TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME CHAPTER TWO

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game
By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER 2

DODGER BLUE

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When did it become our business?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

TETHER DREAMS

IN

THE SHADOW GAME

By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER ONE

BLAME IT ON RIO

Beyond the rain soaked shores of Copacabana, high above the mountains that surround Guanabara Bay, scattered rain clouds roam the sky above Rio de Janeiro, like marauders looking for easy prey.

Five clicks south of Rio’s busy harbor, rain blustered clouds descended on Sugar Loaf Mountain, releasing a rolling mist that spilled down it’s perilous slopes, and floated 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 far end of Copacabana Beach, two weary fishermen, with failing stamina but practiced resolve, pulled their boat ashore, and delivered their catch onto the beach. They had transported a stranger, from a schooner anchored a mile off shore. He had stood silently in the bow of the boat for the entire trip. But the moment they reached shore the stranger leaped from the boat, with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder, and a white Fedora hat in his hand. He immediately fell to his knees in the retreating surf, and made an emblematic sign in the sand, while the two fishermen looked on in utter bewilderment, but they remained silent.

The stranger strode up the beach for a short distance, his foot prints and the fishermen, trailing behind him, while his white pants and dress shirt were now soaking wet, and covered with sand. He soon found a suitable spot to set his bag down, and he opened it. He took out a roll of Brazilian money, with a red rubber band wrapped around it. He peeled off two hundred reais and gave it to the fishermen, who lowered their eyes, and whispered, Macumba, and then they quickly ran back to their boat and pushed it back into the sea.

Further north, across the Bay of Guanabara, dark 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, dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch. With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful bowed their heads and prayed in the rain, 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 lay deserted, even the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there stood the stranger at the water’s edge, chanting words from the mystic. A large flat rock laid half buried in the sand, and he covered it with a red silk cloth, upon which he placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, a few strands of human hair, entangled in a wooden comb. A few trinkets lay to the side, and next to them laid a mirror, and four white candles, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. At the bottom of the rock alter, laid a small wooden figure, whittle from a Capaiferra tree branch, and charred black by flames.

The Stranger stood in silence, like a man in a trance. He was completely mesmerized by the pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge. The surf raced all of the way up the shore line until a large wave forced his retreat. Then it quickly drained back to the sea, leaving driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches scattered across the sand, and the rock altar lay in shambles, with one candle still burning, miraculously.

With two fingers, he snuffed out the flame, and put the remaining objects back into his bag. Then he withdrew dark clothing from the bag and changed into them right there. Afterwards, he took one last look at the churning sea, and then turned and headed for higher ground and the rain swept streets of Copacabana.

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, while wiping rain water from his eyes, but then he saw something off in the distance, which prompted his departure from the porous 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 grit and determination, from the sanctuary of the trees, and this pleased him. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins, but he refused to accept the umbrella that the boy offered, and then he continued on his way.

He walked with hunched shoulders against the wind that blew off of the Inlet Sea. With his eyes to the ground, and head held down, he ignored the tumultuous sea that exploded on one side of the street, and Copacabana’s high-rise apartment buildings, with million dollar views, on the other, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.

The stranger passed by open air bistros, that usually stayed empty until late afternoon, 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.

Then suddenly, as if someone had flipped a torrential switch, the rain stopped. People suddenly began to materialize in the streets as if from thin air. Within minutes the bistros began to fill with people taking full advantage of the lull in the storm, and soon it was as if there had been no storm at all.

The sudden transition presented an amicable picture of tranquility among the prosperous Brasileiros, who now filled the bistros to overflow, which was a far cry from the plight of the poor Brasileiros, who lived in the favelas, just a few blocks away. Already, TV Network News camera crews had begun filming the mudslides that came with the torrential rain. Which, inevitably lead to several makeshift homes tumbling down the mountain side, no longer capable of standing or remaining stacked upon one another, like colorful game board pieces, in the crowed hills above Rio de Janeiro.

