TETHER DREAMS CHAPTER 4 SPANK THE MONKEY

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

Chapter 4

SPANK THE MONKEY

By Claude L Arango

Ronaldo Murillo Cardoso Silva was a prince among men at least that was the way he was treated in Vidigal, one of Rio de Janeiro’s most nefarious favelas, best known for drug trafficking and extreme violence; the latter, vehemently practiced against its own residents. Vidigal was located at the base of one of two mountains jointly named Morro Dois Irmãos. These same mountains when viewed from Ipanema were known as the Twin Peaks, breathtakingly beautiful, and a grandiose gesture by nature to provide a stunning background for the wealthy beach communities of Ipanema and Leblon, which laid side by side along the beachfront of Zona Sul in Rio de Janeiro. Vidigal offered a glaring example of a community tethered to the opposite end of the social/economic ladder in a third world country striving for first world status; a juxtaposition of national neglect, highlighted by the ever widening gap between the have and have nots, and sanctioned by the inability of officials to do more than turned a blind eye to predatory thugs that filled the gap left by a bureaucracy that was nowhere to be found.

 

Ronaldo Silva was the Drug Lord of Vidigal, and he ruled with absolute impunity; there was no one left alive to challenge his grip on the community. He had an army of gun toting teenagers ready to enforce his will, which gave him the final word on everything that mattered, and what he decided could mean the difference between life and death.

Three armed boys brought in the accused, a middle age man who looked like a beguiled school teacher who had lost his way rather than the monster who had committed a horrendous crime. The oldest boy was 16 years old, and the semi automatic weapon he carried had been rendered to full automatic, to his utter glee, secretly hoping that the prisoner would make a false move.

The middle age man had been accused of raping his neighbor, a young girl who had turned 13 years old the day before. The girl had been a good student and a virgin, and her mother pleaded her case before the Drug Lord, as her neighbors crowded into the room and demanded that justice be done. A neighbor testified that he saw the young girl running from the man’s house in the late afternoon, half naked and crying hysterically. The accused stood there in silence, he had nothing to say. Some of his neighbors whispered that he was a follower of Macumba, as if this explained everything. They had found the girl’s torn underwear on the floor inside his house, next to his blood stained bed. He offered no defense, and to everyone’s surprise he pleaded guilty to the charge without any consternation. While he waited for the Drug Lord’s decision to be announced he wet himself, and a small puddle of urine gathered at his feet. He had cast his fate to the wind and he most of all knew what that meant.  

They took him to a clearing on the edge of Vidigal overlooking the coastal waters a thousand feet below. As they made preparations for what was to come they bound his hands and feet, but he could still twist his neck to see the intermittent street lights through the trees below, down along Avineda Niemeyer twinkling like stars fallen in the middle of the night. He followed the lights as best he could as the road snaked its way around the mountain’s side twisting and turning precariously, hugging the edge of the mountain like it was holding on for dear life. The vista was breathtaking during the day, with an unfettered view of the ocean below with cool blue water as far as the eye could see. But this night the condemned man could only see the reflection of lights from oil platforms anchored half way to the city lights of Niteroi, on the other side of Guanabara Bay.  

They tied him to a wooden stake that penetrated the ground deep enough to keep him there, and then they dropped four BF Goodrich tires around him like a polyurethane python that had sprung to life. He tried to move, but the tires held him like a vice. He began to panic but he couldn’t break free, but soon his adrenalin was spent, and his resolve reasserted itself. With acceptance came contrition, which set his mind at ease, which allowed him to think about mundane things, such as were they new tires and would they burn ferociously. Such morbid thoughts come to mind when one is face with one’s own mortality. The knowledge that they were snow tires, stolen just before they would have been shipped to Argentina, would have provided little solace to the condemned man, and no practical reason or explanation for snow tires being in the tropics at all, except to fulfill the demands of destiny.

About a hundred people had come to see justice done, and they watched in silence as 151 Bacardi Rum was poured over the man, and then a match was thrown. The man screamed in agony for what seemed like an eternity, before the Drug Lord and the girl approached him with a gun in her hand. With the Drug Lord’s help she aimed the gun and pulled the trigger, and put him out of his misery. Such as it was, mercy had been shown. 

