Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (12 page)

Thirty-three

Hector walked quickly to the center of the large room to join the circle. He patted two Kings on their shoulders and waited as they reluctantly made room for him between them. Then he got down on one knee like the rest of the Supreme Council and tried to blend in. Tardiness for official meetings usually earned a group beating, but Hector was more slippery than most and knew how to leverage his relationship with Carlos. Unfortunately for him, a Latin King can play that card only so many times before karma catches up.

Standing erect in the center of the circle, listening intently with his hands clasped behind his back, was Carlos, known as King C., Supreme Inca of the Massachusetts Chapter of the Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation. Kneeling next to him and taking notes on a small tablet was Kelvin, his personal assistant. Kelvin took detailed minutes of the meeting while King C. focused his attention on his chief of intelligence, occasionally looking away to scan the rest of his advisors.

“Okay. That’s enough. Thank you for your loyalty to the crown, King Juan. You’re taking some major risks to get me the information I need to make good decisions, and I will never forget that.
Amor de Rey
!”

“
Amor de Rey
!” responded the council in unison.

“Let’s make one thing clear to everyone right now. Once it’s ours, we will never give up territory. Not to Bloods, not to Crips, not to anyone. We hold at all costs. Everyone know what I’m sayin’?
Amor de Rey
?”

“
Amor de Rey
!” responded the council members, their words echoing throughout the cavernous room.

“We gotta keep what we got, but we also gotta expand. You know what I’m sayin’? New territories, new members, new markets. Remember what I said last meeting? The future of any organization rests on its ability to attract new members and business opportunities. Let those other bitches waste their time trying to get what we already got while we keep that shit
and
get more.
Amor de Rey
!”

“
Amor de Rey
!”

King C. nodded his head and slowly scanned the circle clockwise before resting his sights on Hector.

“King Heavy. How are you doing tonight?”

Hector swallowed as sweat poured down his face and neck.

“Very good, King C.,” his voice cracked.

The Supreme Inca raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“You’re not fooling anyone.”

Hector surveyed the circle of burning eyes and forced an unconvincing smile to try and mask his paranoia.

“I serve the nation, King C.”

Carlos paced slowly toward Hector as he spoke.

“I know you do, Heavy. But you’re not looking so heavy these days. What’s your secret? Diet? Exercise?”

Hector scanned the circle again, seeing the blank stares turned to smirks as everyone waited for his answer to the Supreme Inca’s question. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and casually wiped his forehead.

“Just doing my part to battle obesity. You know how it is, Carlos.”

Most of the council looked away at the sarcastic comment and familiar use of King C’s real first name. Carlos stayed focused on Hector, his eyes burning with intensity.

“Yeah, I know how it is. Organizations are the same way—always looking for ways to trim the fat … or remove tumors. Let’s you and I talk in private after the meeting.”

Carlos spun around slowly and addressed the nation’s enforcer and chief disciplinarian directly.

“Let’s hear from you, King Loc. Tell me something good.
Amor de Rey
!”

“
Amor de Rey
!” replied all but Hector, who was rattled from the group shaming and already worried about his meeting after the meeting.

Hector, you stupid fuck.

Thirty-four

Mark changed into shorts and a t-shirt, popped open a cold beer, and stretched out comfortably on the couch, his head propped up by an old, dusty pillow, only to realize that the remote control for the TV was sitting on top of the cable box.

Get up and get the remote, or just lie here until I die? Or at least until I need another beer?

He took a long sip from the bottle and thought about Frank Tagala next door.

What the hell happened to him? What happened to his wife and kid? And how the hell can you manage to work a job like his
—
or any job
—
when you’re that fucked up? Agnes never mentioned anything about the neighbors over the years. Agnes. The box.

He took the last swig of beer and placed the bottle on the counter on his way to Agnes’s den.

Thirty-five

Two Kings closed the double doors tightly, leaving Carlos and Hector alone on the balcony. Carlos rested his elbows on the railing and gazed out over the Boston skyline.