Copacabana appealed to the stranger, more so than Ipanema’s young yuppie facade, and as he walked through the neighborhood, he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining strangers. With song and dance, and strumming guitars they beat on Macaco skin drums, while Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing.

The stranger moved about like an erratic breeze, neither confined nor hindered by venders selling cheap wares in front of expensive stores. Their makeshift stands further narrowed the passable walkway. Then, suddenly, the storm once again made its presence known, and with the first crack of thunder, the crowds dispersed, leaving the stranger all alone.

It was his nature to be observant, and he knew that the people in Rio doing all of the heavy lifting were black Brasileiros. He had seen this before, but he was a pragmatic man who dealt with the world as it was, and not the way one thought it should be. Although he moved easily between both worlds of the rich and the poor, his sense of value was never filtered through the prism of ignorance; he knew that things happened for a reason.

The ditch diggers, bus drivers, and baggage handlers, bore their Afro- Brazilian heritage, reluctantly, upon their backs, albeit unwittingly they accepted their station in life. While the shop owners, were well educated, and prosperous, with their Portuguese, Italian, and German heritage intact, promulgating a way of life that was handed down from generation to generation, with its most consistent aberration intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured complete domination of the most vital aspects important to building a meaningful material life, in the form of complete ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul, and in that realm of spiritual mysticism the former Africans slaves held sway.

One shopkeeper called out to the stranger in the street and invited him inside. He was somewhat amused that he had been so readily accepted, by the shopkeeper, as being a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was working, 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. Ostensibly, he said it to see if anything had changed, but of course it was about the 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, but he wasn’t passing judgment, but simply passing time, his mind was elsewhere, as he looked at his watch, then he thanked the shop keeper, and walked out the door, right on time.

He was back on tract, navigating the busy streets of Copa, and occasionally dodging pedestrians who suddenly crossed his path. He narrowly avoiding 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 let him know that he was in Rio.

He observed other Cariocas, 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 season 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 downpour turned into a steady drizzle, as the stranger side stepped small puddles of water that had gathered on the sidewalk, and when he reached the corner of Rua Bolivar, he turned left, and then proceeded to thread his way through the rest of the neighborhood that made up the core of Copacabana.

Soon he arrived at his destination, an old office building located on the corner of Rua Aires Saldanha and Miguel Lemos, one street away from the beach. On the front door of an apartment rental office, a travel poster extolled the reader to simply “Blame it on Rio”. He kept that in mind as he quickly scanned the street, then opened the door and stepped inside. The fat man seated behind the desk looked up, and quickly made an effort to stand. But he was stopped in his tracts by the sight of a 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; sooner or later, someday, one day … today.

With a wave of the gun, the stranger motioned for the fat man to sit. With a visible sigh of relief the fat man sat back down, and then the stranger shot him between the eyes. The fat man collapsed onto the desk, lifeless eyes still harboring surprise, as a ribbon of smoke slowly rose from the hole that now lay drilled between them. A trickle of blood ran down his face, as a key was snatched from around his neck. Then a wood carving was placed in his lap, before the front door closed without a sound, and the Stranger melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.

MY OUT LOOK ON BRAZIL by M.J.

