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A Year and One Half Later
Tulum, Mexico
The day is bright and because of the ocean breeze, not overly hot, even for Tulum in June. The spot the kids chose for their wedding day couldn’t be more perfect if it was chosen by the good Lord himself. It’s a smallish affair for a Mexican wedding with maybe seventy white wood folding chairs set up on the groom’s side and an equal amount on the bride’s side. Not only is every single chair occupied, but some folks are standing in the back—the women in their pretty skirts and dresses, the men in sharp suits, and some in tuxedos.
The wood, stage-like platform where the vows are about to be recited has been painted virgin white and draped with hundreds of white roses. It is positioned almost precariously on the edge of a small cliff that overlooks the deep blue ocean. The smell of the sea is in the air, and so is love. Love and harmony.
Joanne sits beside me in the first row, her hand holding mine tightly. While I’m wearing a custom-tailored black tux, she’s wearing a bone-colored cocktail dress adorned with sequins. It cost sixteen thousand dollars and had to be shipped from New York City by special private carrier. No U.S. post office down here. Her privately trained body looks ravishing in the dress and her long dark hair is lush and perfect. She no longer wears thick eyeglasses now that she’s had Lasik surgery from the man who’s considered the best eye surgeon in all of Mexico. If you were to meet her for the first time, you would swear Joanne isn’t the mother of the groom, but instead his sister. Okay, maybe an older sister, but certainly not his mother.
The black-vested Latin priest approaches the handsome couple as they take their positions on the platform, Bradley Junior is clean shaven, big, tall, handsome and happy as I’ve ever seen him. And Jill, dressed in her white satin gown, her hair pulled up in a bun, her stunning face looking as if it were carved from the best Italian marble and just as delicate, is a beautiful apparition to behold. Her striking blue eyes blanket my heart and soul with warmth.
“Do you, Bradley, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the priest asks.
“I do,” Bradley says.
Joanne squeezes my hand even harder and begins to cry.
“Do you, Jill, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest says. “Mr. Dr. Jones, you may kiss your bride, Mrs. Dr. Jones.”
That’s when the crowd breaks out in laughter. It’s a very funny quip for a priest who seems to take his job very seriously. Even Joanne laughs through her tears. My son takes Jill in his arms and plants the sweetest kiss on her you ever did see. My own eyes well up as the entire place explodes in applause. That’s also when my mind begins to spin, and the events of nearly two years unfold in my head. From the moment Joanne pressed the transmit button on the remote detonator, to the explosion that shook the city and at the same time, took out the entire Perez fortress and everyone inside it, including Don Juan, and his sole surviving son. An estimated thirty-five gangsters were also killed in the blast, plus our three former funeral home employees. No word about a man identified as a Russian national named Carcov was ever mentioned in the reports, but that doesn’t mean he also didn’t buy the farm in the explosion.
Technically speaking, the blast from the pipe bomb itself was not enough to take out the entire four-story brick and cement structure. But it was powerful enough to trigger the explosive fumes coming from the basement cooking setup, turning what was intended to be a small explosion into a massive, chain reaction blast that was said to shatter the windows on many buildings that flank Lark Street.
We calmly drove out of the city that morning, and hit the highway southbound, neither one of us saying a single word for over an hour. And even then, we spoke in short, muted sentences. It was as if we were in shock, not at the blast, so much as what we’d accomplished in the few short months since we’d become drug runners involved in a drug war with a Mexican cartel leader, and how much we’d changed in the process.
We drove through the day and into the night, careful to keep our phones off, only stopping for gas and for food. By the end of the second day, we were in Nevada, and by the next morning, we were in San Diego. By then, the shock had worn off, and it was a matter of getting across the border which, it turns out, wasn’t hard or dangerous at all, thanks to Joanne and Sean, God rest his beer-soaked soul.