Down below along Avineda Niemeyer, one could smell burning flesh masked by smoke from the burning tires for miles in either direction. Whenever the locals got wind of such a smell they knew immediately that someone had paid the ultimate price for violating the rules of the Drug Lord of Vidigal, and swift justice had been served.

The Shot Caller ordered the French Doors closed that opened onto the balcony. He had smelled smoke coming into his penthouse suite at the Sheraton Hotel, about a mile down the road from the scene of the immolation. He and his entourage had arrived that morning aboard Delta flight 61 from Los Angeles, and straight from the airport to the Hotel. They were there on business and time was of the essence. There were a total of nine people in the Shot Caller’s party, four women and four male body guards, including the Shot Caller’s new personal body guard, Jesus Del Toro Madrid. When guest arrived the four women performed as hostesses, and they dressed in the sheerest of lingerie, as they circled the room and kept everybody’s glass full and their minds stuck on stupid.

“What the hell is that smell” the Shot Caller asked his guest, Colonel Silva of the Federal Military Police. He and his deputy, Lt. Col. Orlando Rocha and two uniformed military police captains had just arrived a few minutes earlier.  

“That my friend is the smell of Barbeque Justice. The Trafficante or Drug Lord, as you gringos say, who rules the favela down the road from here, carries out cruel but swift justice whenever the opportunity presents itself. When someone breaks the law in Vidigal they are tried immediately by the Drug Lord. If he thinks that the crime deserves special attention, then death is the sentence, which is carried out immediately. We choose not to interfere, because they have their own law and order up there, and they are armed to the teeth. Is that not how you say it? Yes, armed to the teeth, and it would mean the spilling of much innocent blood if we went in there to stop it. Besides, he pays a lot of money to us to be left alone.” They all laughed at this fact of life in the favelas.

“Yes, I understand Colonel Silva. Sometimes, we too, have to carry out cruel but swift justice. You must have discipline and loyalty. Without it, you have nothing.”  They all agreed and raised their glasses in a toast to the facts of life.

Colonel Silva failed to mention that Renaldo Silva, the Drug Lord of Vidigal, was his nephew, and that 25% of all the drug money was passed on directly to him, for services not rendered.

The Colonel had come to discuss the 1.5 million dollars that he had recovered from Paula, Eduardo’s whore, who had received the money from the Fat Man, who in turn had stolen it from the Shot Caller. All of this had come to light after the Fat Man had been assassinated by the Shooter a month ago. Once Col. Siva got his hands on the money there was no way that he was going to give it up, willingly.

“All pleasantries aside Colonel Silva, we have come a very long distance and I only want to know one thing. Where is my money?” The Shot Caller said bluntly and straight to the point.

“I like that about you North Americanos. You are all about the business” the Colonel said, as a hostess poured him another Jonny Walker Black Label, and he continued “We have certain procedures that we must follow, Senor Gomez.” he said, addressing the Shot Caller by name.

The Shot Caller had expected as much, and then told the Colonel that of course there would be a finder’s fee of 10% to be paid directly to the Colonel.

“Although your offer of a reward is most generous, Senor Gomez, there are other considerations that have to be taken into account.” the colonel responded. “Like what?” the Shot Caller shot back.

“You must consider the fact that you are in Brazil and I am a colonel in the Military Police of Brazil, and last but not least, I already have the money.”

“You know what, Colonel Silva, you speak English very well. Maybe you speak it better than me. After all, I am just a poor boy from Mexico, and I am not from the United States.” The Shot Caller said, as he stood up from the couch and walked towards the Colonel. He continued “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”  “I went to prep school in the United States as a young boy, before going on to West Point” the Colonel answered, indulging his host.

“Well Colonel, I learned my English in prison in the United States, and the first thing that they teach you in prison is that you don’t let anybody take your shit.” The Shot Caller spat out as he pulled out a gun and shot the Colonel’s deputy in the head.

Immediately, the front door to the Penthouse burst open and a cadre of Federal Police Special Unit BOPE fanned out through the room, with guns drawn and at the ready.

“You didn’t think that I would come here with just my deputies.” The Colonel said as he got up from the couch wiping his deputy’s blood and brains from his face. It was then that he noticed that the Shot Caller’s entire crew including the four women was aiming automatic weapons directly at him.

