Six Feet Over Carlos Cleatsby Bryan D. Catherman |
Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 appear in this issue. |
| part 2 of 4 |
Mick wasn’t sure where he was. He couldn’t even remember what happened. The last thing he had recollection of was drinks with Mr. Plow and his boys. Did they slip him something? Was he that careless? Were they planning this all along?
A mechanical sound, like an air conditioner, hummed behind him. A blindfold covered his eyes and duct tape held him to a wooden chair. An overwhelming coffee aroma filled his nostrils.
“Sleep okay?” a thin voice said followed by a laugh.
“What day is it?” Mick asked, as his training suggested he do. The idea is to ask questions attempting to demonstrate confusion. This will keep an interrogator from using physical or chemical tactics to induce such a state.
“What do you care? One day, ten, really, what do you care, amigo?” the Hispanic man said.
Mick knew this was not his interrogator; he was only a guard, and a dumb one at that. “Where’s Mr. Plow?”
“Mr. Plow is dead.” The guard removed the blindfold. Mick’s eyes adjusted to the light to see he was in a coffee bean grinding room. Burlap sacks of beans, stacked to the ceiling, filled the room. At one end were a large garage door and two wheelbarrows; to the other side were two large industrial bean grinders. The warehouse ceiling was high; the floor was made of cracked concrete. Mick also saw a large pool of blood soaking into a burlap coffee bag full of freshly ground beans. He cranked his head but he couldn’t turn enough to see the source of the blood.
The guard laughed again. He got up off the stack of bagged whole beans he sat on. As the guard turned the chair, Mick could see four bodies stacked behind him. The last time he saw them they were sharing booze and trading dirty jokes in a dirty street-side bar. One man was Mr. Plow. The three others each had bullets holes in their foreheads. Clearly, Mr. Plow was tortured. Now Mick knew two things: first, Mr. Plow was not his problem, and second, he had been out for days. Three of these men died a while ago. Mr. Plow was fresh, his blood still draining.
The guard stopped laughing. Then he pulled a Motorola two-way radio from his pocket. “He’s awake, sir.”
The guard left after a short pale man with skinny yellow sunglasses entered. Mick recognized the man as another CIA insider.
“Mickey M. Gelletie. 761-23-1191. Age 33. Special Assignment.” The man read from a file. “You were in Cyprus three years ago, yes?” Mick didn’t speak. “Now you are in Mexico. Your target was Mr. Plow, but as you can see, you no longer have a target, Agent Gelletie.” The man gestured at the corpses.
Who identified him? Who gave him up? Was it this CIA agent? Where did his file come from? His thoughts were racing. “You’re Agent Wilson, right? Did you take out Plow? Who ordered you to take out Plow? He was our link; not a problem. Who ordered you?” Mick asked.
“Shut up.” Wilson commanded. “Plow is not important. I know what you did for Plow and the cartel. I even know what you were going to do, but that’s not my business. I need the location. Where was the transfer arranged to happen? Where is the money?”
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” said Mick.
“You told Mr. Plow it was in a grave; or rather, he told you to do it in a grave. The cemetery on the south end of town, to be more specific. I know. You put the money in the grave and next week you and Plow’s men were going back for the coke. This I know. Plow told me.”
“Before or after you cut off his ears. Did he tell you before or after you broke all his fingers.” Mick didn’t want answers. His words weren’t even questions.
Wilson looked at Plow’s body and said, “It don’t matter now, does it? Did you dig up a body or use a fresh hole? I know it was sometime in the last two months, but there are over 1,000 graves there. Which one?”
Mick smiled. “Mr. Plow got the idea from a Clint Eastwood movie, but I bet he didn’t think it would turn out so much like the film. What next, are we going to hang someone and shoot the rope like in that movie? I think that only works in Hollywood. You trying for that kind of spaghetti western? Am I Blondie, or is that you? No wait; you’re Ugly. I guess I’m Blondie. You tell me how this ends? You’ve seen the flick, haven’t you? I might remember the location, but that’s only if I keep my ears. And only if my fingers remain in good working order.” Mick felt happy to have the upper hand.
The two men were professionals. The tension was heavy, but both men were overly calm. Mick looked the other man straight in the eyes and asked, “You went rouge, didn’t you? The thought of all that money got to you, didn’t it? It did....”
Wilson lowered his yellow lenses. “Don’t turn this around onto me. I know that tactic. You must forget that I do this for a living. No, that’s not what’s happening here. You and I both know that. You’re in too deep. There is no help for you now. You know this, too. You know how it goes. Remember Valett?” He closed the file and took a deep breath. “I will get the location out of you. You and I both know that’s my job. I get information. Before this is done, I will know which grave.”
