Accidental Destiny

By Casper Parks

Disgraced Drug Enforcement Agent Efren Toliver was forced to put the murder of his partner behind him. Years later his past comes knocking, asking for a favor and offering redemption.

As a deadly drug Prompt hits the streets, he puts everything at risk to guide agents posing as a rock band. Complicating matters, the son of his murder partner is a member of the group. Copper recently graduated from the academy and blames his father's death on Efren...

As character flaws collide, they press-forward. With Prompt hitting the streets in periodic waves, their investigation is slowed to a crawl. Just as the band's fan-base is growing, another surge of Prompt floods Los Angeles. As the body count increases and their investigation intensifies, they stumble into something far more dangerous than drug cartels... 

 

Accidental Destiny
Cooper Reeves: Lead vocals, guitar, keyboard
Randall O'Conner: Lead guitar, vocals
Eva Cortez: Bass guitar, vocals
Kyle Smithfield: Drums

Friends of the band
Hard-core musician Perth Collins
Efren Toliver, manager of building for rehearsal studios
Efren's Uncle Jonah and Lacy Watson
Trey and company....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casper Parks
• Release date: Jun 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201510367

Casper Parks

Throughout schooling, Casper Parks was enrolled in Remedial English Classes. He is quoted as saying, "Teachers inferred, I could never become a writer. Creativity wins!" Compelled to write and self-taught, he has published four novels: With each new novel, his writing improves. Currently, he is editing book five and writing book six for the start of a new series. His readership spans numerous nations and ages. After high school Casper Parks served in the United States Navy as a Radioman, held a Top Secret Security Clearance and completed a Westpac.  Three semesters into college opportunity knocked. For many years he worked in the music industry, starting as a roadie and working his way into lighting-tec and stage manager. He has worked as an announcer for rock, easy listening and country radio stations. In the early 1990s, he was onsite manager of a rehearsal studio for bands in Downtown Los Angeles. He left his career in the music industry on Labor Day 1993. Since early childhood, he has had a fascination with space travel, UFOs and aliens. He is active and respected in the UFO community, and featured on Fade to Black, Beyond The Strange, Shift Happens, and The Fringe FM He has witnessed UFOs and posted an encounter at The Outpost Forum,

Book preview

Part One: Accidental Redemption

Expressions

By

Casper Parks

(Written for musicians)

Music is a vocabulary of the soul and rises from deep within. It journeys carried by a desire to offer strength and refuge. In hardships it comforts. Amid positives it rejoices.

Against social injustice it demands integrity. Laying it between the lines it is cryptic. Open ended, listeners insert personal meaning.

Music melds into the fabric of individual lives. Day to day, month to month, year to year, and decade to decade it becomes a soundtrack playing in the background.

Music triggers memories. Depending on what provokes, the nature of the beast is harsh or loving. It ebbs and flows amid difficulty, and good, and in-between times.

Songs prompting memories of good and in-between are cherished. Songs reflecting hardships are put behind them and shunned.

Crazy isn’t it, reaching into the madness and hoping not to get burned...

1

Efren Toliver stood alone on a wide gravel roadway of a shipping yard. Other than a moored tugboat and barge, docking slips remained barren. He stared upward and longed for the night skies of his scattered childhood.

Amid a reddish-orange veil of light pollution, scattered clouds drifted at an unhurried pace above Jacksonville Florida’s skyline. Only a few stars radiated sufficient potency capable of penetrating the tainted sky. Those residing in metropolitan regions lived blinded by neon cataracts, and oblivious to the heavens that beckoned them.

Throughout most of his youth, he enjoyed natural panoramic views. His parents had served as missionaries in remote regions of Mexico, Central and South America. Until death snatched them from him, they set positive examples by lives-lived.

He spent his early teens with grandparents on a Native American Reservation in the Great Lakes region of the United States. Countless nights he spread a blanket on a garage roof, gazed across vast star fields and pondered what lay beyond.

Aside from minor issues with other teenagers, he enjoyed a laidback lifestyle on the Reservation. He finalized his mid to late teens living with Uncle Jonah near Los Angeles.

