Rodriguez stepped outside and saw the helicopter heading their way, low to the ground, nose down. Below the Federale chopper, following its path, was a white panel truck. It looked like a medium-sized moving van, spitting dirt as it moved along the desert floor.
As the helicopter advanced, Rodriguez’s soldiers were ready to fire their weapons. When Garza saw this, he yelled, “No. They are with me.”
Rodriguez’s men all turned toward Garza with confusion on their faces. There was a unique trust between Rodriguez and Garza, so the presidential hopeful told his men to lower their weapons.
Garza pointed to the truck as it slowed to a stop in front of the tent, then signaled the pilot of the helicopter. A Mexican policeman waved back to Garza from the pilot’s chair, then lifted up the chopper and turned toward the direction he came.
Garza had the impulse to put on his sunglasses and smile as Rodriguez looked at him with complete astonishment. It was one thing to own the police, but quite another to have them actually escorting your illegal substances for you. Such a brash display of power.
Garza greeted the driver of the truck as he moved to the rear of the vehicle and pushed up the sliding door until it was completely open. Once the contents were exposed, Rodriguez shook his head in amazement. The entire wagon was filled with wooden crates.
Rodriguez followed Garza who hopped into the back of the truck. Garza grabbed a hammer from the floor and pried loose a panel of wood from the top of a crate, then another, until the entire lid was gone. Garza reached down and spread apart the bubble wrapping until a layer of assault rifles was exposed.
“There are three hundred fifty of them,” Garza said. “Plus ten thousand rounds of ammo.”
Rodriguez’s expression told Garza all he needed to know. He gazed at the bulk of weaponry with absolute intoxication, as if he were imagining the amount of clout he would acquire with such a gift and it pleased him to a childlike smile.
“You will let them know where this came from,” Garza said. “It will solidify our bond and they will show you the support you need for election.”
“Yes,” Rodriguez replied, still appearing dazzled by the display of power Garza had produced. He peeled his attention from the box of toys to take in his friend. “I certainly will,” he said, glancing at the Federale helicopter in the distance.
Garza held out his hand. Rodriguez slapped it away and pulled Garza into a bear hug.
“There is so much backstabbing in this country,” Rodriguez whispered in Garza’s ear. “It is good to know there is still loyalty among old friends.”
“Always,” Garza said. “Always.”
Florence State Prison was only a couple of hours from Payson so Tommy had no problem making his 1:00 PM appointment. The facility was over a hundred years old and looked and smelled the part.
Tommy sat in the interview room waiting for the prisoner to arrive. He’d never been offered the interview room to visit a prisoner before, but he’d never visited someone of Frank DeRosa’s stature. A simple wooden table sat in the middle of the room with names and initials carved into the wood. Tommy thought he might have seen Jesse James’s name etched in there somewhere. On the table was a pair of old-fashioned microphones.
The jail cell doors opened and an older man with a full head of white hair strolled in without any cuffs or chains. He wore a freshly ironed orange jumpsuit and had freshly manicured nails. Tommy held out his hand to greet the man and smelled expensive Chardonnay on his breath.
Frank DeRosa didn’t lift his hand to return the gesture; he simply sat down across from Tommy and stared vacantly.
Tommy sat as well. “Mr. DeRosa, my name is Tommy Bracco. I used to work for Mr. Capelli back in Baltimore.” Tommy looked up and made the sign of the cross over his torso. “May he rest in peace.”
DeRosa didn’t move a muscle.
Tommy felt like he was being timed, so he quickened his pitch before he’d lost the guy’s attention altogether.
“Mr. DeRosa,” Tommy said, “my cousin is with the FBI. He chases terrorists. It’s the only thing he does. Anyway, he’s trying to get to a particular terrorist down in Mexico who’s about to transport a nuclear device into the United States.”
So far the only thing DeRosa found interesting was a fly which flew around his head.
“Anyway, I was hoping you could help us out. I told my cousin you might be able to inspect a phony bill and tell us where we might find the printer of such a thing. In return, he would have you released within forty-eight hours.” Tommy showed the palms of his hands. “Mr. DeRosa, if this phony bill was created by a friend of ours, then I wouldn’t expect you to ever roll over on such a person. But if he were just an independent contractor, someone we’re not close with, well, you might be interested in the offer.”
DeRosa remained still. He stared at Tommy as if waiting for the punch line of a joke. After a moment he found the fly again and watched it land on the table between them.
Tommy waited for a full minute before he’d realized he was wasting his time. He stood up and nodded. “I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me, Mr. DeRosa. I won’t be bothering you anymore. And I’ll be sure to tell my cousin to leave you alone as well.”
Tommy was two steps from the door when he heard something which made the hair stand up on the back of his head.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Tommy turned to face his accuser and held up his hands. “Mr. DeRosa, I can assure you, if we had met before I would certainly have remembered that meeting.” Now he was feeling the temperature rise in the room. He may have stepped over some line which he shouldn’t have crossed.
DeRosa pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit,” he ordered.
Tommy wasted no time taking his seat.
DeRosa raised his head and looked down at Tommy as if examining him. “It was a long time ago, Christmas Eve,” DeRosa said. “You came to my daughter’s home back in Baltimore. She lived in the same neighborhood as you.”
Tommy’s mouth became dry. He didn’t like stories which he couldn’t remember the ending.
“You came over dressed as Santa, carrying a gigantic stuffed lion for my granddaughter.”
Tommy waited for the knockout.
“Anyway, my daughter says you were a nice guy and brought the local kids gifts every year.”
Tommy shrugged, hoping for a reprieve. “She’s not lying about that.”
“Maybe not,” DeRosa said. “But me, I’m a suspicious guy. Some casual acquaintance happens over the house while I’m staying there, and I’m not comfortable. Especially someone who works for another family.” DeRosa raised his eyebrows. “Right?”
“I agree. There’s no other way to look at that.”
“Of course not,” DeRosa said. “So, once my granddaughter went to bed that night, I had that stuffed animal torn apart. Every inch of that thing was inspected for bugs. Know what I found?”
“A bunch of cotton?”
DeRosa broke out into an all out laugh. He slapped his hands together, the memory seeming to keep his demeanor light and Tommy was all for that.
“I spent the entire night having that thing stitched back together. Piece by piece. Boy, what a long Christmas Eve.”
“So I met you?” Tommy asked.
“Naw, I watched your visit from the back of the room.” DeRosa cocked his head. “Do you remember who my daughter is now?”
“I apologize, Mr. DeRosa. I don’t have any children of my own, so I’ve been delivering toys to kids in the neighborhood for probably fifteen years. I simply don’t recall which one was your daughter. I am so sorr-”
“Stop,” DeRosa held up his hand. “You don’t owe me any apologies.” He looked around the room, then grabbed the microphone in front of him. “This thing on?”
“I doubt it,” Tommy said. “I haven’t touched a thing.”
DeRosa flicked a switch at the base of the microphone a couple of times to assure it was off, then he rested his elbows on the table and gave Tommy a reflective look. “I hear you’re coming to see me and I’m wondering what’s this guy up to. So I had you checked out. Everyone I talk to says the same thing. This guy plays it straight. He don’t talk out of both sides of his mouth.” DeRosa nodded to himself. “So what’s the first thing you tell me? Your cousin is with the feds. You don’t bullshit me with some cockamamie story about helping our country or being with my family. No, you tell me straight out, your cousin needs help. See, I understand wanting to help out family.”