White Wolf McLeod Page 21

  “Marshal McLeod?” a man’s voice inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Deputy Director Simmons. I’m sorry for waking you at this hour. I’m also sorry that I have to be the bearer of bad news. Director David Welsh shot himself in the head late last night. The police are ruling it as a suicide.”

  McLeod grunted. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, well, if someone else tells you the same bad news, try to lie a little more convincingly. I’ll need to speak to you first thing this morning. Don’t bother going to your office first. There are more important things that we need to discuss.”

  “Understood.” He heard the other end of the line go dead, and he hung up the telephone.

  “Trouble, Yobo?” his wife asked him.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Go back to sleep, and don’t worry.” But he knew that his wife would neither go back to sleep right away nor not worry as well. He himself did not fall back asleep for another hour, and even then it was a fitful sleep.

  “Why don’t you quit that job?” she asked him at breakfast the following morning.

  “And what would I do?” he asked her between mouthfuls.

  “Anything you want, as long as you like what you do. We don’t need the money that bad. You can always go to Korea,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Uh,” he grunted noncommittally. “I’ll think about it. Right now, I have to go and get my butt chewed out.”

  “Good luck, Yobo. And don’t hurt anybody today, okay? I’ve run out of room in the garden.”

  McLeod chuckled as he left the house. He very rarely brought work home and even more rarely told her of what he did while working for the Justice Department. There were things that had to be done and the little surprises now and then that would only upset her. Most of what he did was sheer boredom interrupted by moments of tension. But she knew him well enough. She could tell what kind of mood he was in or what kind of day he had just by the way he entered the house. She would keep her opinions to herself, and if she did question him about anything, he would tell her “It’s just because I’m an Indian!” and she would leave it at that, as if the remark explained everything. Sometimes he wondered why she remained with him, as cranky as he was much of the time. He was glad that she was a devoted wife and truly enjoyed her companionship. Besides she had this knack that kept him laughing, even at himself, and it helped make his life in the White Man’s world just a little more bearable.

  He arrived at the office building early and headed straight for Deputy Director Eric Simmons’ office, which sat next to the Director’s on the same side of the hallway. The Deputy Director barely looked up at him when he let himself into the office. The secretary had not arrived to work yet. “Have a seat, McLeod,” he said peremptorily.

  He noted a solitary leather chair that looked like it had been purposely arranged in front of the Deputy’s desk. As he sat down, McLeod had the feeling that he was about to be grilled under hot lights and interrogated for hours until he confessed his imaginary crimes. What his superior did not know was that an Indian will go to the grave with a secret if he must, but not before he sends a lot of his oppressors to pave the way before him into the afterlife. I think this is going to be fun, he remarked to himself, wondering what kind of game the Deputy Director was going to play with him. Simmons kept him waiting for another fifteen minutes while he read the morning’s correspondence, made a few notes, and wrote down instructions or approved requests.

  “Okay, McLeod,” he finally spoke, putting down his pen and folding his hands comfortably on the desk. “Let’s get down to business. I want to know everything. And I mean all the details.” McLeod could say one thing about the man whom he barely knew past his name and position in the Department: he did not like to warm up to a subject. Neither did he mince words.

  “On or off the record?”

  Simmons’ steady gaze indicated that he clearly was not amused. His countenance reminded McLeod of the axiom: “If looks could kill….”

  “Okay, on the record, then,” he quipped. “Here’s what we have so far:

  “The Colombian ship Marta anchored in Boston harbor on November First. My team and I were assigned the case soon after the Department learned that there was a dead body aboard, making this a Federal case. We boarded the vessel and found a dead Colombian hanging up in the hold like a hooked marlin. We later learned his name was one Ricardo Alvarez.”

  “How did you learn the name of the deceased?” Simmons feigned curiosity, but his tone was more akin to a grilling, seeking answers to questions on his own private agenda, ones that would reveal the Marshal’s procedures and methods.