That is a nice video of Kelly. The others, well, they speak for themselves. Tourism was actually up 11 percent in 2010. They had 680 Thousands tourist to come to Rio De janerio in the month of December alone. Those are stats from the Federal Police and all of Brazil had over 86 percent occupancy on Rental units. In rio, over 90 percent of all the rental units and hotels were filled with Tourist. That is tremendous growth. However, you are correct. Sex tourism is down. That way, maybe, the quality speaks for itself. The ones that want to be spoon fed will miss help. However, if you think back, help was dead 6 months before it actually closed.. Especially after the last entry fee increase. I went in several times in there were not 75 people, including employees in the place. So, the writing was on the wall. All good things must come to an end. Inflation is eating up the Real buying power. The increase in wages, fees, food cost have only allowed the buying power to equal 1996 buying power, even with the brazilian population moving up to 50.2 Middle class and up. However, like any civilize nation, the less educated will suffer and the lack of skills, training in a labor intense society will keep them in menial jobs- which a lot are comfortable having these entry level positions, simply to support their family. Brazil is a very dynamic and exciting place. I think we judge brazil simply by the going and comings of Copacabana. However, I will honestly say, Several other states are more fluid and dynamic than Rio. We must move beyond the comforts of Zone Sul and realize the vastness of Brazil. Rio is very expense ( zona sul) and overpriced. I find the true Carioca attitude to be quite different from other Brazilians. I will say, if we evaluate the contacts we have made over the last 7 years. we will realize the true Cutie's were not from Rio. They were simply visiting from some other state. We need to go to the source and find them. especially now, since there is a drought in the Star quality program in Rio. yes, if they were horses, we will say they are long in the tooth. This garota do programmer game is a young woman game. If they are 30 + they are closer to Dinosaurs then stars. Think, If they are 30+ and have been working 7-12 years, that is over 2100 different men easily in that small time frame. That is over use and leads to an academy award performance or basically poor service for a substantial price. My rule of thumb, if some one wants an exorbitant price, they usually are not good performs. That is my small observation- not scientific.  I enjoy traveling around Brazil. I will suggest Vitoria and North Brazil for a change of pace. I am not sure about the availibility of programmers here but there are a lot of normal women that would love to meet you guys.We all enjoy the weather and those of us , who really try to assimilate in the culture, have a true appreciation and respect for the country. We love the madness and we love the tranquility.

M.J.

TETHER DREAMS-CHAPTER 5 TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County Jail issued jump suit, which draped his emaciated frame like a pup tent. His cocaine induced High told him that he was at the top of his game, as he strolled among the prisoners, with the words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit in large black letters, which could be easily read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he notice some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court; about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to reach them, and the yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders pumping iron. Actually they were pumping heavy plastic bags filled with water. Each bag hanging from each end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting just too goddamn big to tolerate.

The Salvadorian was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over on everyone, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the word Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a quick flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transformed his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they subjected them to a cavity searched, one by one, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were never recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and the secret of the vanishing act would remain, just that, a secret.

The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent new information. The crowed conditions at the facility had already been well documented.

Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position to the left side of the screen; that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire afternoon, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked up in his cell during the entire incident. She could feel it in her bones, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.

   

 TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of a swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County issued jump suit, two sizes too big. It draped over his emaciated frame like a collapsed tent, as he looked upon the yard full of orange jump suits just like his. The words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit, could be read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he saw some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to join them. The yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With a little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders, who were pumping heavy plastic bags of water as if they were children’s water balloons. Each bag, hanging from either end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting, just too goddamn big to tolerate.

He was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the words death to the Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transforming his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The three assassins passed off their knives to waiting hands in the crowd, just before one of the guards spotted the down inmate, and fired a warning shot into the dirt. Anyone still standing would be put down with a rubber bullet fired from a 30 odd 6, from the tower above. But everyone knew the drill, so they all lay down, quiet and still, and waited for the Riot Squad to rush in and restore order, to the perfectly pacified crowd, lying quietly in the dirt.

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they were subjected to a cavity searched, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were not recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and their whereabouts would remain a secret.

 The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent information. The crowed conditions at the facility only added to the difficulty of identifying the killers. Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire morning, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked in his cell during the entire incident. After all, he was the Shot Caller, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, eleven months earlier, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him then, as well as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.

TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of a swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County issued jump suit, two sizes too big, and it draped over his emaciated frame, as he looked upon the yard full of orange jump suits just like his. The words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit, could be read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he saw some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to join them. The yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With a little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders, who were pumping heavy plastic bags of water as if they were children’s water balloons. Each bag, hanging from either end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting, just too goddamn big to tolerate.

He was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the words death to the Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transforming his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they were subjected to a cavity searched, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were not recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and their whereabouts would remain a secret.

 The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent information. The crowed conditions at the facility only added to the difficulty of identifying the killers. Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire morning, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked in his cell during the entire incident. After all, he was the Shot Caller, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, eleven months earlier, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him then, as well as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.