His reflections of the past shifted to the present. A few minutes earlier while searching the area and ensuring it was secure, he noticed a mixture of purple and yellow diesel fuel had poisoned water along the docks.

He deemed contamination of the planet irreversible and beyond regeneration within his lifetime. Living in-and-of itself impacted the environment. He pondered his own impact on the ecosystem. A manner of lifestyle determined its magnitude.

Rick Reeves arrived alongside of him and positioned a black anvil briefcase on the gravel road. Inhaling tainted air, his face soured. This place reeks like an oil refinery. Anymore offshore drilling disasters and our oceans will turn into cesspools of toxic grunge. As far as I’m concerned there’s not much difference between drug cartels and oil companies. Both are feeding needless addictions.

A familiar sense of déjà vu transformed Efren’s perceptions. As if having existed at this moment prior, he was predestined to live it again. His vision gained an abstract depth, colors enhanced and shadows deepened. Diagnosed as child he had an offshoot of déjà vu, effecting memories and time displacement in the temporal lobe of the brain.

Brief episodes of déjà vu were common for many children. As someone aged, episodes became fewer and disappeared in early adulthood. He was a rare case, and his sense of déjà vu had not faded with age. He didn’t consider it an illness. It was a profound part of him. 

For him an episode could last minutes, hours, days, months or years. Often he went to bed existing in a state of déjà vu, and awaked the next day in the same altered perception of reality. When going lengthy periods without experiencing an episode, it felt as if part of him was asleep.

At a young age he learned to function normally and kept the illness to himself. Fearful the Drug Enforcement Administration would have denied his enlistment, he had not mentioned it. Stress often triggered an occurrence. After a few minutes the episode passed, leaving only residual effects.

Efren was ready for an overdue vacation. He had a flightpath planned. Start Labor Day weekend with his partner’s family in the Chicago area, and then visit his grandparents on the Reservation for a week. Afterwards, fly to Los Angeles and spend time with his Uncle Jonah.

As Efren focused on the assignment, gratification swelled a sense of pride. This was the perfect place for an arrest. Late at night the shipping yard offered seclusion. If gunfire erupted, a danger of stray bullets harming innocent people was minimal.

This port like others was a ghost of former glory. A lack of goods entering and leaving the country had nearly closed it. Empty shipping crates stacked along both sides the dirt roadway, created a pillaring effect of ancient ruins. As if haunted by ghosts, aging wooden piers moaned and groaned against placid waves.

Washington was not listening. Corporate owned politicians lacked a moral compass. After tariffs and trade agreements failed, Americans grumbled about imbalanced trade. There was growing movement for a return to Isolationism.

Efren shook his head and discarded roaming thoughts. Then he glimpsed around the shipping yard. Corruption in politics was frustrating. Like most people, he felt unable to do anything about it. The import of illegal drugs was his only concern. Nearly two years of undercover work flying illegal drugs into the United States was yielding a harvest.

An hour earlier Perez called and informed them of a last minute change of location for their exchange. The change spurred a flurry of motion for unseen back-up agents. Twenty minutes ago, Efren conducted radio communications and confirmed hidden support had arrived at the new location.

Anxious to conclude this assignment Rick Reeves fidgeted his feet across the gravel roadway, raising a small swirl of dust. He played a role on the United States side as distribution to dealers who supplied peddlers on the streets. He had meet Perez twice in South American but never on US soil.

Reeves nodded toward a side entryway leading into the desolate shipping yard. A black Lincoln Continental kicked up a cloud of dust as it drove along side of empty mooring piers. He announced, Here he comes then smarted, Rest of the world may hate the United States, but they love our money. He had dozens of habitual phrases and passed him a smirk, You ready for the big bust?

Efren nodded. He had grown accustom each idiom and accepted habits as part of his partner’s nature. As he watched the approaching car, shaded windows prevented him from confirming how many people sat inside. He assumed a driver, two bodyguards and Perez.

After the driver parked, Hector Perez and his steroid enhanced twin bodyguards Franklin and Fritz exited. His bodyguards stood at military parade-rest at either side of him, their dark blue suits appeared ready to split at the seams.

