David Ellis - Breach of Trust

“Yeah, so tell that to all those assholes in there. Madison, Peshke, Mac-you think any of them have ever been elected to anything ? No, they don’t have the balls. They just stay behind the scenes while we go out there and take the fucking hits. Then they look at me like I’m some fucking puppy dog they have to pat on the head.” He squirmed in his seat, really working himself up now. “Who do you think Carl listens to more than anybody? They think I’m just a fly on the wall but who does Carl listen to the most? Who tells him what to do?”

“You,” I gathered.

“Me. Fuckin-a right, me.” He patted his chest. “You see me tonight? You think I can’t work up a crowd like he can? I’m going to be the first Latino lieutenant governor and then I’m going to be the first Latino governor . They think I’m just some brown face they can parade in front of the Mexicans? Fuck them. Fuck all of them.”

“Hector-”

“Look at what I got for my public service. I got fucking indicted, that’s what I got. I didn’t do anything different from anyone else. But me? The Latino politician? No, the Latino, they can’t have him in power. They have to take him down.”

He took another long sip of his fresh drink, his hand trembling. I’d heard this angle from Hector on occasion, this racial thing. I had my doubts; I thought federal prosecutors were equal-opportunity hunters when it came to politicians. But then again, I was a white Catholic boy. I’d never walked in his shoes. And the persecution complex is a natural reaction when the government comes after you, justly or otherwise. It stops being about what you did to get their attention; it becomes how bloodthirsty they are in their quest to catch you.

“Joey Espinoza fucked you,” I said again, letting him gain momentum, because I sensed something here.

“Joey Espinoza.” He had a physical reaction to the name, spilling some of his drink. “Let me tell you something about Joey Espinoza. I mean, now that it’s over.”

I steeled myself. I didn’t know what was coming next. And I couldn’t control it. I had a recorder in my pocket that would pick up this entire thing. I’d been trying to protect Hector from the feds out of a sense of loyalty to a former client. But I had a number of puzzle pieces that I hadn’t fit together yet, and one of the biggest was Joey Espinoza. FeeBee or not, I needed to hear this.

“I mean, you’re not my lawyer anymore, but you’re still my guy. I mean, am I right or am I wrong? Are you my guy?”

That, of course, was how someone like Hector saw the world. It was like a damn Godfather movie, kissing the ring, pledging fealty to a master. Hector didn’t need to know that our conversation would be protected by the attorney-client privilege. In fact, he was going to tell me something that he wouldn’t tell me when I was sworn to professional secrecy. No, where he sat, being his “guy” was a more sacred bond than being his attorney. He just needed to hear me say it.

“Of course, I’m your guy,” I said.

“Yeah, you probably always wanted to know.” Hector chuckled, drained his drink, and reached for the decanter for another refill. He was pretty far in the tank by now, and it had loosened his tongue considerably.

“This fucking guy, Joey,” he said. “You think that guy could spell his name without me?”

Actually, I did. Espinoza had always seemed like a smooth operator. That didn’t necessarily require a high IQ, but he seemed intelligent enough from my observation.

“He couldn’t come up with an idea like the Cannibals. You think he could figure out something like that?”

“It was your idea,” I said.

Hector took a drink and licked his lips, took a breath. “I didn’t think they were going to muscle people. I figured they wouldn’t have to. Just them asking would be enough.”

That stood to reason, I guess. A gangbanger wouldn’t have to come out and explain the consequences of noncompliance. A simple request for a monthly street tax-or political contribution to Hector-followed by a sinister grin, would probably get the job done.

“And if anything ever blew back, you could just deny it,” I said. “Chalk it up to the Columbus Street Cannibals exercising some street advocacy, without your knowledge.”

He smiled at the summary. He wasn’t going to come out and say it. “And all I asked was that Joey set it up. He couldn’t even do that.” He wagged his finger at me. “I gave that kid everything. Shit, I’m still giving to that cocksucker, even after what he did to me.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I had an idea. “You mean Charlie giving Joey’s wife a job. I saw her at Charlie’s office once.”

Hector nodded. “Six figures,” he said. “Six figures and all Lorena does is show up and polish those long fucking nails of hers. The job is hers until Joey gets out.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why do that for Joey?”

“Because Joey sticks his nose-hold on.” Hector reached into his pocket and looked at his cell phone. “Ah, shit. Hang on.” He opened his phone and lowered his voice. “Dame un minuto, querido. Te vere pronto.”

Hector closed the phone and placed it in his suit pocket. “Ah, I’m drunk.” The momentum had broken. I just had him on the verge of an explanation.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Hector,” I said, as he began to move toward the limo door.

“I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” he said, grunting as he bent down to step out into the cool night air. Since I was his “guy,” that meant I was supposed to accept that decision without comment. “C’mon, Carl wants us up there.”

Dame un minuto, querido, he’d said to whoever had called him. Te vere pronto. My summer studying in Seville hadn’t gone for naught. Give me a minute, dear. I’ll see you soon. Hector had been talking to someone he cared about.

“Vamonos,” Hector called to me.

I pulled up alongside him and we got in the elevator. I didn’t get what I wanted, but at least now, I’d have an opening in the future to raise the topic again.

Peshke answered the door to the suite when we knocked, talking in his earpiece to someone and holding a glass of champagne in the other. The governor was out of his suit, wearing an oxford and blue jeans. The governor pointed at me when I walked in. “Jason, quick-the center fielder for the ’seventy-six Yankees?”

“Mickey Rivers,” I said.

The governor waved a hand toward Brady Mac. “That’s one of the easiest questions ever. I mean, that was before free agency changed everything, Mac.”

In one corner of the suite, Madison Koehler and Charlie Cimino were having a more serious conversation. Madison seemed to be dishing out and Charlie receiving. I couldn’t imagine about what; Charlie had largely relegated himself to the sidelines since his brush with law enforcement. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and motioned me toward him.

“Madison and I were just discussing that some of the contractors we contacted about contributions haven’t ponied up yet,” he said. “We were thinking another phone call from you would be in order. Remind them of their commitment and their nice fat state contract that they want to keep.”

It was true-some of the contractors still hadn’t paid the extortion money to preserve their current contractual relationship with the governor’s office. But the vast majority of them had, and given how spooked Charlie had become after learning that Greg Connolly was wearing a federal wire, and his subsequent decision to lie low, I figured we would let those few stragglers go.