Not Forgotten Page 2

  Sosa watched me slip the Para-Ordnance back into my leather shoulder holster. The closer we got to the convention center, the more nervous he got. He had told me in the Skype interview that he was most concerned about protesters. I told him the local cops would take care of that, but he had been insistent on hiring me and I couldn’t afford to turn down a paycheck. I had a feeling there was someone else he was concerned about.

  The driver made a U-turn on Alamo Street and pulled into a bumper-to-bumper line of limos waiting to drop off other friends of the candidate. Close to fifty people stood behind a police barricade near the entrance. A dozen carried hand-painted signs and chanted a sing-song refrain that drifted through the open window.

  “No more fracking… no more fracking!” They didn’t seem dangerous and reminded me of my small-town high school pep rallies.

  I had done my homework on the vocal environmental group after my interview with Sosa. They called themselves Citizens for a Clean County. None of the local members had police records, but they were funded by a national organization with a reputation for chaining themselves to courthouse doors and blocking refinery entrances and pipeline construction sites.

  “Looks like the SAPD has your opposition group safely under control, Mr. Sosa. No need to worry,” I assured him. He was watching the crowd intently. He lit another cigarette and inhaled a cloud of Marlboro courage. The limo inched to a stop at the front door of the convention center. There was a small group of reporters gathered on the sidewalk.

  “Sit tight,” I said, and waited for Sosa to exhale a lungful of smoke out the window. If the good citizens group was watching, I was sure the smoke would be another black mark against him. I dished out last minute instructions: “I’ll assess the danger then open your door. Stay close and follow me to the entrance.” Sosa snubbed out his cigarette on the door handle. “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “Sí, vamonos,” he said. The sweat trickling down his forehead was caused by more than just the heat. Someone or something out there scared him and put me on alert.

  The reporters snapped photos as I opened the door and seemed disappointed that it was me. I unbuttoned the top button on my tux when I felt the wool material stretch a little too tight around the butt of my .45. It had been nine months since I’d put on the monkey suit that Sylvia had picked out for me, and I could tell I needed to get back in the gym before I broke it out again, or better yet, left it in the closet along with the other style upgrades Sylvia had picked out for me. I preferred jeans and boots.

  The paparazzi displayed their usual rudeness, jostling each other for the best picture angle, hoping for a real celebrity. I checked their hands. They all held mics or cameras, not the kinds of weapons I was paid to protect Sosa from. I scoured the street and the line of attendees waiting at the security checkpoint. It was a black-tie affair, and there was a red carpet laid out like the entrance to a movie premiere. Candidate Lopez hadn’t spared any expense. I half expected to see Ryan Seacrest on the sidewalk with a microphone, poised to ask me what I thought of the latest Twitter gossip.

  I counted six uniformed policemen on duty. They looked bored and ready for happy hour. I recognized one of the cops, and we exchanged nods, paying our respects. I had worked my way through college in Austin as a reserve deputy with the Travis County sheriff’s department.

  When I decided the coast was clear, I opened Sosa’s door. He took his time getting out and made a show of smiling for the cameras. He definitely had his mojo back.

  A young female reporter in a loose silk blouse and wavy TV-hair thrust her microphone forward and shouted: “Do you support candidate Lopez’s clean county initiative?”

  Sosa was ready for her. “Yes, that’s why I’m here.” He waved at the protesters.

  “Stay close and follow me,” I urged him. If we were going to be ambushed, standing in a circle of reporters lit up by camera lights would be a likely place.

  Ms. Silk Blouse shouted another question. “Where do you stand on the proposed fracking ban in Bexar county?” She forced her voice down a note in an effort to sound more serious. I was already taking a step to cut her off when Sosa stopped me with a squeeze to my elbow. He wasn’t too spooked to push a little PR.

  “The practice of fracking is a perfectly safe and effective drilling technique that is of great benefit to the State of Texas and my country. But I’m here to support Mr. Lopez’s candidacy for governor. He understands the strong cultural connections between Mexico and Texas, and he will work hard to strengthen our business relationship. Texas and Mexico can and should always work together.” When he finished his little speech, he let go of my elbow. I took that as a sign to move forward. I maneuvered Sosa around Silk Blouse and her cameraman and hustled toward the security gate.

  Chapter Two

  The grand hall of the convention center was decorated with red, white, and blue political banners and a movie-screen-sized photo of Marcus Lopez’s smiling face. He had just turned forty, but his dark hair was free of gray and stylishly disheveled, and his light-brown skin was without a wrinkle—courtesy of the frequent Botox and salon treatments his personal secretary scheduled. Sylvia loved to share the office gossip. I was seven years younger, but if you compared our mug shots, nobody would believe it. In addition to my star-shaped scars, my bent nose was a constant reminder that riding saddle broncs was a lot tougher than it looked.