“And this, Colonel Silva, is what you call a Mexican Stand Off.” The Shot Caller said, as he leveled his gun at the Colonel’s head. “Come along Colonel, you are coming with us.” Then someone rolled a hand grenade towards a cluster of Federal Police stationed at the front door, and the shooting began. Several more grenades went off in the ensuing melee, and Jesus could be seen guarding the Shot Caller and directly the assault against the police.

When the smoke cleared the Shot Caller, Colonel Silva and Jesus were gone. The rest of Senor Gomez’s entourage laid dead or dying, along with fourteen members of the Federal Police.

The black BMW sedan raced down Avineda Niemeyer, taking hairpin turns and short straight a ways with ease and quickly out distances the two police vehicles in hot pursuit. Once they past Vidigal, there were no longer any head lights in the rearview mirror, and Jesus let up on the gas. The police would be looking for a black sedan, so they switched cars in the parking lot of the Hotel Intercontinental Rio in Sao Conrado; Jesus had prepositioned the car there that afternoon, just in case. Three quarters of the way up Gavea Pedra Mountain they ran out of road, and had to abandon the car and proceed on foot. By the time that they reached the mountain top the sun was rising and the hang gliders were already taking to the air from the neighboring mountain of Pedra Bonita.

Jesus reached into the gear bag that he had toted up the hill from the car, and handed the Shot Caller a sat phone. The Shot Caller could not help but notice that Jesus had thought of everything, and handed the phone to the Colonel and told him to call his nephew. The Colonel looked at the Shot Caller with surprise and new found respect and said “I have underestimated you, Senor Gomez.” If the truth had been told that day they both had underestimated Jesus.

“Tell him to bring the money up to the top of Gavea Pedra, and put all of it into one bag. He has one hour to get here, and he can only bring one man with him.” The Shooter instructed the Colonel to say.

Within the hour Jesus spotted two men climbing through the mountain pass heading straight towards them. When they got within hearing distance he instructed them to put the bag down, turn around, and go back down the mountain; he said this all in perfect Portuguese.

Now it was the Shot Caller’s turn to be surprise. “You have many talents, Senor Jesus. You continue to surprise me. You shall be rewarded for all of the good work that you have done for me.” He said as he watched the two men go back down the mountain. Jesus retrieved the bag and then transferred the money to a large nylon tote bag.

“Here they come.” the Shot Caller hollered at Jesus, as forty to fifty armed men ascending the mountain pass closed in on them. “Put this on” Jesus instructed the Shot Caller as he connected the tote bag to a security belt strapped around his waist. Jesus strapped on what appeared to be an oversize parachute. “Hurry, we don’t have much time” he said as he helped the Shot Caller get connected to his gear.

The Colonel stood there in amazement, shaking his head, as he watched them make their way to the edge of the mountain top. “You know that even if you survive the jump we will still catch you before you can get out of the country, and then you will know what Barbeque Justice is all about.” he said, standing there with his hands on his hips, as though he was in command.

Jesus half turned with the Shot Caller in tandem, and put two bullets into the Colonel’s chest and one in his head. Then he tossed a small doll at the Colonel’s feet just before they jumped off the side of the mountain together.

Everything went into muted slow motion as they fell down the side of the mountain. The only thing that the Shot Caller could feel was the wind in his face and the pounding in his chest, as they rapidly fell towards what he thought was certain death. Then the paraglider deployed flawlessly, with the Shot Caller securely strapped to Jesus, which provided him with the closest thing to a religious experience that he had ever encountered. They circled high above the tropical terrain and the blue ocean below, like it was the second coming. They could see the twin peaks to the southeast that dominated the skyline looking north from Ipanema. The whole of Guanabara Bay spread out before them, all of the way to Niteroi on the far side of the bay. A spectacular view none the less, considering the turmoil taking place down below, as the men who had been sent to kill them reversed direction and headed down the mountain side to try to intercept them when they landed. Where they would land was the question to the answer that they did not posses. The Shot Caller’s so called brush with death had set his mind in motion, covering every event and detail that had taken placed that lead up to what had just happened.

