The Guardians of Kallipolis

By Brick Jordan

TEXAS RANGER SERGEANT A.J. MORALES IS CALLED IN TO INVESTIGATE A MURDER IN SAN ANTONIO. THE DECEASED TURNS OUT TO BE A POPULAR MOVIE STAR AND AN OLD FRIEND OF THE RANGERS. HIS INVESTIGATION TAKES MORALES FIRST TO MEXICO AND A RELIGIOUS CULT KNOWN TO PRACTICE BLOOD RITUALS AND HUMAN SACRIFICE, AND THEN T

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647536800

Brick Jordan

BRICK JORDAN is a native of Kansas City, MO and a graduate of the University of Missouri. He lives in Dallas, TX with his wife, Vicki, and two cats. His life-long dream was to write a novel. MURDER IN DEEP ELLUM is the culmination of that dream.

Book preview

THE

GUARDIANS

OF

KALLIPOLIS

BRICK JORDAN

The Guardians of Kallipolis

Copyright © 2021 by George L. Hook. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

1603 Capitol Ave., Suite 310 Cheyenne, Wyoming USA 82001

1-888-980-6523 | [e-mail]

URLink Print and Media is committed to excellence in the publishing industry.

Book design copyright © 2021 by URLink Print and Media. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021902326

ISBN 978-1-64753-679-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64753-680-0 (Digital)

27.01.21

In memory of

Donald Edward Hook

1947–2014

Brother, best friend and best ‘right arm’

a man could ever want.

James Michael Hook

1971–2015

Son, fellow Marine, talented actor, and best friend. Missed more than words or

tears can express.

And,

To all those brave men and women who

have served, and are serving, to

"protect and defend the Constitution

of the United States of America."

Let us note that the Guardians were those who in their whole life showed the greatest eagerness to do what is for the good of their city, and the greatest repugnance to do what is against her interests.

Plato (429-347 BCE)

Based on actual events

glyph

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

About the Author

A Road Full of Demons

glyph

CHAPTER ONE

Jacob Lewinsky never had a best friend. That’s not to say he didn’t have any friends; he had a really close friend by the name of Jean Baptiste while growing up in his hometown of Pointe à la Hache, Louisiana, deep in the Mississippi River Delta. Of course, coming of age for the only son of the only Jewish family in all of Plaquemines Parish wasn’t easy, but young Jacob learned to ignore the ridicule and slurs that members of his religion often encountered. His friend was a young ‘gens de couleur libre’ Creole from New Orleans whose father came to Pointe à la Hache as pastor of a local church. He, too, was subjected to the taunts and name-calling associated with being of mixed race. There was even a rumor that Jean Baptiste’s father was a voodoo priest who practiced witchcraft and blood rituals. Some even said his father killed those congregants who insulted his god. Of course, these were only rumors, but rumors have a life of their own and it provided the background for two young boys growing up in a small, Southern town still rich in antebellum sentiment and where power and influence belonged to white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant males. Still, Jacob had a better time assimilating than did Jean Baptiste, although more often than not, he found himself on the outside looking in.

As the years passed, the boys went their separate ways. Following high school, Jean Baptiste went off to college up north while Jacob stayed behind to help with his family’s bakery, which only exacerbated his feelings of loneliness and isolation. No, Jacob Lewinsky didn’t really have a best friend until the day he joined the United States Marines.

It was shortly after war had broken out in Europe and America was looking for every excuse to get into the fight. Disobeying his father, Jacob had taken a bus to New Orleans thinking he’d join the Navy, but there was something about the Marine Gunnery-Sergeant he met there at the recruiting station that struck a chord in the young man from the Mississippi backwater. Maybe it was the Gunny’s bravado; his cockiness and self-assurance; maybe it was the uniform; or maybe it was the flag or the patriotic poster that screamed, Marines, First to Fight! Whatever it was, Jacob Lewinsky wanted it. So, he had enlisted and soon found himself headed for the new Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina. There were other fellas there, too, from all over the country, but one stood out from all the rest. He was a former Dallas police officer who took a liking to the young lad from the Pelican State and helped him make it through the many hardships and challenges young recruits face during Marine boot camp.

Lewinsky, you scumbag! the drill instructor often barked at the young man. What’s with you, Lewinsky? You’re all thumbs and shit for brains,! he roared. You have TWO left feet, Lewinsky; TWO! RIGHT face, Lewinsky! No, damnit; your MILITARY right! The string of invectives the DI threw his way had the young Louisiana native beginning to think he’d made a poor choice of joining the Marines as the DI shouted, Whoever let you into MY Marine Corps oughta be shot! Speakin’ o’ shootin’, the Germans won’t have to worry with you shootin’ at ’em, Private Lewinsky; you can’t hit the broadside of a barn!