It had been around the time we reached Nebraska on the second day that it became apparent we’d need new identities, plus all the documents required to go with them. But how would we manage to get the necessary materials made in just twenty-four hours while we were on the run? It was just a matter of contacting one of Sean’s friends. Not to bring up painful memories but having gotten closer to Sean than I would have preferred, Joanne’s brief affair with him did turn out to be a bit fortuitous considering she’d met some friends of his that could help us out. She even had one of them in her speed-dial. A man named Morris who, like Sean worked in both the casket and the drug business and who had a friend who knew a friend who knew a friend who, for a price, could help us out with everything we needed.
That said, by the time we reached the California border, Morris not only arranged for us to pick up our new identities at a pre-disclosed commercial mailbox location, but we were also given specific direction on when to cross into Mexico via the San Diego/Tijuana border. We were even instructed as to which lane to drive in, and how to respond to the specific questions the border guard would be asking us. We were to ditch all weapons and make sure our cash was stored on our person. The SUV was to be as clean as a whistle and I was to stop at a hardware store for a glass repair kit to fix the two bullet holes in the center of the windshield—a project that turned out to be easy peasy, lemon squeezy as Joanne was fond of saying now and again in our old, boring, broke life.
For all this, we were instructed to PayPal Morris two hundred fifty thousand dollars. No negotiation. No refunds. I didn’t argue with him one bit. I paid the man right away and, as a result, we didn’t just make it across the border into Mexico unscathed and unmolested by both U.S. ICE officials and Mexican border patrol, we positively skated in.
Of course, there was no way we were going to make it to Sean’s funeral, much less Joanne’s mother’s funeral. Something that saddened Joanne to no end, but then, what choice did she have? As for me, I was still disgusted at the brutal method Don Juan Perez chose to end Esther’s life. But then, on the inside, I couldn’t help but be reminded of something Sean used to say, especially on a Sunday afternoon in the Fall, when we were watching football and getting drunk on Budweiser cans in his basement man cave. Sunday evenings were almost always reserved for having dinner with Esther who would spend much of her time berating me to no end, not only for my lack of ambition, but for my three decades-plus inability to keep Joanne in the luxury she’d grown accustomed to when growing up.
He’d say, “Bradley buddy, I know you and your mother-in-law butt heads, and that’s putting it lightly. But you gotta keep in mind something that used to crack up ole’ Winston Churchill about a telegram a buddy of his received regarding the death of his mother-in-law. ‘How shall we proceed?’ asked the sender of the telegram. Churchill’s buddy telegraphed back, ‘Embalm, cremate, bury at sea. Take no chances.’” Sean would crack up and slap me on the back with that one. Even now, after everything we went through together, I can’t help but smile when I think of it.
Speaking of funerals, Don Juan’s and his son’s double memorial service made national, if not international news. It was also attended by just about the entire Albany Democratic Machine, including the DA and the Mayor. Detective Danish never made it out of the Post Office alive. Curiously, his death hasn’t been pinned on Joanne and me since little if no physical evidence of our presence was found on the scene. He was however, buried with full police honors, regardless of his special business relationship with Don Juan Perez.
# # #
WE WEREN’T IN TULUM all that long setting up house along a wide stretch of white sandy beach, when one morning a couple black Suburban’s like the one Perez loaned me (that’s a joke) pulled into our wrap-around driveway. Several big, suited men in sunglasses with two-way radio devices inserted in their ears, emerged from the second SUV, while a third suited man emerged from behind the wheel of the first SUV.
The man riding shotgun was not wearing a suit, but instead, jeans, flipflops, and a colorful red and yellow flowered Hawaiian guayabera shirt. His hair was long and thick, and it was also more gray than dark. His beard and mustache matched it perfectly. I pegged him for maybe sixty-four or five but going on forty. A man who seemed to enjoy life and all it had to offer and who refused to grow up. He was wearing RayBan aviators and, while at first, I had my guard up, he approached me with the sweetest smile you ever did see.