* * *
The next morning, Agent Mike Tollman ordered his breakfast from Julie’s coffee shop bakery. “This muffin is delicious. Did you bake it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s really good.” He smiled and took another bite. The sun was beaming horizontally across the grapevines and into the restaurant. Through squinted eyes, Mike Tollman looked for the cord to shut the blinds.
“It’s on the other side. The stick,” Julie said in a flat but informative tone. She didn’t want him in the restaurant. She didn’t even want him on the vineyard. “I haven’t seen any police cars yet.”
“I’m sure they will start their rounds,” Tollman said as he tipped the wood slats of the blinds.
“It would be better if they didn’t,” she retorted. “It’s bad for business and my mother-in-law doesn’t even like that you’re here, even if you are paying rack rates.”
Mike looked frustrated. “You didn’t have to tell her anything. I guess I should have told you not to tell her. The new room is good, though. Thanks for getting me in there so fast.”
“One of the other guests thought they saw you take a rifle into the room — “
“Oh, no” Tollman interrupted, spitting a small piece of muffin into the air. “I don’t have a rifle. That must have been a mistake. I really am sorry for the trouble, but it’s for your safety. Yours and Max’s. The family always takes care of our own you know.”
“Right, the family.” Julie went into the back. She didn’t need anything in the kitchen, but she wanted to put some space and a tiled wall between her and Agent Tollman. She was thumbing through a magazine when he poked his head around the corner.
“What would it take to get a refill?” he asked. After Julie poured him another cup of coffee, he went over to the window, lifted a slat in the blinds, and gazed out at the rows of red grapes. “This is nice; you’d think Mickey would never want to leave this place.” Another few minutes passed in silence. “So you make red wine? Those grapes look red.” Tollman opened the blinds again, seeing the sun had lifted into the clear sky. The air over the vines looked crisp, clean, and deep blue.
She looked through the window. “The color comes from leaving the skins in the mix longer through the process. We make merlots and red and white zinfandels, but merlots mostly. Sometimes we buy another variety to mix for different blends.”
They sat in the quiet of the morning sun. “Does he ever talk about work?” Tollman asked.
“No, not really,” Julie replied.
“He never mentions places or names or anything?” Tollman dug, scratching for something, anything.
“No. Never. Do you need anything else Mr. Tollman? I have breads to bake.” She lied and he knew it looking at the fresh loaves cooling in the racks behind her.
“I’ll let you get back to work.” Tollman moved to the door but stopped. “You know, there’s something I don’t understand. If Mickey makes wine, why would he bring so much wine back from Mexico?”
* * *
The sound of the bean grinder didn’t bother Mick until the first body bogged down the blades. The motor strained under the request. Three Mexicans labored for two hours bagging Plow and his three executed men into burlap coffee sacks. They mixed in heavy scoops of ground beans to mask the odor.
“Agent Gelletie,” Wilson said, “you know the routine. We have many ways to go here, but I’m going to start by giving you a little gift. I’m going to grant you a reason to live.” Wilson injected Mick with a large dose of light beer colored chemicals. He used no iodine or alcohol around the injection point.
“Sure you are....”
Wilson grinned. “Mickey, come on. You and I are professionals; I’m not playing games with you. I want you to be honest with me and in return, I will be honest with you. For starters, Agent Tollman is working the information backfill.”
“Mike Tollman is at my home?” Mick desperately hoped for a sign that this was a lie.
“Yes. Agent Tollman,” Wilson said. “You remember Cyprus, right? I do, and that’s why I sent Tollman.” The family investigated Agent Tollman for his inappropriate tactics on a mission Mick and Tollman conducted together a few years before. Tollman received a six-month suspension without pay and two years of probation. Had Mick told the truth rather than covering it up, Tollman would have been incarcerated for life.
Mick started to think about Julie and Max. Julie’s smile. Her stubbornness. Her hair. It was longer a few years ago. He liked it longer, and he would tell her if he ever saw her again. How could he have let this happen? Panic crept up from his gut as the drugs overtook his mind.
* * *
Agent Tollman glanced out toward the Gelletie vineyard cottage while the satellite phone secured the connection. Once he heard the tone, he started in with his report. “Sir, it’s the wine. I don’t yet know the details, but the wine thing is strange. He lives on a vineyard. Gelletie took wine to Mexico. I can’t confirm, but I feel those unlabeled bottles we found in Plow’s hotel room are tied to this somehow.”
“Good” Wilson said. “Get me something from the wife. Mickey is better than I thought. If you can, get me an advantage from his kid, too. The file says he claims a child on his insurance.”
* * *
Copyright © 2007 by Bryan D. Catherman
