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The cooking equipment recently installed in the embalming/cremation room barely leaves enough space for our funeral services. But the stuff is state-of-the-art, or so Sean insists. You know what’s entirely convenient? Just like Sean promised, there was no need to hire additional staff to cook the new drug concoction Sean and my lovely wife came up with.
Smirking Jack and Tall Jay can handle the process pretty easily by mixing together several forty-pound bags that are identified only by the chemical composition codes attached to them. What’s even more convenient? The chemicals are readily available at chemical stores across the country that cater to drug manufacturers, hospitals, colleges, university laboratories, research programs, dentistry suppliers and offices, and yes, even funeral parlors like the new and improved Fitzgerald Funeral home, where wakes are no longer required to be a deadly sad affair.
So, what’s the new product that already seems to be taking the country by storm? Or at least, the Northeast portion of what was once Juan Perez’s territory? It’s not a pill. It’s not a powder. It’s not even an ice cube-like, translucent chunk of blue crystal. It is instead an aerosol spray that can be ingested by either inhaling it with a common vape device like all the spoiled kids use to smoke inside the Starbucks, or by...get this...using an aerosol device that sort of looks like a black mace can, to spray it on your face. But vaping the drug has turned out to be by far, the most popular of choices since customers can use the stuff in plain sight.
I repeat. Unlike most illicit mind-altering substances that not only mess up your brain, but also your work, your health, your relationships with family and friends, and in general, your life, our product can be used right out in the open. The product even has a sweet aroma to it, reminiscent of Bubble Gum. Thus, the name, Bubble Gum. That’s what Joanne insisted on calling it. Naturally, Sean loved the idea (since it was my wife’s idea), and even Don Juan Perez liked the idea.
“It all sounds so innocent when you think about it,” he says in his smooth Latin accent from behind a mammoth mahogany wood desk he transported from his giant hacienda outside Mexico City along with the many hunting trophies mounted to the mahogany walls. Or so he is quick to tell Sean, me, and Joanne during our initial face to face with him (Carcov is aware of the meeting but apparently, he never shows his face in public. Not even Sean knows what he looks like).
Perez sits up straight in his leather swivel chair, plants his elbows on the desk and clasps his hands together at the knuckles. He’s wearing an expensive silk shirt that’s unbuttoned enough to show off his weight trained pecs and a silver cross that rests in between them. A 9mm Glock sits on the desk beside an open laptop computer. Our guns were checked at the door when we were frisked upon entering by a very massive Mexican man who’s tattooed from head to toe.
Set on a small table behind his desk, directly under a double-hung window, are two framed portraits of his dead younger brothers, Hector and Julio. They’re younger in the pictures than they were when they were killed outside Little’s Lake. School pictures. Pre-teens with no tattoos and full heads of neatly combed hair. Far more innocent looking than the bald, tattoo-covered gangsters Joanne encountered on the side of the road.
A statue of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe is set between the photos, and a rosary is draped over it. Several candles are also placed before the photos. The wax and the wicks have been burned considerably. Obviously, Hector is getting some good use out of his shrine.
“Your proposal to make my organization the exclusive distributor for the Northeast corridor is certainly an interesting one,” the drug Lord says while smoothing out his thick black mustache with his index finger and thumb. “But one question. This stuff is selling like hot cakes as you Americans like to say. You’ve made quite a mark on this city and done so in almost no time. You’ve come out of nowhere with a product that is not only enjoyed by the minorities...the Latinos and the Blacks...but also the average white suburbanites. It can be ingested out in the open with a simple Vape device. It produces a pleasant odor that can easily be confused for one of the many vape products available on the market today, legal and illegal.”
“Cops don’t give a shit about what you vape, buddy,” Sean chimes in, his red face full of smiles.
I feel a pit grow in my stomach at Sean’s interjection. My eyes lock on Joanne’s. I can tell by her expression she doesn’t think it was a prudent move either. Don Juan Perez of the Escobar Cartel doesn’t look like the type of man who enjoys being interrupted in mid conversation. To prove my point, he shoots Sean a look that freezes even my organs. He also snatches up his gun and points the barrel at Sean’s beet-red face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sean,” he says, thumbing back the pistol hammer. “But I am not your fucking buddy. Entender?”