“Mr. Bradley Jones, I presume?” he said, a friendly hand outstretched before me. “I am Don Pedro Escobar, Pablo’s big brother. I was wondering if you happened to have any Bubble Gum on you?”
What followed were some beers and tequila shots on the veranda that overlooked the ocean and some beautiful, young topless sunbathers. Joanne joined us for a couple of rounds. She found Don Pedro to be quite charming and funny. I have to admit, he was quick with a joke. The short of it was that he offered us a partnership deal. If we could somehow replicate the Bubble Gum recipe, he would pay us handsomely for our efforts. If we decided against working with him, no worries, we could live out our days not only in peace, but he would see to it that we were protected by his own personal security service. After all, we’d done the Escobar cartel a great service. Something that took me a little by surprise. And as he was leaving, I couldn’t help but ask him something that weighed heavily on my mind.
“Don Pedro,” I said, “something isn’t making sense to me.”
“What is it, amigo?”
“Don Juan Perez became my enemy. We went to war against one another. Some people even blame his death on me and my wife.”
Don Pedro stole a few moments to chew on that.
Then he said, “What you pulled off against a ruthless killer like Don Juan is nothing short of miraculous. From what I’m told, you were a simple postman before getting into the business, and your wife, a simple woman of the house. You were fading into middle age, obscurity, debt, and before you knew it, death. Until you took out Perez’s little brothers and, in the process, somehow gained his trust. You also created an amazing product which made us millions upon millions and can potentially make us so much more. Escucha, Mr. Jones, what happened between you and Don Juan is not your fault. You did what you had to do to protect you and your family. You should not be shot for it. You should not be skinned alive or beheaded. On the contrary, you should be commended and offered the opportunity to make tens more, if not hundreds of millions more dollars. Not for you and the lovely Joanne, amigo. But for your big family to be. Your child, your grandchildren, and their grandchildren. Do you believe me?”
I didn’t know what it was about Don Pedro, but he possessed something that made me trust him. The feeling in my gut was the exact opposite of when I first met Don Juan and all the ugly, violent gangsters that surrounded him with their shaved heads and their horrid tattoos. To put it mildly, he was offering Joanne and me the chance not of a lifetime, but many lifetimes.
“My wife and I will give your offer a lot of thought, Don Pedro,” I said. “It might take a little leg work on our part to retrieve the precise recipe. But it can be done. In any case, we have been honored to have you in our home as our special guest.”
“I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mr. Jones,” he said.
He smiled warmly as he turned and walked into the golden sunset.
That was many months ago now, and as it turns out, the small home we purchased on the ocean was sold for a much larger hacienda. No scratch that, more like an oceanfront estate. How did we manage it? It didn’t take Joanne long to decide if we should get back into the Bubble Gum business with Don Pedro. Like me she had a good feeling about him. She was also quite confident that she could replicate the recipe by once again contacting her friend Morris, who, you guessed it, knew a friend, who knew a friend, who knew a friend, all of whom had been working associates with you guessed it, the late Sean MacDonald.
Thus far, our Bubble Gum sales have not been limited to the northeast region of the US but the globe over. Just like Don Pedro promised, we have made not tens of millions in profit, but hundreds of millions. We do it all under the guise of having begun a lucrative Mexican import/export business. We’ve even established the equivalent of a limited liability organization with the Mexican government. It’s been quite the ride for a retired postal worker, and former part-time library volunteer.
Now, watching my son embrace his lovely new wife, my heart is filled with joy. I have my family. I have a new life with my wife and best friend, Joanne. I have money to be passed on to generations of Jones’ to come. Soon, I will have my first grandchild. What more could a middle-aged man want?
When the applause dies down, the now freshly married Bradley Junior and Jill step off the platform and make their triumphant walk down the center aisle to more claps and cheers from their adoring family and friends. Photos are snapped and video filmed with smartphones. The videographer we hired from straight out of Hollywood is following them along with a crew that contains professional sound and lighting people. My son’s videotaped wedding will be nothing less than a Hollywood production.