  “For reasons I cannot divulge, suffice it to say that my sources provided us with that information.”

  “I need to know your sources,” Simmons insisted. A flash of frustration crossed his features, and McLeod knew that he had hit the mark with his hypothesis.

  “Subpoena me, then, Deputy Director,” he challenged the man directly. “But I will not jeopardize the lives of men and women that are operating undercover just to satisfy your curiosity. Besides, I think this Department has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. What seems to be said in confidence between these walls ends up as tomorrow’s news, if you catch my drift. I think that you will begin to understand what I mean as I lay out the facts.”

  Simmons considered reprimanding him by the look on his face, but he responded instead, “I’ll give you the rope, McLeod. Just don’t hang yourself with it. You’re about this close to insubordination as it is.” He held up his right thumb and finger about a half-inch apart to demonstrate his point.

  AFTER ERNEST HAD cut off his son’s braids, White Wolf was furious toward his father. He had been deprived of showing the world that he was a Brave and real human being. In retaliation, he refused to speak to his father for more than a month, which created an additional problem. One of his father’s rules included his insistence that all of his boys verbally request permission to leave the table after supper should either their mother or father remain. Strictly keeping to his vow of silence, White Wolf finished his meal and started to walk away from the table.

  “Hold it right there, Junior!” his father barked. “Now get right back here and excuse yourself properly!”

  White Wolf obediently sat back down at the table and stared silently at his empty plate. After a moment, he got back up again. Ernest called him back twice more with the same repeated results.

  “Junior! You are trying my patience for the last time!” Ernest jumped up from the table and unhooked a belt from behind the kitchen door. “Stand up!” he commanded, and the boy obeyed. Several times his father whacked White Wolf’s behind, much to the delight of his two older brothers. But if they were expecting some kind of perverted pleasure from hearing any outburst from White Wolf, they were sorely disappointed. White Wolf took his beatings stoically and made not a sound. This defiant silence further enflamed his father who started hitting him harder. The brothers simply looked at each other and giggled like two adolescent girls.

  Exhausted, he commanded his son to go to his room.

  “What’s wrong with that boy?” Ernest complained to his wife when he returned to the table, throwing down the belt onto the table in both disgust and frustration. “He never cries!”

  “He’s an Indian,” Clover said succinctly in a resigned tone to indicate there was no further need for an explanation. There was nothing she could do for her own son except pray that one of them—White Wolf or her husband—would change their stubborn ways and agree to respect each other. Ernest looked at his wife incredulously. White Wolf’ brothers, too, looked at each other in confusion.

  THE MARSHAL NODDED in understanding and continued unfazed. If his own father could not dominate him, neither would this small White Man. “We were told that there are indications that a full-scale war could be brewing in Colombia, fomented by the Tanelli and Cantinelli families of New York. An Elian Alvarez is a poppy field baron
down there, and for years he has been dealing exclusively with the Mendendez family out of Miami. That is, only until recently. The New York families have been trying to cut into the action. That might have been none of our business as long as it remained outside the U.S. Only, the CIA has been involved up to their collective armpits by supplying transportation, communications, and weapons to both sides, stirring up not only a bees’ nest overseas but here at home as well. They killed the boy as a warning to all the parties involved to back off.”

  “How do you know it was the CIA?” Simmons’ nose positively quivered with curiosity.

  “Again my sources, sir.” He tried to impress the Deputy Director that the same rules held as he previously stated.

  “What has the CIA have to do with this case?” Simmons queried, seeing if he could steer around McLeod’s stubborn obstacle.

  “To be honest with you, after we learned that there was circumstantial evidence that the murder was committed by a CIA operative, we could have closed the case as unsolved and let the matter drop. However, additional information led me to believe that the murder, the Marta, and the involvement of a number of Mafioso families were merely the tip of the iceberg. There is something much more far-reaching: a threat to the welfare of the people of our nation.”