Don’t you never mind what the DI says, his friend from Dallas had said. Marchin’ and drillin’ ain’t no big deal, and I’ll show you how to shoot that rifle. And, his friend had done just that. Against orders the two stayed up late at night in their barracks, with only a candle for light, as the kid from Dallas helped the young recruit, whom he nicknamed ‘Jack,’ to spit-shine his Brogans and had quietly coaxed him on the precision of close-order drill, even how to execute a snappy salute. He also had shown Jack how to accurately get the sight picture right on his Springfield rifle until the young man from the bayous of Louisiana had it down to an instinct. The Private never became the expert marksman his friend was, but at least he qualified as a Marine sharpshooter.

By God, Lewinsky, the Di said proudly. You’re gonna make it as a Marine after all. And Jacob Lewinsky, son a Jewish baker deep down in the Mississippi Delta could not have been more proud. Of course, it helped that his friend was slightly older and more experienced than the other recruits. His background as a street cop made him a natural leader among the boots, as they were called, which was why he had been appointed a squad leader. At the conclusion of recruit training, the friend had been meritoriously promoted to Corporal and by the time their unit sailed for France, the friend was Jack’s Platoon Sergeant.

Though his friend outranked him, the two remained close and, when not on duty, they went into town together to keep each other out of trouble and out of the hands of the dreaded Shore Patrol who scoured local bars and brothels looking for sailors and Marines who had too much to drink or who were in places officially listed as Off Limits. These they would round up and toss in the brig often with more than a few bumps and bruises from resisting arrest. Their friendship was so close that they even had identical tattoos inked on their upper left arms. It was a symbol of their unit: "A" Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. Still, the older boy was a sergeant, and in the Marines, sergeants are gods.

Get it together, Jack, the older boy would quietly say. I can’t show any favoritism, so don’t make me look bad in front of the men! Lewinsky responded by being the next best Marine in the outfit, and for good reason. His friend was not only his sergeant, and the coolest guy Jack had ever met, but he was also the bravest man he had ever seen. Jack Lewinsky had witnessed that bravery, first hand, on the battlefield in France.

It was during the spring of 1918 and, after a quiet year along the Western Front, the War-To-End-All-Wars was heating up as the Germans mounted an offensive to penetrate the allied line, cross the Marne River and capture Paris. The Fifth Marines were sent nearly one hundred miles to the east with the task of stopping the German advance north of the city of Château-Thierry. When the German advance penetrated the allied lines, the French retreated. Upon meeting the Marines moving forward, a French Colonel ordered the Americans to retreat. The Marine commander was incredulous and responded by saying, Retreat? Hell, we just got here! and the Fifth Marines continued forward to plug the burgeoning gap.

Hold your fire! Lewinsky’s sergeant told them as they took up positions in a wheat field near an old French hunting preserve known, locally, as Belleau Wood.

Hold our fire? someone asked. Why? Here they come!

I said, hold your fire! That’s an order! the sergeant barked. Remember Bunker Hill?

Yeah, I remember, another Marine groaned. Wait until you can see the whites of their eyes!

Okay, Jack Lewinsky sighed, taking a deep breath to ease his nerves as he looked out upon German infantry advancing through a wheat field with the morning sun flashing off their bayonets. The Marines waited until the Germans were nearly upon them before they opened up with a deadly barrage that mowed the enemy down in waves.

Look at ’em run! a Marine shouted as the Germans retreated into the wood line of Belleau Wood.

Don’t get cocky, the sergeant yelled. They’ll be back! Stay sharp!

Over the next several days the Marine and German lines seesawed back and forth with each side seeking to outmaneuver the other while exchanging sniper fire as each probed the other’s position looking for an advantage. Finally, the order came for the Americans to attack and drive the Germans from Belleau Wood. Apprehension among the young Marines grew at the prospect of advancing on an entrenched enemy behind a natural fortification and hidden in dense underbrush.

My men are a little nervous, the sergeant told the Regimental Sergeant Major who had come down the line inspecting preparations for the attack.

Ha! The Sergeant Major had laughed. You sad sacks want to live forever? Well, let me remind you momma’s boys that you joined the Marines to fight and by God you’re gonna fight and we’re gonna kick the crap outta these Krauts. And if we die, then we die as Marines!

Such bravado failed to allay any fears the Marines might have had; still, they were Marines and the attack went off like clockwork taking the Germans completely by surprise. But, what followed was a savage battle as the Marines stormed through the barricades of fallen trees, bushes, and entanglements of the forest in a ruthless assault on Belleau Wood.