Moments later, both families of the bride and groom line up shoulder to shoulder. Since Joanne and I are the hosts for this great event, she and I take our place first in line, she standing to my right-hand side. The first person to greet us with a handshake for me, a gentle kiss on the cheek for Joanne, and hearty congratulations all around, is none other than Don Pedro Escobar himself. He’s wearing an expensive sport coat over pressed jeans and lizard skin cowboy boots. As always, he’s wearing his RayBan aviators. He not only shakes my hand, but bear hugs me also.
Bringing his lips to my ears, he whispers, “I have something important to tell you. You are no longer simply Mr. Jones, Bradley,” he says. “From now on, you are to be known as something else. Something more befitting of a man of your importance and prestige.” His focus shifting to Joanne. “The same will go for your lovely wife also.”
That’s when he does something incredible. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a gold ring, which he places on the third finger of my left hand. Taking Joanne’s hand in his, he places an identical ring on the same finger on her left hand. It’s the same finger we wear our wedding rings on.
Don Pedro then drops to one knee. Once again, he takes my hand in his, kisses the ring. He takes Joanne’s hand in his and kisses her ring.
Slowly standing, he says, “It is my great honor to be the first to address you both as Don Bradley Jones and Dona Joanne Jones. May your lives be long and healthy.”
And that is how the Jones’ are resurrected, saved from what was a sure death by boredom, complacency, ill health, and financial ruin. In a word, the death of the American Dream. But we were born again into something we never could have imagined not that long ago.
Now, as I inhale the fresh sea air, what I must ask myself is this: What’s wrong with this picture? There’s not a damn thing wrong with it. I’m standing beside my beautiful wife on a cliffside that overlooks the ocean and a property that contains my big white mansion and several other large homes that will be occupied by my children, and my grandchildren. We are richer than God, we are healthy and happy, and have a wonderful future ahead of us. It is a life many men and women can only dream about.
Therefore, what I should be asking is this: What’s right with this picture?
Maybe the Lord works in mysterious ways, but sometimes fate can be more mysterious. Whatever the case, this is not the end of our story. It is instead, the beginning. A beautiful beginning for two people who were once old before their time, but who are now happier and younger than ever before.
Let the dancing begin.
THE END
If you enjoyed American Crime Story, please read all the episodic American Crime Story Books in order and collect all the paperbacks. Or nab all the Zandri thrillers, mysteries, psychological thrillers, and more at www.vinzandri.com.
Winner of the 2015 PWA Shamus Award and the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Original Paperback Novel for MOONLIGHT WEEPS, Vincent Zandri is the NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than 170 novels and novellas including THE REMAINS, THE EMBALMER, THE SHROUD KEY and MOONLIGHT WEEPS. He was also a finalist for the 2019 Derringer Award for Best Novelette. Zandri’s list of domestic publishers includes Delacorte, Dell, Down & Out Books, Thomas & Mercer, Polis Books, Blackstone Audio, and Suspense Publishing. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, Zandri’s work is translated in the Dutch, Russian, French, Italian, Japanese, and Polish. He was the subject of a major feature by the New York Times in 2015 and he’s also made appearances on Bloomberg TV and FOX news. In December 2014, Suspense Magazine named Zandri’s, THE SHROUD KEY, as one of the “Best Books of 2014.” Suspense Magazine also selected WHEN SHADOWS COME as one of the “Best Books of 2016.” A freelance photojournalist and the author of the popular YouTube podcast, The Writer’s Life, Zandri has written for Living Ready Magazine, RT, New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, Writers Digest, The Times Union (Albany), Game & Fish Magazine, The Jerusalem Post, Strategy Magazine, and many more. He lives in Albany, New York and Florence, Italy. For more go to WWW.VINZANDRI.COM
Vincent Zandri © copyright 2024
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