From the time that his personal body guard, Hector, suddenly fell ill and was replaced by Jesus, things seemed to be slipping from his control, but surprisingly enough, all for the better. Jesus was thorough and efficient, and quickly assumed control by anticipating The Shot Caller’s every need and desire. Jesus Del Toro Madrid came highly recommended by Hector himself, and the Shot Caller had full confidence in Hector’s judgment. A check of his files by the Shot Caller’s contacts in the FBI revealed that he was a prime suspect in a string of assassinations that had taken place across continental Europe. A deep background check by Interpol suggested that he was a clandestine operative that discretely provided services for the powers that be. A cross reference of the listed members of his family indicated that they were descendent of Berbers from Moorish Spain, which accounted for his dark skin and perfect Castilian Spanish. A complicated man to be sure, but when he tossed the doll at the colonel’s feet the Shot Caller knew that it was all a lie, and that he was literally in the grip of the Shooter. But if the Shooter had wanted him dead he would be dead, so he decided that the best course of action was to bid his time and find out what was the meaning behind all of this. There is nothing quit as profound as when logic kicks in while you are suspended a thousand feet above the ground, and tethered to a natural born killer.

The sky was full of hang gliders and paragliders, and no one took notice of the two fugitives as they circled the beach at Conrado and came in for a perfect landing. The Shooter immediately let the Shot Caller know just who was in charge, and told him to stay out of his way as he gathered their gear and put it off to the side. “Don’t ask any questions just follow me, we’re not out of the woods yet.” he told the Shot Caller as they headed down the beach like two old friends on holiday. They made their way up to the highway and down the road to the bus stop. They boarded the first bus headed to Ipanema. They rode the bus into Ipanema and got off at the General Osorio Metro station, and headed downtown on the subway to Central.

“We got a tail. We must have picked it up at the Metro station in Ipanema” The Shooter whispered to the Shot Caller, as they stood shoulder to shoulder on the crowded subway train. They got off the train at Uruguaiana station, and took the moving stairs up to street level, and walked straight into a huge bazaar that sold everything there at a discount. The place was a giant size maze crowded with shoppers and hustlers, selling and buying at a frantic pace. There were over a hundred cubicles in the building selling knock offs of Louie Vatton, Gucci, Prada, watches, Hand Bags, DVDs, CDs, smart phones, cell phones, Play stations, Xbox’s, you name it and they had it, all at a discount. If you strayed ten feet from where you were you may not be able to find your way back again. This was the perfect place to ditch a tail, or so they thought. The Shot Caller went to a baggage cubicle and bought another bag similar to the one he had been carrying the whole day. The Shot Caller was still lugging the tote bag full of money, which made it easy to follow him in a crowd. They moved on to the next section of the bazaar, which was just as large as the first, and the Shooter spotted two men that he believed were following them.

The Shooter quickly exited the bazaar with the Shot Caller close behind. They crossed the main street and headed up to Rua Buenos Aires and took a left and proceeded down the street until they reached a place named QuatroXQuatro, and ducked inside. They were greeted by a statuesque blond, wearing the tiniest bikini either of them had ever seen. The woman behind the front desk asked each of them for a name, and then handed each a plastic charge card. “The locker room is straight ahead. I’ll show you the way” said the blond. They looked at each other and then fell in line behind one of the most beautiful asses either of them had the pleasure of following in a while.

Once in the locker room it was back to business, and they split the money up, putting half in the other bag that the Shot Caller had bought at the bazaar. They then put a money bag in each of their lockers and locked each one with keys that were provided to secure their possessions.

They were provided with white robes and flip flops, but the Shooter kept on his underwear, and tucked his gun in the waistband.

