Caiphus leaned over and toggled to another screen. “Several were in the names of Jacquelyn Hall and Abby Munoz. Also known as Santi Dumont and Lula Velez.”
Bill set aside her mug, having recognized the names of Evangela Leer’s deceased crew members.
Caiphus saw the information hit home for
Bill and then he tapped in for another screen. “One of these
properties is in Portugal and it was the last place we had a fix on
Eva.”
***
Dolores, Colorado 1972~
There was nothing wrong with ambition. Ambition was what separated the accomplished from society’s dregs. Ambition was what had encouraged his father to grow a business that involved more than their families industrial beginnings steeped in pulling cotton and priming tobacco.
Yes, Marcus Ramsey understood and appreciated ambition. Ambition, while there was nothing wrong with it, was still a far cry from power. Ambition got you out of bed to make money. Power meant you could make money without ever leaving bed.
Marc smiled, liking the way those words sounded in his head. Still, he thought they could stand a bit more tweaking. Power meant you were in charge.
Marcus wanted to be in charge. He wanted to be in charge all the way. He was sick of sharing the wealth with his goody two shoes brothers-being policed by them. He wanted his own. God bless the child, right?
He smirked, self-satisfied. Without a doubt, his family would be...turned off by the lengths he would and had already gone to grow his power. Fuck ‘em, he smirked again, enjoying the way those words sounded in his head as well.
The possibilities of this venture were endless and staggeringly profitable. His ‘in’ was almost secured with only one last hurdle remaining- the binding tie- it would seem. God he hoped his hunch paid off and that at least one of his brothers was good for something useful.
If what Houston’s wife Daphne had seen and overheard; during one of her snooping missions, was correct it could make all the difference. Thankfully, he had more to go on than the word of a nitwit like his sister-in-law.
The factory world was a small, but familial place. Workers enjoyed bonding over being mistreated by the boss as much as they did over more enjoyable realities.
Marriage news was always welcomed. Given that the factory world was a small one, it didn’t take long for word to reach him of Tammy Burnett’s marriage and new baby. For years, the news had been of little concern to him. Now, circumstances had changed. With Daphne’s report and the factory gossip, he’d decided that a little subsequent research couldn’t hurt. While he’d spent little, if any, time thinking of past conquests, he remembered that Tammy was quite young. Couldn't hurt to check in on her, he thought. It was surely a long shot anyway. She was married- surely the child was her husband's.
If not...by some chance if it wasn’t...it was worth looking into, he’d thought. Besides, there were tests to prove such things now, right? His new-his hoped for partners could surely confirm paternity.
“Fine ride!”
Marc tuned in to the voice that nudged against his mental musings. His assessing eyes scanned a cluttered yard behind a rusting fence until he locked on the owner of the voice.
The man was dark and thin, practically bony in faded overalls caked with dirt and rust spots. His long face carried a sheen of sweat and a scowl that seemed to radiate through in spite of the hospitable grin he wore. He pulled a faded John Deere cap from a surprisingly round bald head and used the garment to indicate what had sparked his flattery.
Marcus didn’t bother to confirm. He knew it was the car. The ‘72 burgundy El Dorado convertible was a definite attention getter. Marc could see from the old cars, lawn mowers and tires cluttering the yard, that the thin man had an interest in repair.
“Appreciate it!” Marcus called, keeping his steps measured and easy as he approached the end of the fence where the unremarkable man stood.
This is it, he thought. The address he’d been given when he’d stopped in town. He forced himself not to smirk that time. Using the word ‘town’ for description though, struck him as just that funny. Marc caught sight of movement behind the man he’d come to Dolores to find. He tilted his head to study the boy effortlessly hauling a gargantuan tractor tire toward the back of the drab wooden house.
“Lookin’ to have your car fixed?” The man sent another keen look toward the sleek automobile parked outside the fence.
That time, Marc turned to study his car as well. “You the man to see? Folks in town,” no chuckling, he reminded himself, “they said Cleon Raymond was a whiz with anything on four wheels.”
Cleon Raymond grinned, a wide toothy grin that reeked of self-importance and confirmation. “That’s me, brotha. But what in the world kind of trouble could you be havin’ with a ride like that? New model, ain’t it?”
“I uh, I’m not real sure what’s goin’ on with the damn thing.” Marc rubbed his jaw and faked a bout of uncertainty. “I should apologize, man for just showin’ up like this. It’s a Sunday. I don’t want to interrupt your time with family. If your wife’s anything like mine, she won’t appreciate company today. She uh- she home?” Marc scanned the front door with curiosity and lethal intent. Still, his charm oozed effortlessly, deliberately, potently. Marcus Ramsey’s charisma was as disarming as his dark, striking good looks and just as dangerous.
Cleon swatted the air and grunted. “She still at church. ‘Sides, Sunday ain’t a day of rest at the Raymond house.”
“I see that,” Marc’s chuckle possessed a genuine edge and again he studied the boy near the back of the house. Fascinated, he watched the kid heft two tires that looked to be fitted for a pickup.
Cleon grinned, noticing the direction of his visitor’s gaze. “Dumb as shit, but she’s some kind of strong.”
Marc’s chuckling curbed. Sleek brows knitted on his devastating face to give him the look of a menacing but contemplative individual. “She?” he queried.
Cleon broke into a chuckle then, one that hinted of his obvious comprehension of the question’s true meaning. “Trust me, brotha, she’s a girl alright- got all the parts. Damned if I know or want to find out if they work or not.”
Cleon studied his slickly dressed visitor with greater awareness then. “Say uh we can arrange it...if you’d like to… take a dip while I look over your car…” his leering, bloodshot brown eyes veered toward the backyard where Maeva toiled and he shivered. “Good luck to you brotha, if you can get it up with a thing like that but...to each his own.” He gave an exaggerated shrug.
“No I-uh…” Marc was already of a mind to retreat. He studied the girl. Girl? He marveled, his expression fixed as though such intensive glaring might in some way change what he witnessed.
“I uh,” Marc gave himself a mental punch and forced eye contact with Cleon Raymond. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” That was at least the truth. He’d only come to ponder his plan for taking the child.
He needed a daughter. He needed one with viable ovaries to harvest. But this… he needed a daughter, not a defective. This… his frown expressed more horror than anger. This… girl...was the definition of defective.
“Hey brotha? You gonna lemme take a look at your ride?” Cleon Raymond still exuded his big grin. Faint laughter colored his words as he looked upon his hoped for customer.
Cleon Raymond’s grin waned though to make
room for confusion. Removing his cap, he scratched at his bald head
and watched the fancy stranger start his fancy ride, gun the engine
and speed away in a cloud of dust, debris and mystery.
***
It was decided that Friday would be pizza night. Persephone felt it had been a week of too much junk food, but she accepted that she’d been outnumbered in the voting.
The dinner choice, however, served two purposes: Dinner of course, and the chance for Hill to have a little experimental time on his own with the girls. Instead of delivery, they’d opted for carry-out. The twins were beside themselves with excitement and made a mad dash to the passenger side of Hill’s rented Dodge Ram when they saw their father with his keys to the truck.
Persephone settled back for the fireworks. She admitted to being quite impressed by the way Hill obliterated his little girls’ dreams of riding shotgun. The sisters pouted, naturally...at first… Hill being Hill, he merely tapped into his bottomless charm bin which was appropriate for women of all ages it seemed.