  On a platform near the bar, a local band played a distinctive San Antonio groove—an eclectic mixture of old jazz standards influenced my mariachi and ranchera music. The locals called it a West Side sound. I liked it when I heard it. Not something you expected to run across in South Texas. The music mixed with clinking glasses and laughter created an atmosphere more like Christmas than Labor Day weekend. All the movers and shakers seemed to think they had a candidate that would really roll up his sleeves and get to work. By that they meant support policies that would help their bottom line and pet projects. On a national scale, Marcus drew fawning accolades because of his calculated support for all the hot-button liberal issues. The national media considered him the tip of the spear in the battle to turn Texas blue. Some business leaders considered him too radical and had accused him of wanting to create a state income tax, but he had the support of urban voters, and the major newspapers in Dallas, Houston, and of course Austin endorsed him. Compared to the other party’s candidate, Marcus Lopez was a rock star. With the election only two months away, it seemed inevitable that Governor Lopez would take up residence in Austin.

  The hall held close to a thousand of San Antonio’s finest, dressed to the nines. There were state and local politicians rubbing elbows with academics and charity foundation presidents all soliciting donations from the business leader with the biggest pocketbook.

  The man on the top of the list was Patrick Allison, who I knew by name and reputation. His presence was hard to miss. He stood six-foot-three and wore a gray cowboy hat with his signature rattlesnake-skin hatband. His carefully clipped mustache drooped over his top lip and the corners of his mouth. There were a dozen other men in cowboy hats in the room, but Allison stood out like a sheriff on a dusty western movie set. He was holding court in a corner away from the band. A circle of ten or twelve men huddled around him like they had been granted an audience with John Wayne.

  Javier Sosa said he had private business, so I reluctantly gave him a pager and watched him make a beeline for Allison once we were through security. With the heavy guard outside and at the door, I didn’t anticipate any problems inside the convention center. I suspected whatever business deal he had going would involve one of the biggest oil men in the state. I spotted two short-hairs with tight suits and earpieces within ten feet of the big man. Obviously, Patrick’s personal security. I was satisfied Sosa was safe for the moment.

  While my client hobnobbed with the movers and shakers, I headed to the back of the hall to look for Sylvia. I spied her chatting with a group of socialites. She looked every bit as beauti
ful as the day I met her at St. Mary’s Law School. She held a glass of champagne like she was born with it in her hand. This was her element. She was a daddy’s girl who grew up tagging along with her father to all the social events in San Antonio. I watched her touch the ends of her dark shoulder-length hair, which she did when she was excited.

  Sylvia knew I would be there, of course, but we had agreed not to make it a date. I was working, and she was there in her official capacity as assistant campaign manager or advisor or whatever she was that week. When Marcus Lopez decided to run for governor, all of the staff who had not yet made partner in his law firm took on unpaid roles in the campaign.

  I put my elbow on the bar between two younger guys wearing stylishly tight suits and too much hair product and ordered a tonic with extra lime to keep my senses sharp. Sylvia peeled off from the socialites and walked in my direction. The two young guys followed her movements with slightly open mouths.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” I said when she was within earshot. I had to speak up because the band was louder at the bar. She stopped beside me and touched my arm, sending a little jolt of electricity through me.

  “Why’re you here?” It came out louder than she expected. The two young guys at my elbow decided to move on to avoid a confrontation.

  “I’m working, remember?”

  “I meant at the bar, silly,” she said and studied my tonic and lime.

  “I’m not drinking, just killing time. You look fabulous.”

  She took compliments without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. “Where’s your client?”

  “Sosa’s rubbing elbows with the rich and obnoxious. He said he didn’t need me until later. Last I saw him he was closing in on Patrick Allison.”

  “Of course. Marcus’s biggest client.”

  “I thought he supported the other party,” I said.

  “Oh, Big Tex likes parties and being the center of attention. Besides, they’ve been together forever.”

  “What do you think of the tux? It still fits.” I knew she regarded my wearing the penguin suit as a fashion coup in her battle to transform me into an urban sophisticate.

  “I remember picking it out last year. I had to drag you kicking and screaming to Alamo Heights for a fitting.” She enjoyed teasing me.

  “Hey, the party was great.” I opened my mouth and inserted my patent leather shoe. I was still trying to master the subtle art of idle chitchat.

  “Until you insulted my new boss.”

  “He made fun of the Marine Corps.” I tried to recover.

  “You knew he was talking about gays in the military.”

  “He said gays would improve the Marines.”

  “You’re homophobic.”

  “I don’t care who joins. My point was that the Marines should invest in weapons, not fight social issues.” I remembered the party conversation as another of my bungled attempts at idle chitchat.

  She flashed a perfectly polished smile, knowing she had me.

  “What can I say? Your boyfriend’s a redneck.”

  “You always use that excuse, but you’re too smart for that. You don’t even have any redneck friends.” She was right, the only real snuff-dipping, flag-waving, honkytonk-cruising redneck I called a friend was Rocky Velosic. He was the quarterback on my high school football team and now the head coach, but I only talked to him once a year at the Fredericksburg Oktoberfest.

  “You want me to turn in my redneck card?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. You’re more like one of those characters from your Texas history books.”

  “I’m trying to keep the pioneer spirit alive,” I said.