  “A drug problem is the purview of the ATF, not the U.S. Marshal’s office.” His remark sounded like a rebuke.

  “I had tacit cooperation with the ATF, sir. May I continue?” Noting neither a yes nor no from his superior, he went on with his narrative. “The Marta is—or was—operated by the CIA to transport weapons to and from Colombia. I believe that they were also shipping contraband from Cuba.

  “Then Director Welsh threw a curve at me when he ordered me not to investigate an Andrew Prescott.”

  “This was the first time you had heard of Prescott?”

  The way Simmons was looking at him so intensely struck McLeod strangely, but he answered, “Yes. I don’t like it when someone tells me not to do something. It sets bells off. But I was going to honor the Director’s wishes nevertheless until our investigations led to proof of Prescott’s involvement. He has a controlling interest in Oriental Imports, Inc., which is the front company for smuggling contraband into the U.S. and laundering ill-gotten mob money. It has been trying to buy the Marta over the last few months. I have not acted on that little tidbit, but I did pass our findings on to the Director. I don’t know what he did with the information. He didn’t confide in me.

  “I had Charlie Gonty interview one of the New York families’ mouthpieces. He verified the information we received from our confidential sources about the situation in Colombia. He also stated that the New York families were pissed off at the Seriglio family for leaving New York and establishing a base in Lake Tahoe. The miffed family Dons saw the move as a threat to their expanding interests in the West. In addition, we learned that the Seriglio family bought and paid for Senator Laughlin’s career and services.”

  “Who was the lawyer you talked to?” Simmons demanded.

  McLeod felt uncomfortable revealing any names, but perhaps he should give the Deputy Director at least one bone to chew on. “Roger Mandellori.”

  “It should interest you to know that Mr. Mandellori was fished out of the Hudson River yesterday.”

  “That’s too bad. I thought he was a pretty good guy,” McLeod said honestly.

  “You knew him, then?” Simmons appeared pleased that he had uncovered a piece of important intelligence.

  “We served together in Korea.”

  “So, you had nothing to do with his death?”

  “No. That unfortunate accident had nothing to do with us, aside from his talking to us, which may have upset one of the Dons.” McLeod could see that the man did not believe him.

  “Right. What do you care if one mobster rubs out another mobster? That’s one of your favorite sayings around here, isn’t it?”

  “Should we be investigating this murder, too?” McLeod sidestepped the question.

  He returned to his agenda. “You went to Tahoe.”

  “Yes. I went undercover and convinced Don Michael Seriglio to allow me to view their files that they had on Prescott and Senator Laughlin.”

  “And they turned them over to you?” Simmons sounded incredulous.

  “Yes. They believed my cover.”

  “And you don’t want to share with me your cover?” McLeod suddenly got the impression of a child molester holding out a piece of candy to entice an innocent child to trust him so he could work his way with him or her.

  McLeod shook his head slightly. “No, sir. I don’t. I might get to use it again.”

  “I see.” If Simmons was disappointed with his answer, he did not show it. “But I understand that you left a number of dead bodies in Tahoe, enough to cause a war with the Government or a mob war across the breadth and width of the United States that we don’t need right now.”

  McLeod recognized the trap. “There was a misunderstanding. I had Mary Gonzalez acting as my backup. What I hadn’t counted on was that the Tahoe precinct was on the Seriglio payroll. They added up two and two and unfortunately came up with the right answer.”

  “Did you kill Detective Renkins?” It was a direct accusation.

  “Are you accusing me, sir?” he shot back.

  “Answer the question, McLeod,” he demanded.

  “Sorry, sir. I can’t. I’m protecting my sources.”

  “You mean, you’re protecting yourself. This isn’t the first time that dead bodies have been associated with you and your investigations.”

  “I am going to tell you a story,” McLeod initiated. “I don’t usually tell anyone about my past. But I think you will appreciate this story.