Efren grinned and thought slow, big and stupid with steroid shrunken dicks and balls. As the driver removed two aluminum briefcases from the car trunk, Efren reintroduced Reeves by an undercover name.

Perez only nodded, acknowledging that he recalled him. The driver walked to Efren and stood both aluminum cases on the ground, then picked up the black anvil briefcase set it on the ground in front of Perez.

Efren squatted, opened one of the aluminum cases and examined bricks of cocaine. They had reached a critical point of their exchange. It could turn ugly quick. The driver had taken a position at the car, clasped both hands at waist level and appeared non-threating.

Per usual, Franklin and Fritz stood stone sober. There was no guessing their intent. Perez was not acting normal, he had failed to open the briefcase at his feet and examine the contents. Perhaps, the fact they were on US soil placed him on edge.

Efren was puzzled, looked up and commented It’s not like you not to do a quick visual count.

Perez squatted, not fully kneeling and opened the briefcase. He fingered through the money then stared at him, You have never lied about money. It appears to be all here. Again he fingered through stacks of money and muttered, The price of freedom.

Efren glimpsed up from inspecting the second case of cocaine and cocked an eyebrow, What was that? He closed the case, secured the latches and set it next to the first one.

After closing the anvil case Perez stood and raised it, the burden of it weighted his failure. Usually he tossed a joke or two amid business dealings, however tonight his mood was tainted.

Efren sensed that something was wrong and cringed. Any sudden movement or erroneous word could lead to hostiles. He concealed his tension and jested, What’s the matter, American dollars aren’t good anymore?

Perez waved an excuse. No, no, no... He had an obsession for American Blondes, and maintained a hoard of blonde haired women at his villa in South America. Unlike other dates, this one was fused for eternity to this one evening.

A global education gave Perez many advantages. One of which was a clear grasp on English, French, German and Spanish languages. He carried a mixture of accents. Earlier this evening I had a dinner engagement that turned bad.

Efren returned a simplistic nod and stood. Hector Perez was the fifth largest importer of illegal narcotics in the Western Hemisphere. Unlike past meetings, tonight Perez was on United States soil.

An unseen field commander for the DEA was watching through night vison binoculars and waiting. After the transaction was completed an army of DEA agents would swarm down. There were two possible outcomes, Perez and his goons would surrender or die in a gun battle.

Perez stepped backward between his bodyguards and engaged an unexpected outcome of a distant sniper rifle. A bullet ripped through Rick Reeves’ back, creating a gapping exit hole through his chest.

Efren swung sideways for a look at Reeves, avoiding a sniper’s bullet aimed at his head. The shot struck a nearby shipping crate and sent splinters flying. Perez’s bodyguards drew pistols from their shoulder holsters and aimed.

Anticipating additional gunfire, Efren grabbed and flipped a briefcase to deflect incoming bullets. As bullets punched into the case, powered cocaine exploded into the air. He twisted and staggered backward against multiple impacts into the case.

As Efren reached for a 9mm concealed at the small of his back and beneath his summer coat, a bullet shattered the case’s edge and sent a metal fragment across the side of his brow.

As splattering blood mixed with drifting cocaine dust, another shot slashed through his upper right leg and spun him wild. As gunfire ended, reverberating echoes faded toward outlying areas.

Wounded, Efren rolled onto his back and searched for his weapon. Beyond the handgun laid Rick Reeves with his head turned sideways. Red and white foam gurgled from Reeves’s mouth and dripped onto the gravel beneath him.

Five years with the DEA and this was how it ended, Efren thought. He seethed, Bastards. What happened to their backup?

Desperate, Efren searched the shipping yard. Thirty minutes ago, he had radio conformation that fellow DEA agents were in place. Reportedly an assembly of agents was prepared to converge on Perez and his goons. This entire affair reeked of set-up and abandonment.

Perez said to Fritz, Proceed with the plan. Fritz opened one of the briefcases, broke open a plastic wrapped brick of cocaine and scattered power near a dying Rick Reeves.

Then Perez mocked a search of the shipping yard. He stepped forward and said, You are alone. Your DEA buddies are not coming.

