“The leaks,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “There are leaks. There are always leaks. But when the leaks become bad enough, they need to be plugged.”
There was power in his voice, and control. These things were always present. But for the first time, I heard a hint of desperation.
“I’d love to help you,” I said. “It would be my pleasure.”
He turned to me and smiled. “Excellent. I knew you’d come around. I knew you would, when you saw the truth. We’re just a simple business, like any other.”
He let out a burst of laughter, and I joined him. We laughed together; the man in charge and his newly minted assistant. I got up and poured us coffee.
“It’s important what we’re doing, Julian. We’re supporting a community here. We’re allowing people to live their lives in freedom. We’re providing for many. We’ve created a community free of oppression. I hope you’ve seen that.”
“I have,” I said.
“And Julian,” he said, “there’s been no decision made on my successor.”
“Successor?”
“Yes. Someday I’ll retire. This line of work puts stress on a man, and someday I’ll want to hang it up. Slow things down. Reap the rewards of a life well lived. And when that happens, someone will take over. Someone who can be trusted with the business. Do you understand what I’m saying, Julian?”
“Yes,” I said. “Most definitely, I do.”
We drank coffee and discussed logistics. I would work more, but receive a twenty-five percent raise to start. I would be considered for profit-sharing. There were company cars. He had thought this over.
Vince left politely and told me to report Monday. Someone else would take over financials. He would begin briefing me on logistics. An hour after his exit, my heart slowed to normal.
I left my apartment that evening and walked to town. I needed fresh air. It was cold; the temperature topped out at nineteen degrees that day, and dropped as the sun did. I wore a wool hat and gloves.
For the better part of six months, my mind had rambled. Through the mountains, the people of Otter Ridge, Vince’s business. Rambling, always. Hazy bars and singing and piano playing. Guitar. The mountain chateau. Random cars and Grand Junction. Pot smoke and bricks of heroin. Brown heroin, under electronics. Strange, twitchy men at the drop point. Disappearances.
My mind had wandered through them all since I’d arrived in Otter Ridge, sometimes obsessively. I was tired. I walked along the path by the lake, half-covered in snow and totally deserted. Yellow lights came on in houses nearby and chimneys billowed smoke. Winter was inside season. The cold nipped my fingertips, told me to go home. But here, alone at sunset by the frozen lake, the cold felt good. I could feel each breath moving though my lungs. Crisp, clean. I could see my exhales. The cold drove others away, and left me alone. The cold was my friend.
The stillness of a winter night gave my mind the rest it needed. It temporarily stopped wandering. My feet moved but my thoughts did not; just simple, blissful stillness. It was stillness that comforted me, that told me it would be okay, like a mother to a child. It told me to keep going. There, by the lake as the sun went down and the lights went on, I felt that an end was near, and that feeling gave me relief.
I walked along the lake path facing north. Ahead to my left were the shops of downtown; some bustling with laughter and music, others closed for the day. To my right was the lake, covered in ice and snow. Past that were houses; some modest and some extravagant, all glowing in some way. Past the houses were trees, past the trees were the mountaintops, and past the mountaintops was everything else. He was out there somewhere. Korman. He was out there; perhaps hundreds of miles away, or perhaps right here in my midst. He was moving, taking care, and slipping between the shadows. He was working, and for that I was grateful. I hoped he was here. I hoped he was watching me now.
He’ll have answers, I told myself. He’ll have answers.
49
Dallas Korman sat in a booth with a hamburger, fries, and a half pint of Guinness in front of him. He wore a weathered gray utility shirt and jeans. His hair was light brown, his face obscured by a beard. It was how I’d pictured him. He saw me immediately and casually waved me over.
I did a quick scan of the room and walked toward him. It was busier than Earl’s, but not by much. Korman was the only one in that particular section. I slid across from him and shook his hand.
“Pleasure,” he said.
“Likewise,” I said, my voice hushed.
“Don’t need to whisper,” he said. “They can’t hear shit back here. Acoustics shoot the noise that way.” He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t yell or anything, but don’t need to whisper.”
I looked around and saw the booths next to us were empty. “Okay,” I said.
Korman tore into the burger with one hand, taking down a quarter of it in a single bite. “You hungry?” he asked with a full mouth.
“No, thanks.”
He shook his head. “I’m starvin’. Been eatin’ like crazy since I’ve been up here. Must be the elevation or somethin’.” He took another bite and half the burger was gone. “You least want a beer?”
The waitress appeared and I ordered a coke. I wanted to stay sharp. Korman shrugged and stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth.
“So,” I said, drumming my fingers on the table, “where are we with everything?”
He held up a palm and finished his bite. “You know, I’m trying to be more polite. Doc says it’s good for the blood pressure. So, first, tell me something about you.”
I stared at him, unsure if he was serious.
“Come on,” he motioned with his hands, “I’m not fuckin’ around. Tell me anything. One thing about you.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m divorced.” It was close enough to the truth.
“Me too. Twice.” He nodded and stuffed a few more fries in his mouth. “This is good. We’re building rapport, you and I.”
The waitress brought the coke.
“How’s it been?” he asked.
“How’s what been?”
“Stressful?” he asked. “You’re into some shit here.”
I exhaled and nodded. “A little.”
“You scared?”
“No.”
“You have a gun?”
I scanned the room quickly without moving my head and nodded.
He looked satisfied. “I would, too.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I do. But I just mean, if I were you, I’d have one, too.”
“I appreciate the endorsement.”
He shrugged and reached in a satchel that sat next to him in the booth. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not gonna put your mind at ease here.” He laid a file in front of me. “Everything I found is in there. It’s yours to keep. I summarized the findings on the first page, but I’m happy to go over them with you here.”
I nodded and opened the file.
Vincent Decierdo was the de facto leader of a large narcotics smuggling operation. This much I knew. He employed roughly fifty people, and specialized in heroin but moved cocaine from time to time.
“It’s a mutt,” Korman said, “the mixture they use. The brown stuff is easier to make and cheaper, but weaker, too. Helps ‘em keep costs down. Filthy shit.”
The heroin was smuggled through Grand Junction, where it was delivered from Mexico. That was as far back as Korman could trace. It was broken down and packaged for distribution at three separate locations in Summit County, one being the pole shed where I always dropped the car. After that it was sold to minors and addicts in a two hundred-mile radius, covering more than two dozen mountain towns. Most of it stayed in Summit or somewhere near—Dillon, Frisco, Leadville, Otter Ridge, mainly—but there were customers as far west as Glenwood Springs, and all the way up to Nederland.