  “I used to close up the family shop at night while I was still in high school. I had to carry the receipts home. The neighborhood was usually pretty quiet, pretty safe. Still, I kept a .38 in my right jacket pocket, the receipts in my left pocket. I had a license to carry a concealed weapon, if you’re wondering. My father always counseled me to just surrender the money. To him, my life wasn’t worth a day’s worth of receipts.

  “One night, I was walking back home, expecting my dog to meet me. He always waited for me on the corner of the block where I lived. But on this night, my Father had tied him up, and he didn’t meet me. As luck would have it, a young punk suddenly ran up behind me and stuck a gun at the back of my head and demanded the money. I put both hands in my pockets. With my left hand I withdrew the money and handed it back over my shoulder. The punk then told me not to turn around if I wanted to see tomorrow. I heard him turn around and take three steps. I whipped the .38 out as I turned and fired one shot. The bullet hit the kid in the shoulder, and he went down.

  “When my Father heard about the shooting, he was madder than a wet cat. He wanted to know why I hadn’t killed the bastard. I told him that I had little time to aim and that I had at least hit him in the largest part of his body. That didn’t satisfy my Father. He took me down to our cellar where he had built a firing range, and he made me practice and practice and practice until I could shoot a man to death in my sleep.

  “Since that day, I have never initiated a fight. But at the same time, I don’t take prisoners either, unless they will help prove one of my cases. A whole lot of Chinese found that out the hard way, too. And I have never regretted the taking of a life. If they hadn’t started something they couldn’t finish, they deserved to die. It was their karma to die.”

  Simmons leaned back, but his expression became even graver, if that were possible. “Ah yes. Part of your Buddhist bull crap. Well, it sounds like you just confessed your crime, Marshal. I wouldn’t repeat that story to anyone else.” He waited for McLeod’s reaction, but when it was not forthcoming, he said impatiently, “What else?”

  “While I was in Tahoe, Jack Chino was infiltrating the Mendendez family.”

  “Why?” he interrupted. “You already had information that the CIA had killed the boy.”
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  “I didn’t know that until I had already sent Chino into the fire. He, in turn, was sent to Colombia. I don’t know why; it was something unexpected. The problem I have right now is that he has been kidnapped.”

  “The Mendendez?”

  McLeod shook his head again. “I believe it was the CIA.”

  “Why?” Simmons sounded doubtful.

  “I’m guessing at this point. Maybe someone they had there recognized him from a previous mission. Chino has a history of fighting in Central and South America as a Green Beret. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the CIA has been clandestinely involved south of the border in just about every political and military action. Under the cover of the Monroe Doctrine, I’d imagine.”

  “Maybe I should contact the CIA and see what I can do about the return of Chino,” Simmons offered.

  “I wouldn’t do that, sir,” McLeod headed off the thought. “Let me handle it. We have our sources there, too, and right now they are talking to us. I’d rather not have Chino returned in a body bag.”

  “I haven’t decided yet whether or not to let you remain a U.S. Marshal, McLeod.” The other shoe began to drop.

  He brushed aside the threat. “I think they will want to talk to me. You can can my ass after I get him back.”

  “There are still a lot of unanswered questions.” He said it with a finality, but McLeod calculated that the Deputy Director was not quite through with him.

  “You’re right. Mary Gonzalez got roughed up after visiting the Colombian Consulate. I still haven’t made time to interview her attackers.”

  “They have been kicked out of the country,” Simmons told him, shutting a door on a possible avenue of uncovering pertinent information.

  “Who did that?” McLeod did not suppress the peevishness he suddenly felt.

  “A strategic diplomatic move on the part of the State Department.” Then Simmons changed directions in mid-thought.

  “Who is the woman?”

  McLeod’s hackles rose up in warning. “Woman?”

  Simmons opened the top right drawer of his desk and extracted an eight-by-ten black and white photo. He leaned forward and pushed the photo across the desk towards McLeod. “Recognize her?”