Perez hoisted the black anvil case filled with money and frowned, The cost of freedom comes at a high price. He stared southward and reflected on a faraway land. Then he returned his attention to him, Mister Efren Toliver, two months ago when you stepped onto my private villa you were recognized as DEA by one of your countrywomen.

Confused, Efren’s blood soaked brow crinkled.

Hector Perez sneered, Yes I know your true name. A tall blonde with nice tight-ass was working for another department within your government. He shrugged, Covertly I would imagine. She was not pleased with your presence in my life.

Perez nodded toward Reeves and smarted, She personally fired the shot that killed your friend. They considered their clandestine transactions with me of greater value. Your investigation placed those dealings in jeopardy. For years they ignored my other commerce until you came along.

Two months earlier, Efren noticed a lanky blonde haired woman eyeing him at the villa and passed it off as curiosity. He had grown accustom to curious stares. A mixture of several nationalities gave his skin an odd light gray tone. A woman gawking at him meant nothing. She was another blonde among many at Perez’s villa.

Perez squeezed the case handle and criticized, An odd arrangement. In exchange for ending your investigation, they get both cash and drugs. I am not one to question your government on such-dealings. Unlike you, I am upholding my end of a business agreement without underhanded deceptions.

Perez looked at Rick Reeves who was breathing his last breaths. He remarked, In a situation such as this, I would have contracted the killing his wife and child to prevent retribution. However, your government assured that would not happen. They felt additional bloodshed would raise suspicions. Then he said, I spared your uncle and grandparents as well.

Efren wiped blood from his brow and gazed at his fallen partner. Then he pulled a bandana from his coat pocket and secured it around his leg to slow the bleeding.

Perez said to Franklin, Additional gunfire will draw local law enforcement quicker. Take what is left of the cocktail mix we used on that whore and end Mister Toliver’s life. For extra measure, ensure he gets a dose of that experiential drug Prompt that his countrymen have provided for testing.

Franklin stepped forward, reached into his suitcoat pocket and removed a large black jewelry case containing five hypodermic needles. As Efren fumbled sideways and reached for his pistol, Franklin quickened his pace.

Franklin kicked him in the ribs. He dropped onto one knee and began jabbing needles into Efren’s flesh. The first needle was stabbed into an upper left arm, a second into an injured leg, a third into the other leg, a fourth into a right shoulder.

Then Franklin raised a fifth needle and jeered, This one will send you to paradise before dying and descending straight to hell... Still in the developmental stages, however your government has assured Mister Perez exclusives on marketing. It will likely be in pill form but you get the needle. And he jabbed it into Efren’s left arm.

Perez shook his head, This awkward affair nearly ended my other business dealings with your government. Do not worry for me. I was assured future harassment from the DEA has ended. He failed to mention another detail of that bargain. Going forward, an unnamed government entity was skimming portions of his drug profits.

Perez glimpsed at his watch. If you’ll excuse us, my private jet is waiting. He returned to the car and closed the door. As the window powered down, he looked at him one last time.

Franklin sat next to the driver and his twin brother climbed in alongside of Perez. Behind the fleeing Lincoln Continental an ominous cloud of dust hung in the air as if suspended in time.

As a mixture of unknown drugs coursed through Efren’s veins, he sprawled onto his back and his chest arched upward.  Again, he gazed at his fallen partner.

Rick Reeves lay dead. Blood foam that had gurgled from his mouth was drying along his cheeks. Blood around his body had soaked into the gravel and formed darkened caked mud.

Efren thought about Rick’s wife Janice and their adopted son Cooper. Earlier that day during a phone call, Cooper expressed excitement when promised a plane ride in a twin engine Cherokee. Overwhelmed by guilt, he looked skyward and wept. As drug induced memories surged he reflected on other times, other places and past failures.

Within his prayer to God, he requested protection for Janice and Cooper Reeves, for his grandparents and Uncle Jonah. He concluded the prayer with a request for forgiveness of sins.

Besieged by an anonymous mixture of chemicals, Efren was unable to hold his mind intact. His efforts to fight effects of a massive overdose faltered. As the drug cocktail swept through him; his vision blended colors of blue, red, green and white.