  She let out a deep breath and shook her head. It was a sign that I had made her point. “Don’t you have someone to protect?” she chided.

  I took her hand. “Yes, I do.”

  She held my gaze. For a brief moment we were back in law school, agreeing to disagree on a point of law before diving into the twin bed in her studio apartment. Arguing was like breathing to her, she could do it at the drop of a hat, but she could make love in the same breath.

  “You’re a card that needs to be dealt with,” she whispered, not pulling away. I couldn’t get enough. Those moments kept me from dismissing our fragile relationship. We could spend a sweaty hour in the limo and continue afterward as if nothing had happened. We moved closer together, shutting out the clamor around us.

  “There you are.” Marcus Lopez cut through the crowd, his voice loud and sharp as if he and Sylvia had been playing hide-and-seek.

  She instantly slipped on her business armor and turned toward him. Her hand slipped from mine and touched his shoulder. “Marcus, you’ve met Nick Fischer,” she said, as if introducing a business associate, suddenly dismissing the moment we’d shared.

  “Yes, I remember Nick. The ex-Marine.” He offered his hand. Said ex-Marine like I’d just gotten out of prison. He gave my hand a hard squeeze trying to overcompensate for his lack of muscle tone. Sylvia said he spent a lot of time on his Cannondale mountain bike because he liked the way he looked in his spandex bikewear and matching helmet.

  “There are no ex-Marines,” I said.

  “Did Sylvia put you on the guest list?” He knew I wasn’t on the list.

  “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by and make a donation.”

  “Really? I thought your money would be on the other party,” he said through a smile so stiff it looked spray-painted on his face.

  “Nick’s not into politics,” Sylvia interrupted, pinching my elbow.

  “Perhaps he’ll change his mind when he sees how much I can do for the people of Texas.”

  “I’m pretty sure Texans can fend for themselves.” I felt Sylvia squeeze my elbow harder, her way of saying, put a sock in it. So, I added: “But I wish you all the best,” and smiled.

  “Nick’s actually working tonight for one of your guests. Mr. Sosa.”

  “Right, you’re the security guard.” The left side of his mouth curled up when he talked.

  “Private investigator,” I said. Before he could respond, my pager went off. “Duty calls. Nice talkin’ to ya.” I flashed Sylvia a smile that Marcus couldn’t see.

  She rolled her eyes.

  I mouthed: “See you later?”

  She winked, and I took off to find my client.

  Chapter Three

  Iquickly scanned the room in case the page from Sosa required a show of force. He stood with his hand up in a friendly wave toward me from the corner of the auditorium. His smile told me I wouldn’t need to run or draw my pistol. He was still standing next to Patrick Allison. The court of admirers around him had thinned to one: a younger blond man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was the same height as Allison, and his facial features were almost identical—like twins, only one was frozen at birth and thawed out fifty years later. The two short-hairs with earpieces had backed off to a respectable thirty feet.

  When I reached the trio, there were smiles all around. The highest wattage came from Javier Sosa, erasing the nervous dread that hung over him on the trip from the airport. Allison was more reserved but seemed self-satisfied, like he had just given Sosa an early Christmas present. The younger man had a goofy grin and constantly nodded like a puppy just glad to be up this late at night and playing with the adults. He was clean-shaven, and his cheeks had an alcohol flush.

  “Nick Fischer, I’d like you to meet Patrick and Danny Allison,” Sosa said. “I told Mr. Allison about your willingness to take on my job at short notice. He wanted to meet you.”

  “Howdy,” I said. If I was going to be treated like a hired gunslinger, I’d play the part.

  “Nice to meet ya, son,” Allison said with a raspy, Texas drawl and extended his hand in a move that was friendly and rehearsed at the same time. He had an air of self-confidence that came with money and success. Unlike Marcus Lopez, Allison exuded power and influence rather
than craved it. He was used to being in charge and the center of attention. I got the feeling I was supposed to be flattered that I had been summoned for a meeting.

  “Call me, Nick.” I took his big hand and was surprised at his weak grip and how brittle his bones felt compared to how robust he appeared. He sized me up like he would a quarter horse at Ruidoso Downs.

  “This here’s my grandson, Danny. He just graduated from Texas Tech.” He gestured toward the younger man, as if his recent graduation explained the kid’s goofy appearance. Up close, there was no question that the two came from the same gene pool. Danny didn’t wear a hat, although I could see the tan line where one had recently been. Probably from golf or tennis. Danny’s muscles bulged through his stylishly tight tux jacket. He reminded me of a sports announcer trying to show he was in as good of shape as the athletes on the field.

  “Hey, Nick. Glad to meet you, buddy.” Danny flashed a boyish grin. He hadn’t quite mastered his grandfather’s command and control, but he was working on it. He had a hint of a Texas accent, holding the vowels a little longer and adding in a few more syllables than some words called for, as if he was working at being a good ol’ boy. He took my hand and squeezed it like a frat-boy challenge and stared at my forehead like he’d never seen scars before.

  “You’re chiseling out quite a reputation in this town, Nick. I’m glad to finally meet you,” Patrick Allison said.