Shadow Boys (5 page)

- CHAPTER SIX -

After meeting with Piper, I put in my weekly appearance at the Dallas headquarters of Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark, a smartly decorated half-floor in a downtown skyscraper.

My office was a cramped six-by-ten, but it offered a stunning view of the southern half of the city. Fair Park and the Cotton Bowl lay twenty stories below, pale smudges surrounded by a green tarmac of vegetation. A gauzy layer of gray haze blanketed everything.

No one paid me any attention. My supervisor/boss, such as Theo Goldberg was, lived a half continent away. Everyone in the Dallas office gave me a wide berth.

I left the laptop with the managing partner’s assistant, told him to overnight it to DC. Then I got a cup of coffee, sat at my desk, and looked through the mail, most of which was junk or related to my current employment, such as a statement for my 401(k) account.

After dispensing with the mail, I perused various databases, looking for mention of Tremont Washington.

Nothing, as I expected. Tremont had no criminal record, no driver’s license or other form of state-issued ID. He was in the Social Security database as receiving disability payments, the checks going to his grandmother’s address—information I already had.

I closed my computer and stared out the window, enjoying the view.

The phone on my desk rang, startling me.

That phone never rang. I was still getting used to having one there. Heck, I was still getting used to having a desk.

It was the receptionist.

“Mr., uh, Cantrell?”

Her voice was timid, like she didn’t know how to handle talking to that strange man in the little office.

“Yes.”

“This is Carolyn at the front.” She was whispering now.

“Hi, Carolyn-at-the-front. What’s up?”

“There’s a man here to see you.”

“That’s not good, Carolyn. People don’t come to see me. It’s the other way around.”

“He says his name is Tommy Joe.” She paused, lowered her voice further. “And he’s really, um, scary.”

“Call security, Carolyn. And then tell him I’m not here.”

“Uh, Mr. Cantrell . . . you are the number for security.”

I slumped in my chair. “Okay, I’ll be right out.”

The reception area for Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark was wood-paneled like an English gentlemen’s club. Leather chairs, Persian rugs, the occasional painting of a fox being killed.

Tommy Joe stood by a coffee table. He’d changed clothes. He was now wearing a pair of ratty jeans and a gray T-shirt. His face was drawn and pale. His Super Bowl ring was gone.

I approached him warily, arms loose.

He watched me get closer, eyes blank.

From the corridor behind the reception area, several attorneys had come out, the office grapevine evidently telling them there might be something worth seeing about to go down.

I stopped about five feet away from Tommy Joe.

“What do you want?”

Tommy Joe reached for his back pocket.

“Don’t move your arms.” I stepped closer. “Or I’ll break them.”

The distance between us could be cleared in about a half second. If he had a weapon, I planned to grab it with one hand, leverage his elbow with the other. Wait for the cracking sound. Then throw him to the ground.

That would neutralize the problem and give everybody a good show.

He stopped, licked his lips. “It’s just a piece of paper.”

“Turn around,” I said. “Slowly.”

He did as requested. No telltale bulge in any pocket or under his shirt.

“Two fingers only,” I said. “Take the paper out.”

He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and put it on the coffee table.

“You’re gonna want this, too,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I’m going to rehab.”

“Good for you.”

“Everything I touch, it turns to shit.” He rubbed his nose.

I picked up the paper. It contained an address in North Dallas, what looked like a commercial building.

“I don’t want this on me, too.” He pointed to the paper.

“What does that mean?”

“They’re waiting for me downstairs.” He shuffled to the door and left.

I slipped the paper in my pocket and turned around.

A small group of attorneys and support personnel were standing in the hall watching me.

My sport coat felt tight and the paneled walls of the reception area seemed to be closing in.

They were staring at me like an exhibit at the zoo, the strange guy who wasn’t a lawyer, the one with the hard eyes and impassive face. I was exotic, outside the bell curve of their experience.

I didn’t belong here and everyone knew it. I ignored them all and went to my office.

Dallas police headquarters

1981

The police officer with the kind eyes and the ribbons on his chest leads eleven-year-old Raul Delgado from the interview room.