The few stars able to penetrate the neon sky, beckoned him. Clouds drifted into shapes of different animals that represented clans of his grandfather’s Native American Nation. Adding to the intensity of his situation, distant police sirens resonated across the night.

A vibration at the base of Efren’s skull drew him deeper inside of his consciousness. He crossed a Perceptional Threshold and observed himself suspended amid a hazy white glow with his arms and legs spread outward. He perceived himself as an Energy Being living inside of bone, organs, blood and flesh.

He had things left undone and words unspoken.

There was no turning back.

It was time to depart his earthly body.

It was time to go...

2

Philip Smithfield sat inside of a parked black rental sedan amid an industrial area of downtown Los Angeles. As a pulsating beat and hard licking guitar rhythm resonated from within a five story blond brick industrial building, he opened a briefcase on the passenger seat and removed a folder.

Years ago Efren Toliver had served under his command. Philip inhaled determination and exhaled reflection, then flipped through several pages.

Efren’s heritage was an odd mixture of several nationalities, resulting in a pale gray skin that set him aside from the rest of humanity. Son of Christian missionaries, he spent his early childhood among Chiapas Indians of Southern Mexico.

Efren’s mother was a doctor traveling between various missionary outposts. His father had flown a small twin-engine airplane and supplied missionaries in Mexico, Central and South America.

Efren thrived among the Native Chiapas Indians. Aside from him, only one other child in the village was from the United States. Mick was a toddler whose parents were linguists that translated the Bible into local native languages.

On Efren’s eleventh birthday a case of mistaken identity ended the lives of his parents. Panama Military and American Advisors had mistaken his father’s plane as drug smugglers and shot it down.

Efren forgave authorities and blamed drug cartels for causing his parents deaths. When asked about it by a DEA psychologist he had stated, If not for cartels, Panama Authorities and American Advisors would not have been patrolling the skies and searching for smugglers.

After Efren’s parents died, he moved a number of times. For three months he lived with in Florida with an elderly great-aunt from his mother’s side of the family. After two weeks of living with her, his grandparents from his father’s side of the family called on the phone. They decided their grandson was unhappy. His aunt refused to yield custody and wanted him raised in a strict religious setting.

Efren’s grandfather was three quarters Native American and requested help from the tribe. With the aid of Native American lawyers, his grandparents intervened. Lawyers working for the tribe filed a federal case. They cited laws protecting culture and placement for orphaned children of Native American Ancestry.

Lawyers hired by his aunt advised her to yield custody and negotiate a visitation schedule. She discarded their advice and pushed forward, believing that Efren’s mixed heritage worked in her favor. A judge hearing the case wanted to avoid a media nightmare and forced them back to negotiations.

It ended with Efren spending Christmas holidays, spring breaks and part of summer vacations with his aunt. At age fourteen, his aunt passed-away and left her assets to him. Unless used toward education, her estate was escrowed until his twenty-first birthday.

Through Efren’s Middle School years he lived with grandparents on a Reservation in the Midwest. School records noted he endured insults because of his odd light gray skin. After two years of relentless teasing, he defended himself in a shoving match.

Amazingly, Efren had fought-off four other students by himself. Footage captured by a schoolyard security camera supported his claim of self-defense. Warding off future fights, he relocated to California to live with an uncle from his mother’s side of the family.

Uncle Jonah was a mixture of Israeli, German and African American. Living in Los Angeles, Efren glided through a private High School without incident. Jonah was a famous screenwriter, and outspoken against the Nation’s Drug War.

Jonah had penned news articles claiming it was a war on citizens. As a result his name appeared on unofficial watch lists of various federal agencies. The government had monitored his home, phones, internet, social media, mail, email and travel.

While attending a university, Efren carried high academic scores. A pilot’s license, plus his grasp on the Spanish language and vast knowledge of Mexico, Central and South America made him a perfect candidate as an undercover operative.

During his final year at the university; Branches of the US Military, NSA, CIA, FBI, DEA and Homeland Security attempted to recruit him. The DEA had won the recruiting war.