Sean’s smile fades. When he swallows, you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his flabby neck. Perez grins again, gently thumbs the hammer back to safety position, and just as gently, sets the gun back down on the desktop. Glancing at the wood panel walls, I can’t help but spot his many mounted hunting trophies, including an eight-point buck, an elk head, and even a boar’s head. In my mind, I picture Sean’s head mounted to the wall also.
“Now, where was I?” he says with a pleasant grin.
“Our product can be ingested with a common vape device,” Joanne offers.
Juan glances at my wife and offers her the gentlest of smiles.
“Thank you, my fine lady,” he says.
I might be jealous of Perez’s smooth demeanor and the way his eyes seem to undress my wife, but I’m going to be honest here: I’m too afraid of the drug cartel kingpin to care.
“My point is that you must be making millions of dollars already,” he goes on. “Why decide to suddenly cut me in on the action?”
Because we know that eventually you will kill us and take over our operation, I want to say, since it’s the obvious answer.
Instead, I say, “If I may speak, sir.”
Perez makes like a pistol with his right hand, points it not at me but at Sean.
“You see, Mr. Sean,” he says, “that is precisely how one should go about addressing me inside my office, inside my city hacienda.”
“My bad, bu—” Sean spits, catching himself before getting out the entire, buddy.
Shaking his head, Juan Perez rolls his dark eyes around in their deep sockets. He gently sets the fingers on his left hand on his pistol, like it’s a cat that desires some petting and caressing. If I have to make an educated guess, I’d say the cartel drug lord hasn’t taken much of a liking to Sean. But he has taken a liking to our product and its sudden popularity, and that’s what counts.
Perez turns his attention back to me.
“You were saying, Mr. Jones?”
“My partners and I decided it might be better to partner up with someone of your expertise and long reach.”
“Long reach,” he says, once more tickling his pistol. It’s a question.
“I guess what I’m trying to say, sir, is that you will be able to distribute our product far and wide, while we, on our own, would be stuck with what we earn from dealing in Albany and surrounding communities.”
Of course, he knows this already, but for some reason, he wants to hear me say it, as if it entertains him.
“And for this service,” Perez goes on, “how much would you be willing to pay me?”
“Twenty percent of the gross,” I say, swallowing a brick.
It’s the number we all agreed upon before taking the meeting. It’s also the number that Sean came up with, as if he’s an authority on dealing with a Mexican drug cartel.
Perez’s eyes go wide. “Do not insult me, Mr. Jones. I am in no mood for insults.” Glancing over his shoulder at the shrine for his little brothers. “I lost most of my family some months back, so I am not in the best of moods these days.”
In my mind, I see Joanne and me pouring hydrochloric acid over their bodies. I can still smell the disintegrating, tattooed flesh. If only Juan knew that what remains of the bodies are buried in the basement of my home, we’d never leave the hacienda fortress alive.
I glance at Joanne and Sean. Our plan is to come up in price in five percent increments if he gives us a tough time, which he is. But my gut is telling me that dickering with the drug lord will only piss him off all the more. And there’s the matter of the pistol on the desk. Maybe, if he gets really good and pissed off, he’ll kill us and take over our operation anyway.
Joanne must be reading my mind, because she takes a step forward, crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a loose, cotton button-down over a tight, short skirt, and she’s showing off ample cleavage. Her hair is lush and long, and the black pumps on her feet give her a lot of height while making her long legs look firm and sexy. She’s become a far cry from the aging, somewhat frumpy housewife she’d been back before this whole thing started.
Now that both of us are working out with a personal trainer on a daily basis, we’ve both lost about twenty-five pounds apiece and put on muscle. A lot of muscle thanks to daily peptide supplements our personal trainer has us on, like CJC-1295 and Epamoralin. I’ve even trimmed my hair all the way down to the scalp and grown a goatee and mustache. I’ve also taken to wearing one of five new suits I purchased from Brookes Brothers. The suits make me look every bit the thumb-on-the-business-pulse businessman. Even Sean has improved his image by buying a new suit or two, one of which he’s sporting today.
“How much would you like, Mr. Perez?” she gently asks.