He takes him down a hallway full of other officers, hard-looking men wearing short-brimmed cowboy hats and guns on their hips. The air in the hall smells like cigarette smoke, coffee, and sweat.

The men move aside and watch them go by. They don’t speak.

Raul can’t be sure but he feels like they are angry with him for some reason. He doesn’t understand why.

The officer with the kind eyes leads him to a tiled room with rows and rows of lockers and a large shower area in the corner. The room appears empty.

He goes to a locker, opens the door, and pulls out a gray sweat suit.

“You’re gonna have to roll the sleeves and cuffs up, but these’ll fit you pretty good.”

Raul nods, understanding that the man is offering him a chance to change out of his pee-soaked pants and blood-spattered shirt.

“You should take a shower, too,” the man says.

Raul looks at the dark corner where the faucets sprout from the wall like silver tree limbs. It is an open area, no privacy.

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” the man says. “I cleared everybody out.”

Raul nods.

“I’ll stay outside, guard the door.” The man smiles.

A question forms in Raul’s mind, but he is afraid to ask. Instead he just stands there, staring at the officer’s ribbons and medals.

The man says, “Your name’s Raul, right?”

“Yes.” Raul nods, glad the man doesn’t pronounce it like a redneck.

“My name is Bobby.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Raul.”

They shake. The officer’s skin is rough like wood that needs to be painted.

“I’m a lieutenant with the Dallas Police Department.” Bobby hitches a thumb in his gun belt. “Back there, in the interview room. I’m sorry about that.”

Raul swallows several times. After a few moments, he says, “Carlos. My brother. Where is he?”

Bobby’s face is expressionless. He waits for a long while before speaking. Then:

“Your mother had a seizure or something when she heard.”

Raul clutches his stomach.

“She’s gonna be all right,” Bobby says. “But she’s in the hospital.”

Raul shakes his head, trying to will away the bad news.

“Trouble is, we can’t find your daddy nowhere.”

The room is silent for a moment.

“Carlos,” Raul says. “Where is my brother, Carlos?”

More silence.

Raul scratches his arm like he always does when he’s extra nervous.

“You need to understand something.” Bobby sits on a bench so they’re eye to eye. “Lot a people in this department want to blame what happened on you and your brother.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re gonna say you were armed. You were a threat to the two officers who had you in the car.”

Raul struggles to catch his breath, his words jumbled. “We—we—we were just trying to have fun. We weren’t trying to h-hurt anybody.”

Bobby nods like he understands. Then he grabs the boy’s hand and says, “Quit scratching yourself, son. You’re bleeding.”

Raul looks at his arm. His nails have rubbed a raw patch. Blood seeps from the skin.

“I gotta ask you something.” Bobby’s voice is soft.

Raul stares at the man blankly, chest heaving.

“In the back of the police car,” Bobby says. “Did you have a gun with you?”

Raul shakes his head.

“Did you take that money from the store?”

Raul hesitates. Then he nods.

“Stealing’s wrong, son. Don’t you know that?”

“I—I’m sorry.” Raul wipes tears from his cheek. He is truly sorry. He doesn’t want to disappoint this man.

Raul scratches the raw patch on his arm again.

“Quit that now, all right?” Bobby pulls his hand away. “That ain’t gonna bring Carlos back.”

Raul frowns, trying to make sense of the man’s words.

“You should get cleaned up.” Bobby points to the showers. “Your mama needs you.”

“What did you say about my brother?” Raul raises his hands, trying to deflect the message that is coming right at him like a bowling ball. “Carlos—where is Carlos?”

Silence in the locker room except for the drip of a showerhead in the corner.

“Aw, son. I’m sorry.” Bobby pats Raul’s shoulder. “You’re brother, he’s dead.”

The weight of the universe seems to catch in Raul Delgado’s throat. His skin becomes icy, his stomach hollow. He shivers once and falls to his knees, weeping.

The reason for the flash of light and the ringing in his ears becomes clear, as does the enormity of what has occurred.

His brother is gone.

A wall plants itself into his mind, dividing his life into two separate but unequal halves.