During the attack, Jack Lewinsky was struck by a German bullet that shattered his right thigh. It was a terrible wound, and he was unable to walk or stand. Crying out in pain, his sergeant quickly ran to his side, grabbed him by the cartridge belt around his waist and, with superhuman effort, dragged him to safety behind a fallen tree.

Keep shootin’, Jack, the sergeant said as he hastily tied a bandage around the man’s leg wound. Shoot, damn it, or die right here! the sergeant yelled. Lewinsky held his rifle tight as he continued to fire at an advancing German line. Bullets snapped and whizzed all around like a swarm of bees, splintering the tree trunk and kicking up chunks of dirt in their deadly search for human life. Lewinsky looked through the fog and smoke of war at a scene of complete carnage. The forest was ablaze with gunfire and artillery explosions. Trees lay smashed and crumpled like giant matchsticks. All around he saw dead or badly wounded Marines; some calling for help, some calling for water, some calling for their mothers; and all were targets for an enemy intent on killing every last one of them.

The sergeant, too, had been wounded; hit in the left arm and shoulder by shrapnel from a German grenade His left side was covered in blood that soaked his shirt and ran down his arm to drip from his fingertips. When the enemy counterattacked, the fighting became so vicious that when Marines ran out of ammunition, they engaged the German troops in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Using only their fists, knives, helmets, rifle-butts, bayonets, shovels, whatever they could lay their hands on, the Marines clubbed, clawed, and clobbered their foe with such savagery that German soldiers described them as Teufelshunde, and would forever earn the Marines the moniker, Devil Dogs. The fighting in that small patch of French pine was more of a primeval slugfest than modern warfare as Lewinsky lay amongst the rubble of the broken forest to bear witness to the butchery all around.

When his sergeant ran out of ammo, the tall Texan rushed forward and grabbed a machine gun from a fallen Marine and despite his wounds, he lifted the heavy weapon in both hands and began blasting away at an oncoming line of enemy soldiers. The sergeant wasn’t particularly muscular; in fact, men in his unit often described him as just a tall, skinny guy from Texas. But on this day, he was a nothing less than a giant as he stood like a solid oak tree; a one man killing machine brazenly facing the enemy; cursing, whooping, and bellowing at the top of his voice as German bullets whizzed around, ripping at his clothes, and tearing up the ground at his feet. Jack Lewinsky would later say, It was if he were taunting the Devil, himself, to come up and take him as the sergeant stood his ground, seemingly invincible, and laid down a withering barrage of fire that, to Lewinsky, looked like a scythe sweeping through a field of grain. The German line faltered, then broke, and yet the sergeant was still there, looking like a lone, battered piece of driftwood in a sea of misery following a Texas tornado as his men cheered and jeered the retreating Hun. The sergeant’s heroics, indeed the heroics of the entire Fifth Marine Division, had stopped the enemy advance, saved countless French and American lives, and added Belleau Wood to the annals of Marine Corps history. And, Jack Lewinsky was there to see it all.

After the battle, Jack spent weeks in a French hospital recovering from his wounds before being sent to a hospice in England. Later, he was transferred to a troop ship bound for the States and, shortly after his arrival, was discharged from the Marines and sent home. Lewinsky would never see his old friend, the sergeant, again, but he never forgot him either. He was a young Irish/Mexican-American kid from Dallas by the name of Alfred Joseph Morales.

Back home in Louisiana, Jack was greeted with warmth and love though he insisted that the family now call him, ‘Jack,’ rather than Jacob. Soon he was back at the family bakery in Pointe à la Hache, a small fishing community of just over four hundred residents that serves as the county seat for Plaquemines Parish, an hour’s drive south of New Orleans. The Lewinsky family roots were long in this part of the Pelican State, going all the way back to the mid-1700s when his great-great-great grandfather, Hiram Lewinsky, came here with a group of German immigrants who followed the French to settle and build homes along the Mississippi.

Still, for a young man returning from Europe and the war, life in the Delta no longer held the simple charm it once had. Where the war had offered him camaraderie and a feeling of being part of something big and great, he saw in the Delta the same cesspool of pettiness, backroom politics, and overt racism that he had grown up with. Here, the Grand Knights of the Ku Klux Klan intimidated persons of color with their late-night raids and cross-burnings; where persecution of Catholics and Jews was the norm; and where, if something went wrong, the word went out to, Get a nigger.

In the Delta, wrongdoing, even perceived wrongdoing, was met swiftly with Delta Justice, where the ends justified the means. More than a few blacks, Creoles, and Mexican migrant workers were found hanging from trees; or shot dead out in the bayous. The Delta’s gruesome secret is that the swamps hold more than a few bodies of those whose only crime was not being born white.