She leans over the desk, plants both palms flat on the desktop, her many new silver bracelets wrapped around both wrists jangling. I know what she’s doing, of course. My wife is maybe five or six years older than Juan Perez, but like I say, as of late she’s been transforming herself back into the stunning beauty she was many years ago when we first met, and we had our entire lives to look forward too. I guess you could say, Perez will consider her a MILF or even a GILF. That is, Brad Junior had children of his own.
Perez’s eyes go wide. He focuses not on her face but on her luscious breasts and the black, lacy pushup bra that supports them. He inhales and exhales.
“Fifty percent,” he says.
That’s when Joanne slowly straightens up, goes around the desk, and takes up a position directly behind the drug lord’s chair. Reaching out, she begins to rub his shoulders, massaging them lightly. It’s torture to watch, but then, it’s also a sort of pleasure. She’s become a real pro negotiator. It’s an amazing thing to witness when you consider she used to volunteer for the local library.
“Now how we can we possibly go more than thirty-five percent, Juan?” she gently says.
Using his first name like that is a nice touch. It’s something Sean and I could never get away with.
His eyes closed, he seems to be melting into his leather chair with every squeeze of Joanne’s long fingers.
“Forty percent,” he whispers. “Or no deal, bella dama.”
She massages him for a few more long beats before coming back around the desk. Not bothering to even glance at me or Sean, she simply extends her hand over the big wood desk.
“Deal,” she says.
Perez smiles, stands.
“You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Jones,” he says, taking her hand in his. Rather than shaking it, he holds onto it like he never wants to let go. “Perhaps you would like to come to work for me one day.”
He glances slyly into my eyes when he says it, like he’s trying to prove how much more powerful he is than me. To be honest, he is that much more powerful.
“Why thank you for such a kind offer, Mr. Perez,” Joanne says. “But I’m not sure you could afford me.”
My heart flies up into my throat. Shooting a glance at Sean, I see his face turn bedsheet white. What the hell is my wife doing tossing wisecracks at a ruthless drug running killer like Juan Perez?
His face goes tighter than a tick. All time seems to stop. Until he slowly grows an ear-to- ear grin.
“I like you, Joanne Jones,” he says. “I like you a lot. These caballeros you work and live with...they don’t know how lucky they are to have you.”
She turns to me, grins slyly.
“No, they most certainly do not, Mr. Perez,” she says.
Reaching across the desk, he takes hold of her hand once more.
“You may continue to call me Juan,” he says. Then, glaring at me and Sean. “But you two will address me as Don Perez from this point on. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Don Perez,” Sean says.
Suck up...
I keep my mouth shut.
Slipping her hand out from Don Perez’s hand, Joanne turns to me, gives me a look like, Let’s get the hell out of here while the getting is good.
We turn for the door. But just before I get there...just as Sean has his trembling hand wrapped around the doorknob, Don Juan Perez calls out for me.
“Mr. Jones,” he says.
A start in my heart.
“Yes,” I say like a question. I’m still facing the thick, dark wood, six-panel door.
“Please turn around,” he orders.
I turn.
He squints his eyes, nods ever so slightly, then purses his thick lips. Once more, he smooths his mustache with index finger and thumb, like it helps him think harder.
“Have we ever met before?” he asks. “Because I feel like I know your face. But I can’t quite place it.”
In my head, flashes of coming face to face with the drug lord months ago when he paid a visit to the site of his younger brother’s killings. I was still a mailman then and dressed in my uniform. I was also a heck of a lot fatter. I had an unruly head of salt and pepper hair, and my face wasn’t masked by a mustache and goatee.
“My face is a common sort of face, I’m afraid, Don Perez,” I say. “I can easily be confused for just about any schmuck walking the streets.”
He grins and nods.
“You are indeed one of the common folk, Mr. Jones,” he says. “The name says it all. Jones. It’s as common as Smith, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, just wanting to get the hell out of there.
But his eyes...there’s something in his dark eyes and the way they stare into mine that tells me, he isn’t entirely convinced we haven’t met before. It’s possible, one day it will dawn on him where he met me, and when that day comes, there will be hell to pay. That is, he somehow links me and Joanne to the murders of his younger brothers.
“Adios, amigos,” Don Juan Perez says.
“Adios, Don Perez,” I say.
We leave the downtown hacienda fortress as fast as the good Lord allows.