Before Carlos, and after.

He cries and cries as Bobby pats his shoulder and tries to comfort him.

- CHAPTER SEVEN -

At 5:01 p.m. I walked into a windowless office in the Preston Center section of North Dallas, a small suite of rooms decorated like a girl’s bedroom in a 1950s romantic comedy—lace and doilies and overstuffed chairs, everything frilly and pink.

Preston Center was in the geographical center of North Dallas—ritzy shops, expensive high-rises, swanky restaurants. A former president officed a couple of blocks away.

In a room behind a small reception area, four white leather chairs circled a coffee table, exactly equidistant from each other, no one position superior to the other. On the coffee table, three bottles of water bracketed a box of facial tissue.

Piper sat in one of the chairs. Otherwise, the room was empty.

“You’re late,” she said.

“It’s barely five o’clock.”

Piper opened one of the waters but didn’t speak.

“Where’s Corinne?” I sat across from her.

Corinne was a psychologist in private practice. She had a contract with the Veterans Administration to provide counseling services to former members of the armed forces.

Here are a few facts that are important to know at this juncture:

Corinne specialized in couple’s counseling. Her contract with the feds stipulated that she would treat only vets and their spouses.

Piper and I were not a couple. Also, in the eyes of the government, we were no longer regarded as vets.

If Piper and I stopped seeing Corinne, we’d go to prison.

A sticky wicket, as the Brits say.

We sat in silence for a few moments, neither of us knowing what to say. Introspection: not our long suit.

“So, how was your afternoon?” I said finally.

Piper clenched her fists, blinked several times.

“What? I’m just making polite conversation.”

“Always pushing my buttons, Jon. That’s a great way to start therapy.”

“Therapy?” I looked around the office. “This is a boondoggle, remember?”

Piper and I were former government freelancers, private law-enforcement contractors at one time employed by the DEA. At the end of our tenure as narcotics agents, we’d committed a small number of felonies, most of which were the result of our efforts to stay alive. Our trouble at the time sprang from a series of greater felonies being committed by men hiding behind the thin veil separating the federal government and corporate America.

When the dust had cleared and the prosecutors were looking for somebody to charge, they’d trained their sights on us.

After much discussion at the Department of Justice, a decision was reached, one that was a quintessential mess of bureaucratic compromise.

We would not be prosecuted if we entered into counseling for an unspecified period.

The benefits package made available to us only provided for “relationship therapy sessions”—even though we’d barely been in what could’ve been called a “relationship” at the time of the activities that had resulted in this boondoggle, and certainly weren’t now—and then only at a select few counselors. I could have used the insurance provided by my current employer but none of their mental-health providers were on the DOJ’s approved list.

There was no way we could afford to pay for our own therapy, so like many a good American, we adapted our situation to fit the available insurance. If we needed to pose as a couple to get out of this particular mess, we would do so.

Ergo, our current meeting.

The door on the far side of the room opened and Corinne entered.

Corinne was in her midthirties. She wore a tweed skirt and black lace-up shoes. She had the air of one who enjoyed a good game of softball back in her college days.

She greeted us and sat down.

“How are things this week?” Her voice was soft and soothing.

Piper snorted.

I said, “Things are fine.”

“Piper, you seem to have something you want to say.” Corinne leaned forward, all earnest.

“No.” Piper glared at me. “Things are . . . fine.”

Piper’s record had actually been cleared, which was why she was able to get a job with the Dallas Police Department. I had something of a more checkered past, so law enforcement was out of the question for me. That’s when Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark had found me. They didn’t care about my past. They cared about results.

Corinne scribbled some notes.

I yawned, tried to look interested.

“How is everyone sleeping?” Corinne looked at each of us in turn.

Neither Piper nor I trusted the confidentiality of any health care professional, especially when it came to some of the more unseemly issues we’d dealt with. So we spoke in circles, talked in code and double entendres, which I suppose people who really are in therapy do as well.

One thing we did talk about openly was our sleeping or lack thereof. The insomnia was worse when we were apart, which was all the time now.