“You know, we’ve worked hard to get where we are today?”

“Yeah, we have. No doubt. This shit didn’t build itself,” answered Hector, glancing left and right to make sure they were alone while keeping his distance from the railing.

“There’s more at stake now than ever. And that means we gotta be more careful than ever. Too much to lose, Hector. No weak links, you see what I’m sayin’?”

“Of course,” he started, but Carlos quickly cut him off.

“Where’s Pedro? I haven’t heard from him today and he didn’t show up tonight. That’s not like him. Have you seen him?”

“No, man. I haven’t seen him lately,” answered Hector. Technically, this answer was true. He hadn’t seen Pedro since the day before, when he strangled the nosy accountant and buried the body somewhere in western Massachusetts.

“Okay. Tell him I need to talk to him ASAP. He still owes me some answers, and I’m losing patience.”

“No problem, C. Anything you need—you know that. I’m your guy—
Amor de Rey
for life, you know.”

“For life. Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth,” added Carlos matter-of-factly.

Members of the Latin Kings nation may disagree on many topics, but the oft-repeated maxim of “once a King, always a King” was universally acknowledged. The only way out of the nation was to die. Whether that came about through natural causes or someone else’s plans was increasingly out of members’ control, especially for the anointed few in leadership. When you join the nation, the death clock starts ticking. As you climb the ladder, the ticking accelerates. By the time one reaches the top, everyone knows he’s on borrowed time. There are no retired Supreme Incas from Massachusetts. They are all either dead or serving lengthy prison sentences.

Carlos turned to face Hector, put a hand on his moist shoulder, and spoke softly.

“You know I love you, Hector. You’re the son of my favorite
tía
and that means something. But one of the best parts of being a King is never having to choose between family and the nation … because the nation
is
your family. I don’t know what the fuck is up with you, but you need to figure shit out and fix it. You also owe apologies to the rest of the council for disrespecting them.”

“You’re right, Carlos. I was planning on doing just that as soon as we’re finished here. I’ll straighten shit out. Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry, Hector. You should worry sometimes too. That way you don’t end up like King Shorty,” he offered with a chuckle.

Hector swallowed uncomfortably and tried to block the image of a headless, armless torso out of his consciousness.

“We’re done for now. Send in King Base on your way out,” said Carlos over his shoulder as he returned his gaze to the skyline.

Thirty-six

Mark sat at Agnes’s desk, pinching her vintage emerald ring between two fingers and admiring it in the light. Agnes had worn the ring on her right hand for most of her life, but he had never noticed the elegant, hand-carved designs that adorned the fourteen-carat gold setting until now. He rotated the ring slowly, and the modest stone flickered a brilliant green when the light struck it just right.

Placing the ring aside, he sat back and unfolded the letter, dated one week before Agnes’s death. It was addressed to Mark with the words “Private and Confidential” at the very top of the page. Her handwriting was shaky but readable.

             
My dearest Mark,

As I prepare for whatever comes next, I wanted to share a few things with you.

I have but one regret in life, which I will explain momentarily, but my decision to adopt and to build my life around you was the single best decision I ever made. Thank you for accepting me, for allowing me to love you, and for loving me back. I could not be more proud of the man you’ve become. 

              Mark folded both hands over the letter, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

Of course, you already know that so I will not belabor the point. Nor will I offer trivial advice. People are different and they all need to choose their own paths, and opinions will vary as much as the weather in New England. But the one thing that all people can agree on at the end of their lives is this—it goes by so quickly, Mark. One second you are in the prime of your youth, the next thing you know you are in your forties. The journey from forties to late seventies passes even faster, and to this day I am wondering where all the time went! And then it hits me. I spent my time focused on the thing I loved the most in my life—you. There is no greater cause than giving your unconditional love to another human being, Mark. It is the only thing that matters at the end of the road. Did you love and allow yourself to be loved? If the answer to both of those questions is yes, you have lived life to its fullest.