But it isn’t all about race either. Politics and religion play a huge role; after all, the Delta is part of the Bible Belt where hellfire and brimstone is preached from every pulpit in the land. It’s also a place where the Confederate Battle flag still flies from rooftops and front yards, and where folks speak of the Civil War as the war of Northern aggression.

Jack Lewinsky could never understand why his family had continued to live here. Why don’t we move? he recalled once asking his daddy after the KKK had torched a large wooden cross in their front yard and placed a sign that read, The Jew is the Devil’s Seed in front of their bakery.

Because this is our home, the elder Lewinsky had replied.

That wasn’t the answer Jack wanted, which is why when war came to Europe, Jack saw it as his ticket out. But now, that war was over and the wounds he received at Belleau Wood left him scarred and hobbled. Though he tried hard to make his family happy, life in the Delta wasn’t for him and he soon grew restless longing for adventure. One day, much to the chagrin of his father, Jack Lewinsky packed up and said, Good-bye, to the Delta, forever.

He drifted from town to town finding work where he could get it and happy with anything that kept him away from the stink of the bayous in the Mississippi Delta. While in the oil fields of East Texas, he read a newspaper account of a Texas hero’s welcome home, and he recognized the picture in the paper as that of his old Marine sergeant. The account told of the man’s heroics in France and how, now that the war was over, he had come home to Texas to become a Texas Ranger. Lewinsky had smiled at reading that article for he knew in his heart that if the Lone Star state needed a hero, they had found one in Albert Joseph Morales. But the Louisiana native was restless, and it wasn’t long before Lewinsky moved on.

After leaving Texas, he harvested grain in Kansas, panned for gold in the Colorado Rockies, and he washed dishes at an all-night diner in Chicago. One odd job after another took him from the lights of New York City to the fog in San Francisco before turning back east. Jack crisscrossed the United States a half-dozen times by his reckoning, but he wasn’t happy and remained unsettled with his life. He had left the doldrums of small town Louisiana for the excitement of war and travel to exotic places. But now, still suffering from his war injuries and no longer useful as a soldier, he drifted from town-to-town, and try as he may, nothing seemed to offer the young lad the excitement and adventure he longed for.

In 1924, Lewinsky hitchhiked his way to Los Angeles simply because it was just one more city he hadn’t seen. There he found steady work as a carpenter building movie sets for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures. Being around all the glitz and glamour of the movies was exciting for the young man, even if his work was behind the scenes, for on the sets, he met actors like Douglas Fairbanks, Rudolph Valentino, Lon Chaney (The Man of a Thousand Faces), and Bill Hart. He dropped a hammer on his foot the day the beautiful Louise Brooks said, Good morning, to him as she walked on the set, and he even got to know some of the producers and directors, the Big Shots who were quickly turning Hollywoodland into the Land of the Stars. Not personally, mind you, but enough that Jack Lewinsky felt he was part of Big Time.

One day, Louis B. Mayer, the head of MGM, was crossing the backlot of the studio and saw the lanky former Marine standing off to one side, smoking a cigarette. At the time, Mayer was frustrated trying to find the right actor for a new western he was ready to film. His budget ruled out actors like Tom Mix and Will Rogers while others, such as Hoot Gibson, Ken Maynard, and William Boyd, were contracted to other studios. When Mayer saw the young Lewinsky, he thought the carpenter had just the right look for the planned picture so he arranged a screen test. That test proved to Mayer that Lewinsky was a natural in front of the camera but, while it was easy convincing the young carpenter that he had star quality, it wasn’t so easy convincing him that his name didn’t. Lewinsky just wasn’t a cowboy name. In the end, Mayer won out and that is how Jacob Jack Lewinsky became, ‘Jack Lassiter.’ Within a few years Lassiter had become one of MGM’s leading actors; first in the silent movies, then in the new talkies, starring in a series of low-budget westerns where he always played the hero coming to rescue the damsel in distress and save the day. It was a role Lassiter worked hard to polish; and one he modeled after his old friend and former Marine sergeant.

About the time Jack Lewinsky began wandering away from the Mississippi Delta, Albert Joseph Morales returned home to Dallas a decorated war hero. Among the accolades laid on the Marine sergeant and former Dallas police officer, was an offer to become a member of one of the world’s most elite police forces—the Texas Rangers— and for more than a decade, he rode the plains and high deserts of west Texas, the forested hills of the east, and the long expanse of border along the Rio Grande. During that time, Morales had been shot, stabbed, or clubbed more than a dozen times and, in too many shootouts to remember, had killed more than his share of Mexican bandits, cattle rustlers, smugglers, bootleggers, and bank robbers, all in the name of bringing law and order to a region known for its lawlessness.

