeanor and white clothing, which signified purity among the faithful. The fact that he wore a bone chiseled ring on the small finger of his left hand, which had been honed from the bone of a Boto Porpoise, was a sign of fellowship with the most powerful religion practiced by blacks throughout Brazil, called Macumba. He could easily be a member of this secret group, or either of its sects, Umbanda or Quimbanda. Each of these religions have their own secret greetings that can be recognized by their fellow members, but the fishermen wouldn't have a clue. Maybe he was a shaman or witch doctor, able to summon spirits and cast spells. They didn’t know for certain, they being indigenous people with no formal contacts with the blacks of Brazil. But still, they were not totally ignorant of their surroundings, after all they did live in Rio de Janeiro, and even though it was the dawn of the 21st century, it still was the epic center for the practice of the dark arts, including witchcraft, and black magic, and it was ground zero for Macumba activity. In any case he was certainly not one to trifle with, and this they knew for sure.

The Stranger leaped from the boat a few feet from shore, with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder and a white Fedora hat in hand. While the fishermen dragged their boat out of the water, he ran ahead and placed his belongings just above the tide line, where the water reverse direction and rushes back to the sea. And then he fell to his knees singing in Bantu, an African language, and began to perform a Quimbanda ritual. This got their undivided attention and pricked their curiosity. What was the voodoo man up to now, they wondered, and moved a little closer to watch him make strange symbols in the wet sand. They were simple fishermen, with their own taboos and rituals, and they believed deeply in the power of rituals and magic, no matter who practice it.
The Stranger had poured sea water and a white powder into a hole that he had dugout of the beach, and mixed it with ordinary beach sand until it became pliable. His hands began to fashion an image from the mixture and the fishermen strained their necks to better see his black magic come forth. Slowly the image took form right before their eyes, and they were instantly transported back in time to childhood, when they were gripped by terror as their parents told them the story of Exu, the evil spirit who would kidnap children who were bad. The image of Exu slowly took shape in the form of a facemask that stared up at them from the sand, and it still had that terrifying affect on them. They had seen many strange things while working the waters off of Copacabana during the past thirty years. But they thought that the stranger’s abilities went beyond anything that an ordinary man was capable of possessing. So he had to be a witch doctor, they reasoned. Anyone would recognize the facemask of Eshu lying on the beach, and they would also remember the stories that they were told as children. The evil spirit of Eshu came back from the dead in the form of Exu the lord of chaos and trickery. Exu took the form of a human and became the rogue king of Palmares, the capital city of a mythical kingdom made up of runaway slaves and Indians in colonial times. They hid out in the Amazon forest and built their kingdom there, creating many cities and settlements that were independent from the regional colonial power. He almost brought the Colonial Portuguese power to its knees, before he was betrayed, and then captured, and beheaded, proving that he was only a man. Still the rumors persist to this day of the powers of Exu in the teachings of Umbanda. Exu was the Lord of the seven crossroads, a particularly strong, and some would say, evil spirit, who could be summoned to do the biding of whoever possessed the ability to summon it.

When the Stranger had finished creating the sand mask, he quickly rose to his feet, and looked in their direction with a penetrating stair. They nodded their heads in deference to him, but could not hold his gaze. They kept their eyes cast downward, hoping that they had not offended him in any way. He then quickly turned and strode up the beach like a primeval king, with the two fishermen in tow; one carrying his bag and the other carefully carrying his white Fedora.
His clothing, now soiled and wet, clung to his body in the rapidly cooling air. Evening was upon them, and he could feel the storm coming on strong, and knew that he didn't have much time. They soon came upon a large flat rock, jutting out of the sand, and he had the fisherman sit his bag down next to it. He opened the bag and took out a thick wad of Brazilian money, secured with a red rubber band, and then proceeded to peeled off several bills and offered them to the fishermen. They hesitated for just a moment, but then quickly snatched the money from his hand, and ran down the beach shouting Macumba, Macumba, until they reached their boat, and quickly pushed it back out to sea.

Further north across the Bay of Guanabara rain clouds had gathered high above Mt. Corcovado. While down upon the mountain top the monolithic white stone figure of Christ the Redeemer stood majestically with open arms outstretched. The monument stood on its pedestal dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch.
With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful fell to their knees and prayed in the rain. Among the faithful, there knelt a corpulent man, with a solid gold key secured around his neck with a 24k gold chain. To him the ornaments represented the key to happiness and all things possible. And in his right hand he held an expensive string of Black Onyx Stones, fashioned into a string of rosary beads, believing that the more money he spent on the process, the better chance he had of redeeming his soul. In his prayer he promised to make a gift to the church in the name of the Redeemer, surely this would guarantee his redemption. His outward appearance suggested an educated man of means and resolve, but his inner demons revealed him to be the fool that he was. Even during this calculated desperate attempt to gain redemption for his soul, he could not muster the faith necessary to renounce the false belief in material things, which would always blind him to the true path of spiritual redemption; true to his nature he had to try and play both sides. But far below down beyond the inlet sea, redemption was not promised, as white cap waves slipped pass shifting swells to crashed against the shore, delivering a promise of a different sort with the advent of the storm.