Mark, you once asked me if I had ever known true love. The answer is yes, but for reasons that I do not fully understand, I kept it at a distance. The result is that I have a big, empty part of me that wonders how things could have been had I simply accepted the gift. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. It goes by so fast, Mark. Make the most of every second.

I’m not proud of this last part, but I hope you understand that I made promises and did not feel I had the right to break them. Mark, your birth mother did not abandon you and I did not adopt you through an orphanage. Nor is your birth mother’s identity a mystery—I knew her.

Mark stood up stunned and continued reading.

I have always found comfort sitting and praying in an empty church, with none of the distractions or pretenses that come with corporate worship, just me and the Father. I have never doubted my faith, but I have often doubted the institution of the church and questioned the wisdom of giving men such power and influence over people’s lives. The day I met your mother, I was feeling confused and directionless. I had dedicated my life to the service of God, but I felt like I was actually serving a thankless, aging clergy who were out of touch with the real world. I was asking God for strength when a beautiful young woman emerged from the confessional and broke my concentration. She wore a colorful sundress and tears were running down her face. Not the happy tears that sparkle and glow—these were tears of shame, the kind that cut and sting all the way down your neck. She was so graceful and radiant in the way she removed the handkerchief from her purse and dabbed the tears from her face.

I tried not to stare, but the clicking of her heels stopped when she reached the back of the church and a little voice told me to look. She waved toward the altar as if she was saying goodbye. Then she ran out the front doors.

I found her in the prayer garden next to the church. She sat on a stone bench with spring flowers in full bloom all around her. “I was hoping you would come,” she said as I approached from behind. I sat next to her and held her until she ran out of tears, her smooth young hands never leaving her belly. She had sought advice, guidance, and love from the church. But all she got was guilt and shame for her sins against God. The details of your mother’s life are not mine to share—only her identity.

I befriended your mother that day and, with the help of a trustworthy young priest and another sister with midwife experience, we helped her through the pregnancy and delivered you safely, right into my waiting arms. Seeing you come into the world was the most thrilling experience of my life, Mark. My only regret came later, when the priest offered to leave the church and marry me so that you would have a father and we could live as a family. I do not fully understand why I repeatedly declined, but he gave me the enclosed emerald ring and said the offer would remain open forever. When we moved to Massachusetts, he moved also so he could be close to us. That priest’s name was Father Frederick Peck and he was the closest thing you ever had to a father.

During Father Peck’s final days, he told story after story of the time he had spent with you and how thankful he was for having both of us in his life. I am thankful for him too, but there is a pain inside me that will never go away because I was too shortsighted and scared to fully accept his love. How difficult it must have been for him to always be on the outside looking in. I can’t help but wonder how different things could have been for all of us had we lived as a family.

I am so sorry for burdening you with this when I’m not there for support. Sometimes events that don’t make sense at the time end up being the best things that ever happen to you. The day I met your mother was the most important day of my life.

She insisted that she never wanted you to know her name, but she reached out a handful of times to check on you. She even visited once when you were a teenager, but she said meeting you and looking into your eyes was too much for her to bear. She left with a promise that she would never again make contact, not because she didn’t care but because she felt it was unfair to you. I insisted that she take the only picture of you I had handy, a wonderful shot of you and Father Peck on the front steps of his parish. I have not heard from her since, but I can’t bear the thought of leaving you without telling you the truth. What you do with the information is entirely up to you, Mark. Your mother’s name is Lois Sumner. The last I knew, she was still living somewhere in New York, but that was decades ago. She never offered your father’s name and I never asked.

You are a wonderful man with unlimited potential, Mark. Keep an open mind and be ready for life’s little curveballs. Most of all, remember to seize opportunities while you can, because no door stays open forever.

With unconditional love,

Agnes

Mark folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope, overcome by emotion—grief from the loss, shock from the news, and guilt for not being there. Then, for the first time in years, he bowed his head and cried uncontrollably.