The blond was waiting for them when they stepped outside of the locker room, and she offered to show them around the place. There were beautiful girls everywhere, all of them dressed in bikinis. The blond introduced herself as Monique, and she first took them to the sauna. It wasn’t until the Shot Caller saw several girls going up stairs with men that he realized that they were in a brothel. “Damn Homie, why didn’t you tell me” was all that he could say, as one robust big breasted girl squeezed by him in the hall way. “We have more important things to think about, Homie” the Shooter said with added emphasis on Homie, and then he told Monique that they would catch up with her later. He pulled the Shot Caller into the sauna, and told him that the money would be safe in the lockers for now, but they had to make it to the Safe House before 10:00 pm. “Safe House, what Safe House are you talking about? All day long you haven’t said ten words, and now you’re talking about going back into the street to find some safe house, knowing that the Federal Police and the drug lord’s gang bangers are looking for us. Let me be the first to let you know that I feel pretty safe right here” the Shot Caller said, as he press his face against the sauna’s steamed window. “And since you’re in the talkative mood who in the hell are you anyway” the Shot Caller said turning back to face the Shooter. “My name is not important, but you can call me the Shooter” he said, looking at the Shot Caller. “I work for the US government in a variety of capacities, and my current assignment is to make sure that nothing happens to you. It seems to me that you have something they want or something that they need” said the Shooter to the Shot Caller point blank. “But you are the same guy who killed The Fat Man, right? The same one who leaves voodoo dolls with all of his victims” the Shot Caller said, waiting for an answer. “I am not at liberty to discuss that information with you. But you can take comfort in the fact that I am not here to kill you. At least not now” the Shooter said it as if he might change his mind at any moment. “Well, what about the money? I suppose that you want a share of the money” the Shot Caller said. “No, the money is all yours if you can get it out of Brazil. Like I said, I am just here to make sure that nothing bad happens to you, and to get your ass out of Brazil in one piece” the Shooter told him, and then Monique knocked on the door. “Come on fellows, I would like to show you the lounge” she said grabbing the Shot Caller by the arm and took him up a flight of stairs with the Shooter in tow.

They entered the lounge on the second floor, and the Shot Caller kept thinking to himself that it just keeps getting better. There were twenty five to thirty women in the lounge, and all eyes turn towards them when Monique opened the door. There was a short bar to the left of the entrance, where there were several girls talking to some of the other guest; which didn’t stop any of them from giving the two new guests a salacious eye groping. The Shooter hung back and took in the scene, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were nine men in the lounge dressed in white robes and flip flops. None of them appeared to be strangers as they made small talk with the girls and let their hands covered the girls in all too familiar places. A sexual aura permeated the room and every girl exuded a sense of wanton sexuality as best she could, with a come and get it look in their eyes and manner. There was a small glass elevator on the other side of the room, just big enough for the red head descending in it, and there stood a dance poll next to it that extended down, through a hole in the floor, to the ground level. All in all it was a sight to behold. Unfortunately they were there on other business, like trying to stay alive.

Two new Guest entered the lounge and the Shooter noticed that although they both wore the white robes they also had on their street shoes. The Shooter quickly got the Shot Caller’s attention with a nod of his head, and gestured for him to go to the back of the room. It was crowded in the lounge and they hadn’t been spotted yet. The Shooter slipped out the door and gestured for the Shot Caller to follow suit. They quickly descended the stairs and went into the locker room. The Shooter told the Shot Caller about the two men as they changed into their street clothes. They each took one of the money bags and headed for the front desk. They gave the clerk their plastic cards, and waited anxiously for the computer check to complete. The Shooter tossed two hundred US dollars on the desk, when the two men walked into the room. They walked pass the bouncers at the door when the clerk nodded his head. Then the two men tried to follow suit but they were stopped by the bouncers at the front door. The Shooter and the Shot Caller jumped in the first taxi that they saw and pulled away from the curb as the other two men exited the club running. The Shooter told the driver to drive around while he cleared his head. He told the Shot Caller that he didn’t think that they were being followed, and that they had to take the chance and head straight to the Safe House. It was a quarter to nine and they were running out of time.

The taxi took them to the top of Saint Teresa, a trendy neighborhood on top of a hill in the middle of central Rio. The Shooter told the driver to pull over three quarters of the way up the hill, and then told the Shot Caller that they would walk the rest of the way from there.

The Safe House turned out not to be a house at all, but just a clearing at the top of the hill. They approached the clearing from the woods, and it was then that the Shooter spotted a man lying in the brush, just inside of the tree line. It wasn’t long before he spotted another man off to the right of the first man lying in wait. The Shooter told the Shot Caller to stay put and disappeared among the trees behind them. The Shooter quickly worked himself up behind the first man and slit his throat. The Shot Caller thought that he heard a strange sound above him that grew louder with each passing second. The Shooter was back at his side and told him that there wasn’t enough time to get to the other man, just as the helicopter appeared above the trees. The Shooter pulled out a sat phone and told the pilot that the LC was hot but they had to chance it. The copter came in and hovered just above ground, and the shooter shouted “let’s go” and they made a run for it. The first bullet whizzed by his head and the door gunner shot off a burst in the general direction of the sniper. They were both in the door when the Shooter got hit. The pilot pulled on the stick when he knew that they both were aboard and headed for the coast of Brazil. A corpsman examined the Shooter on their way to meet the navy Cutter, ancord13 miles off shore in international waters. That’s when he learned that it pays to have money, and plenty of it. The bullet had penetrated the money bag that he was carrying, and had only broken his skin. When they opened his shirt to examine his wound it fell to the floor in pristine condition.