The beach was deserted now, and even the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there he stood at the at the water’s edge, in front of a large flat rock that laid half buried in the sand, chanting strange words from the mystic in the African language of Bantu. The rock was covered with red fabric, upon which was placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, and a few strands of human hair, entangled in a wooden comb. A few color trinkets lay to the side, and next to them was placed a vanity mirror and four candles, two black and two red, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. On the left side of the rock alter laid a small wooden doll, whittle from a branch of a Capaiferra tree then charred black by flames.

The Stranger stood in silence like a man in a trance completely mesmerized by the pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge. Finally a huge wave engulfed him tossing him into the pounding surf, and then quickly drained back out to sea. After a fleeting moment, he managed to regain his balance and raised himself to one knee. He quickly surveyed the havoc that the wave had done. Driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches were scattered across the sand, and down by the surf stood the rock altar in total disarray. Yet miraculously one red candle still flickered wildly in the wind.

He took this as a sign of approval from the sprite of Exu, and sang one last chant to honor his name then he snuffed out the flame. He retrieved the objects that he could find that had lay upon the rock altar and put them back in his bag. He then withdrew some more white clothing and changed right there. Afterwards, he took one last look at the churning sea, turned, and headed for the rain swept streets of Copacabana. Unbeknown to the Stranger, two sets of eyes spied on him the whole time, from the cover of the palm trees off to the east. The fishermen had returned out of pure curiosity. They had never witness a ritual ceremony dedicated to summon the spirit of the dead.

Five minutes from the beach, as the Tucano birds fly, tall shade trees line the streets offering temporary shelter from the rain. A dubious proposition at best, he soon discovered, as he wiped rain water from his eyes, but then he saw what he was looking for in the distance, and quickly departed the sanctuary of the trees.

The streets were nearly empty now, except for a few dogged souls, and one young boy who had braved the storm to sell umbrellas in the rain. The stranger had witnessed the boy's determination, from the sanctuary of the trees. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins, but he refused the offered umbrella, and continued on his way.

The weather continued to deteriorate as he walked with hunched shoulders against the wind with eyes to the ground and head held down. He ignored the waves crashing against the shore line a hundred yards away, and hardly noticed the high-rise apartment buildings with million dollar views, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.

The Stranger passed by open air bistros with garcons dressed in pressed black pants and white serving jackets, all huddled under plastic canopies outside in the rain. They spoke softly among themselves, as they anxiously waited for the deluge to subside, which had reduced the tourist flow to nothing, and their gainful expectations to nothing more than wishful thinking.

Suddenly the rain stopped, as if a celestial switch had been thrown. People began to materialize in the streets as if from thin air, and within minutes the bistros began to fill with patrons taking full advantage of the lull in the storm. Soon it was as if there had been no storm at all.

The sudden transition presented an amicable picture of tranquility. Blue sky and ample sun penetrated the roving clouds, heartening the prosperous Brasileiros who now filled the bistros to overflow. This was a far cry from the plight of the poor Brasileiros, who lived in the favelas, in the hills just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had already begun filming the inevitable carnage left by the mudslides that came after the torrential rain. The rains eventually lead to homes tumbling down the mountainside that were no longer capable of remaining stacked upon one another like color game board pieces, in the crowded hills above Rio de Janeiro.


Copacabana appealed to the Stranger, more so than Ipanema’s anemic facade. It still had that Art Deco flair, stemming from the 1940’s and 1950’s when most of the buildings were built, and Copacabana was in its heyday, attracting tourist from all over the world. As he walked through the old neighborhoods he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining tourist and locals alike. They sang old favorites and strummed on acoustic guitars, while one of the members passed the hat. The tambourines kept cadence while the drummers beat out a captivating rhythm on Macaco skin drums, and Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing. All of this took place among the frantic pace of a city on the move.
A hundred buses jockeyed for position along Avineda Nossa Seniora de Copacabana. They all seemed to be part of some unscheduled race, with the passengers taking second place no matter who won. Pedestrians took on the added threat of incurring great bodily harm just by crossing the street, and should give thanks to the deity of their choice for reaching the other side unharmed.

He moved along the crowed avenue like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered by street venders hawking their wares. But before too long the clouds began to gather again as if the gods knew that it was time to make amends. With the first clap of thunder the storm made its presence known, and the crowds dispersed without a trace leaving the Stranger once again all alone.