Jonah was untrusting of the government and opposed his nephew entering law enforcement. Although Jonah voiced objections, he wanted Efren to make his own choices.

Philip Smithfield placed the folder back into the briefcase and closed the lid. There was no need to re-evaluate. He recalled every detail. Efren had taken the fall for a drug bust gone awry and half a million of missing cash.

Fallout ended with Efren forced to resign from the agency. The government had validated Jonah’s distrust. In the aftermath, Efren spiraled into abyss of drugs he had fought to keep off U. S. shores.

Opportunity provided a chance to right wrongs. Prepared to mend broken souls, Philip Smithfield exited the rental car.  

He dodged a rain puddle, trotted up the steps of a loading dock and caught a secured doorway as someone exited the building. A departing musician tossed him a suspect glare. Smithfield slipped inside, curious if he radiated an aura of cop.

* * *

Perth Collins walked across the loading dock and descended four steps, then paused on the sidewalk. He turned and stared toward the entry door of the building. I swear that looked like a cop, he thought aloud then shrugged whatever...

He was up early for work and realized, last night he had left his cellphone inside of his rehearsal room. His apartment loft was within easy walking distance. A quick trip the rehearsal studios and back wasn’t effecting his workday.

He considered himself fortunate. Most young adults weren’t able to be self-employed and work from home. Not becoming lazy or distracted took self-discipline, and he refused to waste his life by mirroring his family lineage.

He checked the power level for the phone and grinned. It was at eighty-four percent, plenty of power for music. He plugged earbuds into the phone and accessed a streaming service. An algorithm had listed suggestions for music. He decided to try something new, engaged a suggestion and started walking home.

3

Efren fought himself awake from dreams of days gone-by. Several rooms away a progressive rock band thudded his return to consciousness. An overnight painting spree of an empty rehearsal-room followed by touch painting of hallways and bathrooms left him aching.

Adding to exhaustion, a sweat crusted tee shirt was stuck to his skin. He regretted having decided to stretch-out on an office couch instead of going home. He sat upright, then peeled free of the shirt and sniffed it. He reeled from the odor and cringed, Damn I need to take a long-ass shower.

As onsite manager of a rehearsal building for bands with dozens of studio rooms, he was constantly busy. He stared at paperwork on a gray office desk. Paperwork could wait another day. He wanted to return home, shower and sleep on a bed.

He rubbed his leg where an old bullet wound left a nasty pocketed scar. Damp weather was causing his leg to ache. He refused to allow a little pain to hinder him and stood.

Ignoring body aches, he hobbled to his desk and removed an emergency tee-shirt from a bottom drawer. He put it on and crammed the dirty shirt into a reusable grocery bag.

As he limped toward a window, a return of déjà vu enhanced his perception and senses. The sensation felt stronger than normal, and he hoped it would last a long time. He opened the window and gazed at the Los Angeles City Skyline.

Earlier, an overnight March thunderstorm had vented over the city. At the moment thick rain clouds drifted low until pressing against distant foothills and unable to go farther.

Although the rain had ceased, moisture saturated the air. Evidence of the storm was everywhere. Rain had rinsed buildings and streets of smog dust, leaving the city unusually clean. A predawn horizon reflected bronze against skyscrapers.

Efren thought aloud, What a sight and prayed rain would ease a risk of wildfires in the drought stricken region. In truth, he realized one rainy night provided only temporary relief.

He did a quick count of cars parked alongside of the building. Three cars he recognized as belonging to tenants, a newer black four-door sedan he did not. Perhaps the band rehearsing was auditioning a prospective member. A bit early for an audition however, musicians kept odd hours.

People had the impression music played was clearly heard throughout the building. In reality it was background noise. If several bands rehearsed at the same time, it was a jumbling of incoherent noises. After years working there, he became accustomed and blocked it out.

Before leaving he planned to walk past the band’s room. He would remain in the hallway for a few minutes and listen. Later that day or tomorrow, a band member was sure to ask what he thought.