The Shot Caller told the Shooter that he didn’t know who he was, but he was a lucky son of a bitch, and he continued “I don’t know what you got on them, but I hope that you keep it. Something tells me that this isn’t over yet” the Shot Caller yelled to the Shooter above the roar of the helicopter, as it prepared to land on board the Navy Cutter, and somehow the Shooter knew this to be true.

Meanwhile, back in Vidigal, the Drug Lord called on the services of Lady Manu, a powerful high priestess who practiced the dark arts. He wanted her to cast a spell to bring back the powerful Exu, whom he believed to be embodied in the Americano know as the Shooter. After all, he did place an offering at the feet of the Shooter in the amount of 1.5 million dollars for the privilege, and the Shooter took it. His uncle, Colonel Silva, now decease, was a greedy man with no vision and no faith in the dark arts. He had become an impediment to the future of his people, and a thorn in the side of the Drug Lord. He knew that the money had been intended as an offering to the spirits from the dark side for them to do the Drug Lord’s bidding. But the Colonel wanted the money for himself. All things considered, the amount of money was a pittance, but the spirits were a vain group of souls, and they were easily impress with worldly status and objects that they had absolutely no use for, but served as an indication of the depth of sincerity expressed among the petitioner. They simply adored adulation. The Colonel’s troops had the Shooter cornered on top of Gavea Preda, but then the Shooter jumped into the sky and flew off to show off his prowess and to demonstrate the futility of mere mortal’s attempts to contain him. Dismiss the idea that the Shooter was trying to escape, after all it was his maneuvering, which was ample, that got them all to the top of that mountain; all for naught. It was a sign that could not be ignored, that indeed he was the all powerful Exu reincarnated. And when the black doll was found at the Colonel’s feet, the Drug Lord knew that the spirit had accepted the offering and had been enjoined to do his bidding. After all, it all depends on one’s point of view, just as with the naming of mountains, from one side you may be a victim of social neglect, and from the other side you may be on holiday enjoying the view.

With first light beginning to peek just over the horizon the navy cutter Alex Haley sailed towards the dawn, while a Black Mass ensued at the top of Vidigal. The faithful had gathered where the child rapist had met his end, but this time they were there to celebrate him. With white candles burning bright and ceremonial flames leaping high into the night the faithful threw rose peddles on the site where the martyr’s life had been taken. They all remembered that he had volunteered, without trepidation, to perform the sacred duty of taking the chastity of the virgin child, knowing full well how all this would end. Nevertheless he kept his silence to the very end, as the ancient ritual demanded. With painted dancers leaping high into the air and ceremonial drums driving the faithful to a state of frenzy, a spiritual bliss lifted their voices even higher to a crescendo, as the Drug Lord looked on with fervent anticipation. The High Priestess Lady Manu cast her spell with the heart of a Dove in her hand that had been ripped asunder. Yet the heart still beat vibrantly with the rhythm of life, as she invoked the words ‘Você deve retornar’ three times and then fell silent. A heartbeat past before the crowd roared their approval, then she blew a mouth full of rum onto the flames, and threw the heart into the fire. With the element of faith all but consuming the faithful, she smacked her lips and spat into the wind, and brought the Dove back to life. Once again the crowd went wild and roared their approval. She then spun around twice, and released the Dove into the wind that carried it on its journey, bearing a message and a command, for the ear of the Keeper of the Gate only. The spirit Exu lay dormant but ever vigilant, patiently waiting to be summoned and commanded; while the Shooter slept fitfully aboard the naval cutter, dreaming unimaginable things, impossible things, things that made no sense even in a dream, as the ship sailed unimpeded, and closer to his destiny.

Final Revision

Word count, 5839

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.