It was his nature to be observant, and observe he did, as he watched two black men at a construction site unload a truck load of red bricks, while their white co-workers sought shelter from the rain. They were not ordered to do so, but tradition and expectations often speak louder than words.
He knew that the blacks did all of the heavy lifting in Rio de Janeiro, and manned all of the menial jobs. He was a pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and did not harbor fantasies when the truth was as plain as black and white. Although he moved easily between both worlds, his sense of purpose was never filtered through the prism of ignorance. He knew that things happened by design and not by happenstance. The ditch diggers, bus drivers, and baggage handlers, all bore their African heritage reluctantly upon their backs, albeit unwittingly. They appeared to accept their station in life, but acceptance is not the same thing as embracement. You have to be able to choose from viable options in order to make gainful decisions, but when given the choice to live or die, you would drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log.
The shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured their position and status as masters of the Brazilian society as a whole. They dominated and controlled all of the vital institutions and social systems that ultimately lead to a better quality of life. Superior education and meaningful health care were restricted to the privilege few, while inferior substitutes were forced on the masses and then they were told that they were all equal. But as in the literary quote from the Animal Farm, some were more equal than others. The rich believed that their status was not a result of racial policy or prejudice but merely coincidental that the whites had complete control and ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul. And in the realm of spirituality the former Africans slaves held sway. Karma dictates a natural balance in the universe, giving each faction the tools to decimate the other or to live in harmony.

One shopkeeper called out to the Stranger walking about in the rain and invited him inside, recognizing that he was not a carioca. The stranger was somewhat amused that he had been so readily identified as being a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was working as planned, and he was an inquisitive man who was ahead of schedule, so he complied. It wasn’t a racist thing, the shopkeeper said, when he fielded the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the Stranger. It was about money, which the shopkeeper readily admitted, sighting the realities of life. The stranger understood the shopkeeper’s tacit acceptance of the gross imbalance between the rich and the poor in Brazil, but he wasn’t passing judgment, but simply passing time, his mind lay elsewhere as he looked at his watch, then thanked the shop keeper for indulging him, and walked out the door.
He was back on tract navigating the busy streets of Copacabana, and occasionally dodging pedestrians who suddenly crossed his path. He consistently avoided collisions and mishaps time and again, as the pedestrians attempted to pass him along the narrow sidewalk. It seems to be a Brazilian thing, for they possess no inkling of the presumed pedestrian sensibility to veer to the right while walking. It was the small things that reminded him that he was in Rio de Janeiro.

He observed other Carioca’s, as the residents of Rio de Janeiro call themselves, going about their daily lives, oblivious to the inundated conditions that winter brings to Rio. It was a welcome change of climate for them, tossing off summer’s sodden heat, and the bustling streets stood in stark contrast to the recently deserted beaches, abandon by tourist and hucksters alike, and now only capable of attracting the occasional sea turtle, tossed ashore by the wind whipped sea.

The evening’s downpour turned into a steady drizzle that barely disturbed the small puddles of water that the Stranger side stepped on the way to his final destination. He soon arrived at an old office building, located one block away from the beach. A poster attached to the door in front of him, extolled the reader to simply “Blame it on Rio”. He kept that in mind as he quickly scanned the scene, and immediately noticed a multitude of people seemingly just milling about in the rain. The more he thought about it the odder it seemed, but then he refocused his attention to deal with the matter at hand, and adjusted his white Fedora just a tad, with a slight tip of the brim, then slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

The fat man was seated behind a desk, with a purring black cat nestled in his lap. He quickly looked up and made an effort to stand, but was stopped in his tracts by the sight of the gun, held firmly in the grip of the Stranger. The surprised look on the fat man’s face belied the fact that he wasn’t surprised at all. He knew that this day was coming; judgment day had arrived sooner rather than later, this day, today, now.

With a wave of the gun, the Stranger motioned for the fat man to sit. And with a visible sigh of relief the fat man settled back in his chair, absentmindedly stroking the cat and thinking that he had just dodged a bullet. Then the Stranger leaned forward and shot him in the head.

The fat man’s eyes held no surprise when he slumped forward, quite dead. The startled cat jumped from his lap, pulling a string of Onyx beads behind it. Apparently redemption was not at hand; after all some things are simply priceless.

A faint trace of cordite filled the room, as a wisp of smoke rose from the hole his head, while the black cat sat in the corner, cautiously watching a trickle of blood run down his face, all the way to his chin. A gold key and chain hanging around his neck were quickly removed, but not without reciprocation. The black cat witnessed the Stranger place a charred wooden doll in the fat man's lap, and then the Stranger closed the front door without a sound, and quickly melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.