“In your bedroom,” Corinne said. “Have you removed the TV like we talked about?”

At the same time, Piper said “No” while I said “Yes.”

Corinne arched an eyebrow.

“I took the TV out,” I said, “but Piper brought it back.”

Corinne nodded thoughtfully.

“I tried to implement a sleep-friendly environment,” I said innocently. “Like you suggested we do.”

Piper stared at the floor, lips pursed, venom dripping from her pores.

Corinne tapped a pen on her knee. “Piper, is the television more important than getting a good night’s sleep?” A long pause. “Or your relationship with Jon?”

“I like to watch those true-crime shows.” She cut her eyes toward me. “Especially the ones where the wife kills the husband.”

Corinne stopped tapping, a surprised look on her face. She quickly regained her composure and jotted something down.

I tried to keep from laughing. Piper hated TV.

No one spoke. The silence stretched out, a few seconds became a minute or more.

Finally Corinne flipped through her notes. “How are the nightmares, Jon?” She glanced up. “Are you still dreaming about your father’s death?”

I didn’t speak. Piper looked away, sipped water.

Corinne leaned forward. “Jon? Do you still dream about your father’s death?”

I shook my head.

In the dream, which came every time I slept, my father and I are walking down a narrow street at night, the asphalt glistening from rain. We have no destination. At the end of the street a fire burns brightly in an oil drum. We keep walking but never get closer. Blocks and blocks go by, and I realize my father is bleeding from a gunshot wound, and I am holding the weapon in my hand. That’s when I wake up sweating, tangled in the sheets, unable to go to sleep again.

Corinne gave me a tiny nod that said
I know you’re lying but I’m not going to push it now.
Then she turned to Piper.

“How is Jon around the house these days?” she said.

“All he does is watch westerns on cable,” Piper said. “
Bonanza
and
The
Big Valley
for Pete’s sake, and drinks beer until he passes out.”

“How would you know?” I said. “You’re always at work.”

I hated westerns. Drank two beers a month, maybe.

Corinne wrote something down.

“And you never shut up about your boss,” I said.

Piper took a quick breath, nostrils flaring. Corinne didn’t seem to notice.

“Raul this, Raul that.” I arched an eyebrow. “If our relationship wasn’t so rock solid, I might be jealous.”

Piper scratched her face with her middle finger.

“Jon, let’s talk about your drinking,” Corinne said. “How many alcoholic beverages do you consume each day?”

“I usually have some gin with my cornflakes. After that it’s a blur.”

Corinne steepled her fingers. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward fixing it.”

I sighed, looked at my watch, anxious to leave even though I had nowhere to be.

“Our hour is not finished yet,” Corinne said.

I tried to relax. We sat in silence for a long while.

Finally, Corinne asked Piper about her “kids.”

Piper, an orphan, collected parentless children as a hobby-slash-form of self-therapy. Dozens of them, maybe more. She sponsored war orphans in the Balkans, the offspring of AIDS victims in Africa, street urchins in South America. Pictures of the children served as bonding substitutes, adorning the walls of her living space. She sent presents to each and every one for holidays and birthdays.

It was sweet and endearing and just a little bit crazy.

Piper and Corinne talked about her orphans for a period of time. Then our session was over. Corinne smiled and said she looked forward to seeing us next time.

Piper and I left together. We walked silently down the hall.

In the elevator, we were alone.

I pushed the button for the ground floor, turned, faced Piper.

“I put some feelers out for this Tremont kid,” she said. “You go down to West Dallas, be careful, okay?”

I nodded.

She slid into my arms, tilted her face toward mine, and kissed me. We stayed that way, intertwined, lips together, until the door opened in the lobby.

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

“For what?”

“We always seem to be on different pages.”

I mentally conceded the point.

Back when we were together, if one of us wanted to stay at home, the other wanted to go out. She liked zombie movies; I preferred comedies. The only time we came together emotionally, thinking and operating as a single unit, was when our backs were to the wall. But if you built a relationship on seeking out danger so two could be as one, then neither would live very long.

“At least we’re in the same book,” I said.

She stared at me for a moment and then darted from the elevator.