He had also gained a reputation as a fearless crusader against political graft and corruption and had put quite a few mayors, sheriffs, and county heads behind bars for crimes committed behind the color of their public offices. It was a dubious reputation that had garnered the Ranger political enemies in the hallowed halls of Austin where power and influence were peddled like cheapjacks wares. Still, the man Jack Lewinsky had seen standing like a solid oak amongst the ruins of the tiny French forest; the Marine sergeant who held his ground against a ruthless German attack, was the same man who now held the rank of Sergeant in the Texas Rangers.

In the spring of 1932, MGM was on the verge of producing a major blockbuster, and Lassiter was to star in his biggest role yet, as a fearless Texas lawman taking on ruthless bandits and cattle rustlers. The movie was to be filmed entirely in the Lone Star State. Former Texas Ranger Captain Bill Sterling, now retired and living in Hollywood as a consultant on western movies for MGM, had contacted Sergeant Morales and asked him to help the star prepare for his role. The sergeant quickly agreed and, following a dozen phone conversations, in which the two renewed their old friendship, both he and Lassiter were excited at the prospect that, after more than a dozen years, the two Marine veterans would be reunited.

The filming was to take place on a ranch outside of San Antonio in the early spring the following year, and when the time came the whole city came out to greet the popular actor when his plane landed. Official dignitaries were there, including the mayor, who presented Jack with a key to the city. All of south Texas, it seemed, was thrilled about the project to be filmed close by. As his first day in San Antonio wore on though, the actor grew weary and he couldn’t wait to get to his hotel. The meet-and-greet with the mayor and the reporters; his fans at the airport; the obligatory handshakes, autographs, the incessant photographs, followed by the magnificent dinner of tasty Enchiladas Rojas de Queso, Carne Asada a la Tampiqueña, and several margaritas at La Fonda Mexican Restaurant had left the handsome, young actor drained.

Now, at the end of a long day, all he wanted to do was go to his room, take a bath, and get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, because it meant the reunion with the man who had helped him survive boot camp; the man with whom he had shared too many beers in too many slop-chutes in too many ports to remember; his old buddy, his pal and sergeant; and the man who had saved his life in France all those years ago. Yes, tomorrow would be an exciting day, and all he wanted was for this day to be over.

It was just past nine o’clock when Jack Lassiter entered his suite in the Menger Hotel. The room faced north and looked out on Alamo Plaza, with its famous fort sitting amidst the cottonwoods below. Lights from the stores along the west side of the plaza glowed brightly as did the terracotta tower of the gothic Medical Arts Building to the north. Down below, the grounds surrounding the remains of the old mission were in near darkness. Still, Lassiter could see stacks of lumber and other construction material as well as the demolition work going on around the old mission’s grounds.

The actor removed his coat and tie then walked into the bathroom and began drawing his bath water. From there, he crossed the suite to a liquor cabinet, took out a glass and filled it with ice. He then removed a bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey from a shelf and poured a liberal amount over the ice. Once this was done, he replaced the whiskey on the shelf and, taking the glass in his right hand, he downed its contents in a single gulp. Lassiter considered pouring himself a second libation to enjoy while bathing but, feeling the affects of the earlier margaritas, decided against it. Don’t mix your liquor, Jackie-boy, he thought. So, he closed up the cabinet and walked to the bed, sat down, and removed his clothes. He stopped only briefly to turn on the radio, which sat atop a maple stand. As the radio crackled to life, Hoagy Carmichael was singing, Stardust.

Beside the garden wall when stars are bright…

Steam from the bath water had begun to fog the mirrors as Jack entered the lavatory. He stood for a moment to look at his reflection in the glass. Using his fingers, he brushed back his dark brown hair with one hand; then he turned, first left and then right, observing his naked profile. Not bad for a man of thirty-three, he thought. He then placed a towel on the footstool beside the tub next to the heavy, white terry-cloth robe the hotel provided its guests. As music filled the suite, the actor cleared his throat and, as he prepared to enter the bath, he began to sing along with the radio.

The nightingale, tells his fairy tale…

The water was splashing loudly from the spigot into the tub, drowning out any sound save the music from the radio and his voice resonating off the walls of the lavatory. Taken together, the song and bath were a relaxing distraction for the actor, allowing him to unwind from a hectic day of travel and the string of celebrations that followed his arrival in San Antonio. It was an innocent enough distraction but, even without it, Jack Lassiter probably would