He always dodged a direct answer and asked a series of questions. Does he or she fit into your style of music and game plan? Do they have excess baggage like a temper, a control freak, a drug or drinking habit? Is there personal drama? Have you checked their references; social media and music posts on the internet? Who is he or she following online? What type of social media posts are they liking?

Another stare at the bronze skyline delivered serenity to his sense of déjà vu. He was proud of himself. Overnight he had accomplished a major workload. He sat at his desk and opened a drawer, then removed a small white stone pipe and neon-green plastic grinder. He leaned back and popped a beach style flying disk from a hook on the wall.

He stretched his aching leg outward, reached into a front pant pock, pulled-out an old prescription bottle with the label removed. He opened it and placed a cannabis bud onto the disk. After resealing the bottle and setting it onto the desk, he broke a bud into small pieces on the disk and removed stems.

Mechanical, he loaded bud into the grinder and rotated the lid back and forth several times. He unloaded crushed weed onto the disk and checked a screen inside of the pipe. Then he packed the pipe, took a pen-style pipe lighter from a drawer and struck a flame to it. As the bowl glowed, he drew a breath of smoke and held it.

Content, he exhaled and drew another breath from the pipe. A moment later he exhaled again, then re-struck a flame to pipe and inhaled again. A knock at the door disrupted his moment of solitude. He exhaled a clouded protested, Now what?

As a second series of knocks struck the door he raised his voice, Hold on a damn minute, I’m coming. He laid the pipe, grinder and prescription bottle onto the disk. Then he stuffed everything inside of a top desk drawer. He stood and snatched a spray-can of deodorizer from on top of a filing cabinet.

Fanning up and down, he atomized his office with scented particles of orange citrus. As he returned the can to the cabinet, a third series of knocks rattled the door.

He grumbled, Unless he’s been awake all night, what musician in his right mind is up at sunrise? He unsecured a deadbolt, opened the door and recognized DEA agent Philip Smithfield.

Efren stood frozen. He braced an arm against the doorframe and prevented him from entering. Smithfield at the threshold had ruined a perfectly good buzz. He thought, should have looked through the peephole before opening the door.

Philip Smithfield smiled, Raising your voice like that I’m surprised you have any tenants.

Speechless, Efren was stunned to see his past standing at the doorway. After ten years he doubted the DEA needed to ask questions regarding old cases.

Philip kept his tone cordial, No after so-many years it’s good to see you again? He stared past him and into the office. Mind if I come-in?

Efren gathered his wits and smarted, That depends. Is one of those cases when I should ask if you have a warrant, or is it a rare social call?

Partly a social call, Philip replied, then dropped his tone an octave, Partly business and partly an offer of redemption.

Efren’s interest perked at the mention of redemption. He held no notation his former life was redeemable. They had turned their backs on him. Blamed him for the death of Rick Reeves and missing money.

He shrugged, As you know I haven’t been in law enforcement for a decade, maybe longer. I’ve lost track of time.

Then he stepped from the doorway and mocked a courteous bow. By-all-means, step into my parlor said the spider to the fly. He stepped back and jested, In this case it’s more-likely the fly to the spider, not believing the spider would harm him.

Philip crossed the threshold and joked, Mister Fly, I require a rehearsal space for a band. Your website does state that you are accepting applications.

Efren raised both hands and exclaimed, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on! Even at full capacity we are always accepting apps. Besides, I have roughly seventy-nine rehearsal rooms here. Do you have any idea how many musicians that equals?

It is more than a simple handful. Do the math, figuring an average of three to five members per band, plus take into account a number of rooms are shared by two bands. And not to forget, there is waiting list of people wanting to rent a rehearsal space."

Efren stepped to the door, and glimpsed left and right along the hallway. No one was within eye or earshot. He closed the door and engaged a deadbolt. Then he returned his attention to Philip.  I have a ton of distrust on my part. I seem to recall with a few exceptions, law enforcement leaves musicians alone. That unwritten policy between the music industry and cops, you leave us alone and we won’t turn the Masses against you.

Efren cocked an eyebrow. "However that seems to be changing as of late. Depending on what State in the Union, every so-often I hear or read about cops busting musicians over something as simple as a